Echoes
by Ke Roth
Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

She ran her tongue over her broken teeth, the tip gently probing the newly emptied gaps, cautiously running over the sharply fractured remnants. The salt tang of blood seeping from the torn tissues filled her mouth with each touch - but there was no pain.  
No pain, because, in part, the tissues were so swollen that the enraged nerves could no longer function, leaving her mouth numb and almost functionless - but in greater part because she had long ago learned that she need have no part of this pain - or any other - and there was nothing they - or anyone else - could do would or could change that, she thought smugly.  
She would have grinned at the thought of her hard-earned knowledge being used in this way but a smile would have started her cracked lips to bleeding again and she was already dehydrated enough as it was. Pain, she reminded herself, could be blocked; thirst, however, was another thing entirely. And it was better to keep the smile inside anyway, she warned herself sharply; her captors tended to respond badly when they thought she was mocking them.  
Then again, they were responding badly to almost everything of late, she added, wondering how they were explaining their repeated failures concerning her to their superiors.  
Probably equally badly, she decided, wondering if that had been the cause for the new faces that had been sent to meet with her and the abrupt disappearance of the old ones.  
She was unable to hold back her grin at the thought of their demise - but dropped the smirk instantly as she heard the metallic groan of the hallway door opening. Someone was coming, she realized - someone new, judging from the unfamiliar footsteps - and meeting them with a grin was not going to bode well for her, she knew.  
Just because she could block the pain didn't mean she wanted to endure any more. At some point, she reminded herself, there would be more pain than her limited strength could handle - and when that happened.  
She shook her head. The outcome was already decided, she reminded herself; now it was simply matter of when.  
Hearing the footsteps draw near, she started to struggle to her feet - but a wave of excruciating pain stopped her instantly, reminding her of what they had already done.  
It was one thing, she reminded herself as her mind sought out to control the pain, not to be able to feel two broken legs; it was quite another to try to stand on them.  
Still, she levered her body from the position they had left her in, craning her head so she might see the door and her new jailer - but what little vision the last beating had left her was not enough to clearly make out his form as he entered her cell.  
He was tall - that much, at least, she could make out from the shadowy figure - tall but not big, certainly not as big as the last one they'd sent to her. And not as strong, she added, hearing the slight panting of breath. For a moment, she was amused - until she realized that his ragged breath meant he had been carrying something.  
Something intended for her.  
Despite her certitude about her abilities, she felt a twinge of panic. Did they know? Had they found a way around her discipline? Would they break her at last?  
Heart racing, she squinted, trying to make out the blurry figure before her.  
The man studied the shattered woman lying on the floor, then set down his burden, carefully balancing it on the floor, then released it, watching as it slowly maneuvered its way towards the broken body of the woman - and smiled as she began to scream. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Jean-Luc Picard moved to the next plant, then shook his head and sighed.

Sloppy, he thought as he studied the green ties, the first too loose, the next too tight... almost as badly as I did the first time I tried to tie them, he thought to himself.

Which might well be the case here, he realized with a sigh. Michel Renault, a neighbor and Robert Picard's closest friend, had been entrusted to watch over the Picard estate - but watching two vineyards was more work than one man could do, Jean-Luc knew. Not that Michel would shirk the obligation, having accepted it, Picard added, but his primary concern would be on his own grapes, his own wines - and his own problems. Most likely he had relegated the day-to-day chores of running the vineyard to one of his sons, he thought, then decided upon studying the unevenness of the ties, probably to his youngest son.

After all, Picard thought, trying to think as Michel would have, the boy needed to learn every aspect of wine-making somewhere - and where better to learn than on someone else's estate, where a mistake would affect neither his father's wine nor his profits - and where the real owner cared about neither.

Picard fumed momentarily at his neighbor's presumed plan and his inferred apathy - then shook his head, chasing the anger away in a wash of self-critical laughter.

His assumption about Michel was probably dead-on, he decided; after all, his assessment of the Picard estate owner was bitingly accurate.

And he could hardly damn the man for what he was doing, Picard told himself, realizing the extent of the work the man faced every day, tending two vineyards rather than just his own; after all, how could any of them have known - or even guessed - that the obligation he had taken on, intended only as a temporary measure, would have lasted so many years?

Still, Picard reminded himself, if you want a job done right...

He studied the plant a moment longer, then, with a practiced touch, he tightened the first tie, then took the shears from a pocket in his pocket and cut the next one free, retying the vine to the support line as his father had taught him: carefully, neatly, evenly - a far cry from... what was the boy's name? he asked himself... ah, yes, Jean-Paul - Jean-Paul's efforts in his vineyard

But then again, his father would never have granted him permission to attempt to tend to an entire vineyard himself. Indeed, Maurice Picard hadn't permitted him to perform one task without checking it thoroughly to make sure his work met his demanding specifications.

He remembered the first year his father had allowed him to work on tying the grape vines to their supports, checking each and every tie he made, demanding that Jean-Luc redo each one until he was satisfied - something that Michel obviously had not done, he sighed, looking at the next plant - then shaking his head at himself.

Strange, the memories - and the pains - we carry with us, Picard thought as he retied the next plant, hoping that Michel's seeming indifference toward his son's efforts might actually bespeak a better relationship between the two than he and his father had had. By standing back, by allowing his son to work, unsupervised, maybe he was showing the faith in his child that his own father never seemed to find in him.

Then again, he added as he studied his own work, the lessons his father had taught, unhappy as they had been at the time, were ones that he had learned well; each of his ties was exactly right, tight enough to guide the plant and support it, but loose enough to allow the nutrients to flow smoothly along its length, encouraging the growth and development of the fruit.

Picard smiled, realizing the similarity between this task and the tasks of his career - aiding in the development of his officers by guiding and supporting them in the directions where they would gain the greatest strength while giving them enough freedom to blossom on their own - then grinned again at the exquisite irony. Father would have detested the thought that anything he had taught his son had translated so well into his career at Starfleet.

But then his father would never have found anything he had done to be of value, Picard added grimly; even if he had followed him into wine-making, into the care and running of the vineyard, Picard doubted he would ever earn the approval that his brother had seemed to receive so easily.

Why he had been denied that support, though, he still did not understand. Did Father expect something different of me than he did of Robert? he asked himself. Did he think I didn't work hard enough? Did he want to punish me for not being interested in learning about the vineyard? Or had it been something much simpler? Perhaps, he realized, Father had been jealous. Maybe he saw my lack of interest in being a vintner not as a rejection of his dreams, but rather as a fulfillment of the ones he had once dreamt of - and been forced to abandon. Perhaps his anger, his disapproval, his disparagement of everything I wanted simply have been because he had wanted it for himself - and couldn't bear to see me succeed where he hadn't.

Or perhaps...

Perhaps he simply didn't love me.

Picard shut his eyes, clenched his jaw tightly, then shook off the pain.

It didn't matter, he told himself harshly; even without his father's approval - or his love - he had gone where he wanted to go - into space, exploring new worlds, meeting new species, new civilizations...

... and ending back here, where I began, doing exactly what Father wanted me to do.

If you only knew how things have turned out.

With a sigh, he stepped to the next plant as a slight breeze passed him.

He didn't make conscious note of the wind; he didn't need to. The sun was setting he realized without consciously thinking, the basic facts of weather and time rising unbidden from the depths of his memory. A few more minutes and the temperature would begin its slow drop, the wind changing enough to bring the scent of the roses from the back of the house wafting toward him. When that happened it would be time to quit, time to turn back toward the house, time to prepare his meal, and read for a little while before turning in.

But until then...

He checked the ties, retying the ones that didn't meet his demands, automatically inspecting the plant for any sign of insects or viruses without conscious effort, then moving on to the next plant a little more quickly, judging his time against sun and breeze without even realizing he was doing so.

Reaching the end of the row, he drew a marker from his pocket and placed it on the last support to remind himself where to begin the next morning - though, he knew, it would be no problem in telling which rows he had done and which Jean-Paul had finished. It was simply an expediency, a time-saver so he would be able to get to the job more quickly and efficiently the next day.

Not that he was in any hurry, he reminded himself. Time was one commodity he currently had in abundance.

Following the row back toward its start, he picked up the tool box he had left there, returning the unused ties to their place, securing the shears in their holder, then trudging up the long row toward the house.

Watching the dust swirl about his boots as he walked, the scent reached into his mind, awakening some of his earliest memories, reminding him of things his mind had set aside decades before.

The ground was too dry, he knew instantly, the pattern of dust rising from his footsteps registering deep in his mind. A hint too sweet as well, he guessed, making a mental note to take the soil analyzer with him in the morning - then chuckled to himself. Father had scorned the use of such devices, claiming a true vintner could assess the condition of the soil by sight, taste, touch and smell - and that relying on an analyzer only meant the vintner wasn't competent.

Which I'm not, Picard agreed with the silent voice. Still, chided by the man's remembered criticism, he stopped, crouched down, took a handful of the powdery soil, attempting to assess it for himself.

Too dry, he agreed with his first impression - and a touch too alkaline, he added after touching a fingertip of the soil to his tongue. Bringing the soil to his face, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Whether it was good or poor, he couldn't guess - but it was wonderful, he thought. It smelled of the sun, he thought, baked warm and heady under the hours of light, of the slight richness of the ancient soil, tread upon by vintners - and by his family - for more than a millennium, of the minerals that washed down from the hills above the vineyards, even of the water that had been pumped up from the vast cisterns that lay beneath the land, keeping the fields watered as he - and the other vintners of LaBarre - waited patiently for a return of the seasonal rains, long delayed this scorchingly hot spring.

It smelled of the vines that grew beside him, fresh and green, buds bursting forth, their fruit little more than intention now, but the smell hinting at the grapes they would soon be - and of the wines that would come forth from those grapes.

It smelled of days he and Robert had played among these same vines, chasing one another, hiding, romping about merrily until Father had caught them and sent them off to their tasks, trying to harness their youthful spirits into ones of sober solemnity.

It smelled of the vegetables from the garden, their sweet freshness revealed in every bite of his mother's cooking, in the preserves she had put up every year, of her understanding smiles and warm hugs.

It smelled, he thought to himself, like home.

What it did not smell of was a blend of bergamot, lavender and jasmine - but catching a faint hint of the blend, he knew precisely what did - and where the delicate perfume had come from.

Opening his eyes, he let the handful of dusty soil trickle through his fingers, then wiped his hands on his pants before rising to his feet and turning to confront his visitor.

"Come to tell me I've made an ass of myself?"

Beverly Crusher studied his face for a long moment, seeing both the strong, hard lines of the visage she knew so well - and the effect of the past few years on that same face.

It was strange, she thought, how our faces mirror our personalities; Picard was a hard man, physically and emotionally; neither his body nor his face showed no sign of any softness in its planes and angles, an echo of the hard decisions and firm resolve that had marked his seventy years. Even the tiny wrinkles that angled out from the corners of his eyes and mouth were sharp and clearly defined, refusing to grant any softness to the image before him. In another person, they might have been the traces of a laugh or a smile that, so often repeated, had left its trace upon the skin - but he had not been a man of many smiles - and few laughs.

And there had been even fewer of late, she knew, studying the grim set of his jaw; whatever had happened to him in the last three months, he had resolved not to let it show, his jaw set all the more firmly, his eyes narrowing against more than the harsh sunlight streaming down over them both, refusing to let whatever he was feeling be seen by those around him.

And as for making an ass of himself...

She shook her head. "No," she answered mildly.

"I see. You simply wanted to say 'I told you so'?" he said bitterly.

Beverly shook her head. "I never said that, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "I never would," she added softly.

"Then what?" he snapped. "What did you come here for?"

There was a pain in his voice, sharp and biting, that she could not remember hearing there before; acid, it burned through the rich timbre of his usual tone, leaving it harsh and ragged - and aching.

Stung by the unexpected and unfamiliar tone, she stared at him - then shook her head. "I... was worried about you," she said at last.

He studied her for a moment, his eyes tightening in anger, then grabbed the tool box and started back toward the house.

"Jean-Luc!" she cried after him, "I came here to help you!" she said plaintively, but her cry only caused him to spin back on her furiously.

"You want to help me? Fine! Then help me by getting the hell out of here and leaving me alone!!" he roared, then turned again.

If he had hit her physically, she could have been no more surprised - and no more hurt - than his words left her. Shocked, she found herself unable to move, unable even to breathe, as she numbly watched him stalk back toward the house, a lone shadow moving toward an equally lone - and equally empty - house.

It wasn't until he slammed the door shut behind him that the spell that had enveloped her faded; breaking free, Beverly gave a sudden gasp, the air rushing back to her lungs - and the terrible pain fading as reason returned.

He was hurt, Beverly told herself - but more than that, he was tired.

Tired beyond rationality, beyond reason, beyond his years, tired beyond anything any of them could imagine - and whatever hope of he had had for an end to that fatigue was now gone from his grasp - and if that overwhelming fatigue left him bitter and short tempered, she could understand.

They all could understand; they had all been there with him - but his had been the shoulders that had had to bear the responsibility - and the guilt.

War was never easy, she reminded herself; it exacted its measure from everyone involved, from combatants, to civilians - to those stuck somewhere in between.

Indeed, perhaps most heavily on them, Beverly added, caught in the middle of a war - and knowing there was nothing they could do.

No, she reminded herself angrily; there was so much they could have done - but none they were permitted. Starfleet had seen to that.

It shouldn't have been that way! she thought angrily, her rage building as it had done so many times over the last few years. The Enterprise was the flagship of the Federation, equipped with the most capable and seasoned of crews - and with one of the Federation's most brilliant tacticians as her captain. They should have been at the forefront of the battles, leading the Federation, aiding their fellow Starfleet officers, doing what they all knew was expected of them - only to find themselves sidelined, doing little more than sitting and waiting.

Admittedly, there was little they could have done for much of the time, she reminded herself bitterly; the damage the Sona'a had inflicted to the Enterprise had left them unable to do little more than limp back to the nearest starbase at sublight speed - and then to wait for the necessary repairs to be made; repairs that Starfleet seemed in no hurry to perform, she thought.

A punishment? she wondered, not for the first time. It was a possibility, she admitted. After all, the Admiralty had been furious with Picard for having dared to counter Starfleet's decision to remove the Bak'u from their adopted homeworld and usurp the metaphasic radiation from their planetary rings - and angrier still when Picard's officers had taken it before the Federation Council.

The Admiralty had tried to justify their actions, of course, tried to rationalize their violation of the Prime Directive by explaining that only a few hundred would have to suffer, while billions would benefit - but even to the most ardent of sympathizers, the excuses had sounded weak - and to Starfleet's strongest opponents, the truth had added fire to an already strong flame: even the Prime Directive, Starfleet's first law, was not inviolable.

The truth had hurt Starfleet - and hurt them badly, she added - and they were going to make sure that the cause of that hurt suffered as much as they did: subtly, unobtrusively - but horribly.

They left him his command, of course; one didn't overtly punish a whistle-blower. No, they left him the captaincy of his ship - then made it a ship that was going nowhere, doing nothing, her captain and her crew trapped inside a vessel that was being kept from the battle, forced to watch as its horrors went on about them, utterly impotent.

Of course, the truth was hidden behind a thousand lies: repair parts were unavailable, other ships had priority at the spacedocks, requests from transfers to other ships were lost, or awaiting review - but the end effect was that the captain and his crew were going to sit out this war, locked up in their ship, forced to watch as their friends and fellow officers fought - and died - and knowing there was nothing they would be permitted to do to change anything.

The effect had been horrendous for the crew and her officers, each piece of news more crushing than the one before: every loss became a personal one, caused because they hadn't been there to prevent it, every victory meaningless, because they had done nothing to help. They were powerless, useless, impotent - and within a matter of months, utterly demoralized.

If the Admiralty wanted to punish the crew of the Enterprise for following their captain, they had succeeded - and in doing so, had punished her captain a thousand times over.

And a more effective punishment she couldn't think of. How better to strike at a captain like Jean-Luc Picard than by striking at his crew? All because Picard had dared to fight for what Starfleet once held so highly.

He had aged a dozen years in those few months, she thought, watching his crew suffer for what he had done, the rejuvenating effect of the metaphasic radiation in the Briar Patch fading away almost as quickly as it had come upon him, leaving him disheartened, doubting himself and his abilities: in fighting for what he knew to be right, he had brought dishonor upon his crew and his ship - the very things he had spent a lifetime trying to protect.

But the punishment could not last forever, she had reminded him time and again; some day the war would have to end - and Starfleet would have no further excuses to delay the repair of the ship.

And they didn't; within days of the end of the war, the repairs were suddenly, almost miraculously finished and the ship returned to duty.

Which didn't mean, however, that Starfleet had yet forgiven her captain - though the punishment that followed was just as subtle.

In the months that followed the war, the Federation had found itself being pulled apart - but this time from within, rather than without. Alliances made during the war were dissolving as one-time allies found reasons to strike out own their own once again - and once solid allies found themselves tempted to join them - and the Federation suddenly found itself in desperate need of a skilled negotiator.

In its infinite wisdom, Starfleet had assigned Picard - and his ship - to leading the negotiating teams, traveling from world to world to initiate peace talks, strengthen relations, iron out difficulties... all essential functions, Beverly knew - but ones that were as far as possible from the exploration and discovery that marked Picard's career.

Not that he wasn't superb at it, Beverly reminded herself; he was a brilliant negotiator, and Starfleet had few better people to assign to such a role - but such an assignment, especially such a prolonged one, smacked of a further step in penalty he had been assessed for having dared to confront Starfleet. And one, she added, that exacted a high price from the man.

The work had been exhausting, quickly taking its toll both physically and emotionally as he was stretched in a dozen different directions for days at a time, constantly trying to seek a balance between the needs of the others as well and those of the Federation - and hearing the unending criticism from all sides when he faltered or failed.

But Jean-Luc had endured, as Beverly knew he would, never giving in until every attempt had been made, every possibility tried - and more often than not, succeeding where no one thought he could.

Succeeded, yes - but he had paid the price for his work - and paid dearly. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually, he was drained.

As his friend, Beverly had done what she could to support him - but as his doctor, she could tell that it wasn't enough. He was growing thinner, more tired, edgier with each passing day... If the delegates didn't find a resolution soon, she knew she was going to have to step in professionally and have Picard removed from the conferences.

And that, she knew, would be the end of the man. Yes, he would understand her reasons - he might even forgive her, professionally - but being removed from duty, being told he was unfit to perform the only duty Starfleet had given him in two years... It would break him, she knew. Break him, and send him from the service to...

To here, she thought, looking about the fields of vines growing about here.

But I should have known better, she reminded herself a moment later; her friend had too much strength to let mere exhaustion conquer him - and, she added grimly, too much anger to allow Starfleet's petty decisions defeat him. Even as she began her quiet plans to ease him out of the negotiations, he had completed the bargaining, bringing the warring parties together in a tentative treaty.

It wasn't one that would hold together long, they all knew - but he had bought Starfleet time, time enough for them to bring together a more formal conference, one that could put their differences to an end - at least, she added, thinking about the participants involved, for the moment.

And yet somehow, even that monumental accomplishment had not eased the shame she knew he felt. His mission fulfilled, he should have been filled with some measure of self-confidence and pride. Instead, he had returned to the ship, sequestered himself in his quarters for three days, then emerged and announced his intentions to return to the Briar Patch.

She had supported his decision, of course; professionally, she knew he needed the leave. But personally...

Personally, she had known better.

But she couldn't tell him that.

And so she had wished him joy, kissed him farewell - and waited.

For three months she had waited, each day passing filling her with every increasing hope - and increasing dread.

And then one day, his name had appeared on a manifest - his name, but nothing more. He had come back, and left again, without a word to any of them.

Then again, there was no need; she knew precisely where he had gone.

But as much as she had disapproved his original plan, she found this refuge no better a site. True, the workmen had rebuilt the fire-ravaged wing of the house back to its original condition - though she swore she could still catch a faint scent of scorched wood upon the breeze - but nothing, not new timbers, fresh plaster or new paint could cover up the knowledge that this had been the place where his brother - and his beloved nephew - had died.

It was a biting reminder of how alone he was - and how alone he would always be.

Her worry surging, she hurried along the dusty path that led from the grape rows to the house, then raised a fist to knock at the massive oak door - only to have it swing in at her lightest touch.

Beverly stood there silently, her eyes adjusting to the interior dimness after so many hours of facing the harsh sun that hovered over the French countryside, slowly making out the shapes of the furniture and the rooms that had been the source of both Picard's life - and many of stories that he had told her during their years together.

A foyer that she had only known from his tales greeted her, large, yet warm and welcoming, its dark panels bespeaking the thousands of visitors it must have seen over the centuries, a threadbare, but once colorful throw rug covering the wood floor. To her right, a large oak table stood, layers of wax reflecting the faint light that penetrated the room, surrounded by eight chairs, each precisely placed around the table. The dining room, Beverly knew, remembering the stories of how the room had been reserved for guests and company, forbidden to the children - and Picard's tale of perverse delight when, forty years later, he and Robert had spent the better part of a day drinking themselves insensible at that same table, each of them dripping mud and filthy water onto that carefully preserved furniture.

And down the hall the room's opposite, both in function and spirit. The kitchen, with its well-weathered table there, marred and dented by the daily use of a dozen generations, was as far from the dining room as could be, the center of so many of Jean-Luc's tales - and, Beverly knew, the center of this house.

Here Jean-Luc and Robert had eaten most of their meals, here they had helped their mother to prepare meals, here, they had done their assignments... Here was the heart of his home, she sighed contentedly.

Then sighed again, sadly this time, realizing that the table was barren, unused.

Curious, she stepped into the foyer, continuing her slow inspection of the house - then gave a surprised gasp as she came face to face with the man standing just beyond the doorway.

He glared at her, furious at the intrusion. "Happy now?" he growled bitterly. "You couldn't just leave me alone, leave me to myself - you had to come here and see for yourself just how badly I handled everything!"

It took a moment to recover her voice. "Jean-Luc..."

"But this is not the Enterprise, Doctor," he snarled at her. "This is my home - and my leave! And you have no right to be here! Now get the hell out!"

"Jean-Luc," she pleaded, but his fury would tolerate no interruptions, no protestations.

"I said 'get out'!" he roared, raising up one powerful hand, tightly clenched in a fist.

Whether it was simply for dramatic emphasis or whether he really intended to strike her, Beverly didn't know; too stunned by the unexpected gesture, she stood rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the upraised hand.

He must not have even realized what he had done, she realized later; taken aback by her refusal to move, he stared at her, then followed her gaze back to his arm, tracing it slowly until he came to the clenched fist - and stared at it in astonishment.

And horror, she realized as he slowly lowered his hand.

I would have hit her, he realized, horrified. I would have hit the one person I can truly call a friend, he knew.

Stricken, ashamed, he turned away, unable to face her, expecting - hoping! - to hear the sound of her footsteps as she hurried away from the house - and from him, leaving him alone with his misery and his shame.

But there was no sound; for a moment, there was nothing.

Then...

A gentle hand touched his arm. "Jean-Luc..."

He shook his head.

"Please," she whispered, her hand gently tightening on his arm. "Let me help you," she begged.

For a long time he said nothing, staring at the clenched fist - then slowly opened it.

"I would have hit you," he said, stunned.

"No," she hastily assured him. "You never would..."

"Maybe she saw that in me," he added as if he hadn't heard her. "Maybe that was why..."

"Jean-Luc..." Beverly interrupted.

He stared at his hand a moment longer - then raised his eyes to hers.

There were tears there.

"She said 'no', Beverly," he said softly, achingly as the tears, too long suppressed, began to flow down his face. "She said 'no'."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Stepping through the doorway into Engineering, Cmdr. William T. Riker, studied the scene before him.

The place was chaos, he decided, but organized chaos, watching as half a dozen people swept by him, each hurrying about on some disparate mission, moving in different directions, swerving neatly to avoid hitting one another, sometimes missing the next person by a matter of mere millimeters, the purpose of their haste known only to them - and to the Chief Engineer of the ship, he added, once again admiring the mind of the man who could keep such potential disaster organized and under control.

And functioning, he added, mentally reviewing the latest progress reports that Geordi LaForge had sent him; the renovations to the turbo lifts were ahead of schedule, the preparation for the refit of the computer system was completed, the reconfiguration of stellar navigation was almost finished,,, The list went on in Will's head.

And somewhere on that list was the installation of the ship's new engines.

Admittedly, that was a task that hadn't yet been completed, Will added, not needing Geordi's update to know the status of that undertaking; after almost three months, he knew precisely where the project was on its timeline - which was precisely where the designer said they would be.

Day seventy-eight, he thought, recalling the project itinerary for the day: "Installation and in situ realignment of new dilithium crystal chamber. Time for completion: 17.5 hours."

Seventeen point five, Will thought with a chuckle. Probably seventeen point four seven three, he decided, or some other such overly precise number - but rounded off to the half hour so as not to strain the mental processes of the ship's acting captain, suspecting, however, that the engineer wouldn't have been so lenient with the staff there. If the designer had told them it was to be down in seventeen point four seven three hours to complete a job, then by God, it would be done in seventeen point four seven three hours. Exactly. Not one second longer.

And no less, he added. Whatever her faults, the engine's designer was realistic in her assessment of how long a project would take them - or, more accurately, he added, how long a project would take her. How long it would take the crew to complete those tasks without her was another matter entirely.

For a time, Will had been concerned that her insistence on completing many of the details of the installation on her own would cause hard feelings among the remaining Engineering staff; after all, how could they help but be offended by the insinuation that the quality of their work was unequal to the task - and that one stranger could do the job better than one hundred who already knew the ship so intimately?

But to his surprise, the hard feelings and resentment at her intrusion that he had anticipated never came to fruition; indeed, if anything, the good will among the Engineering crew was at the highest point that it had been since... Since...

Will shook his head, unable to remember a time when the room had seemed so coordinated, so together, as it had during the last three months - or a time when the entire ship had felt so unified, especially with the captain gone.

I wish it was me, he admitted to himself; I wish I could pretend that it was something I was doing - but he was too much the realist to delude himself into believing that notion. It was far more likely to be an effect of the end of the last mission, he told himself, an end to the mind-numbingly dull shuttling of delegates to and from the Federation Council meetings, the endless receptions for new potential council members, the seemingly interminable negotiations... all necessary, Will reminded himself, if they were to make sure that the war was really at an end - but at such a high cost to the crew of the ship that had previously been at the forefront of exploration and discovery, he thought.

They weren't used to it, to the dull complacency and lack of excitement that had marked most of the missions they had undertaken in the years before the war - and some of the crew - many, he admitted - hadn't been able to make the change. There had been transfers in quantity - and more than a few resignations.

He understood their reasons for leaving; they all understood. It was demoralizing, even insulting, sitting out the war at the docks, waiting for Starfleet to give the order to complete the repairs to the ship - and suspecting with ever growing certainty that that word was never going to be given. He understood their reasons - and more to the point, he understood the why - every crewman aboard did, even if they never openly discussed the situation - but it did nothing to improve the morale of the crew, any more than did the orders for routine, ambassadorial missions they were given when the war finally did end.

But the missions were missions, at least, Will admitted to himself; it was something to do - but while they were unquestionably necessary, perhaps even vital - they were hardly the work for the Federation's flagship.

Make work, Biji had called the endless routine missions when he had tried to explain the reasons for the crew's low morale; something to distract them, to occupy their minds now that the war was over - as if shuttling diplomats could replace the challenging and often dangerous missions they had been given in the years before.

He smiled, remembering that first talk with the woman - and remembering how pleasantly surprised he had been as they chatted - then smiled again, embarrassed. How she had managed to turn him from his customary introductory lecture of her duties and responsibilities as overseer of the engine installation to an intimate discussion of the crew's esprit de corps - among other things, he added - was still beyond him - as was how she maneuvered him from the captain's ready room to Ten Forward - and to a bottle of truly exquisite Scotch.

The presence of the bottle in her carry-all had bothered him at first. While synthehol in all its many forms was the drink of choice on a Federation vessel, real alcohol wasn't forbidden - but it was rare that anyone would bring their own with them. After all, the replicators could produce any type or variety wanted - unless, of course, the individual didn't want a record kept of the amount of alcohol requested, he had thought grimly.

But despite her liberality with his portion, however, she had poured only one shot of the smoky liquid for herself, then nursed that drink for several hours - and considering the thick layer of dust that had been present on the bottle when she brought it out, it was probably the first drink she had taken from it in years. Of course, he admitted to himself, the dust and the single drink could have been a pretense to hide a drinking problem - but then why bother to bring out the liquor at all? he asked himself.

He had spent the balance of the night - what little there was left after that hours-long chat - thinking about the new, albeit temporary, member of his crew, trying to figure out how someone as seemingly compassionate and understanding had managed to earn such a vicious nickname - only to return to Engineering the following morning and discover the answer for himself as he watched her take control of the room, the equipment and the people with a grip as hard as duralinium.

But duralinium wrapped in velvet, he reminded himself; she brooked no excuses when there was a job to be done - and every job had to be done to her standards. And if you couldn't do it...

...If you couldn't do it, Will thought, remembering, she would stop what she was doing, quietly instruct you in the correct way, watch you do it, make suggestions and corrections, compliment you on the new achievement, log it in your files for your next evaluation - then promptly return to her unyielding, inflexible schedule, somehow having calculated a certain amount of time into each day's work to share her expertise.

With two days, she had gone from being "Lt. Andile" to "B.G." - but within a week, half the crew and all of Engineering had bestowed upon her a new name - Biji.

Will gave a start, the thought of the lieutenant's name reminding him why he had come into the room in the first place.

Quickly scanning the too-busy area, he finally found the object of his visit - then slowly began to crane his head to one side, his body slowly following until he could bend no further.

What the hell...?

"She's realigning the crystals in the dilithium chamber," Geordi LaForge said, walking up to join the first officer-cum-captain.

"Upside down?" Will replied, straightening back up at the sound of the Chief Engineer's voice. "That's not part of her SOP - is it?" he added worriedly.

Geordi laughed, then shook his head. "No, Commander; the rest of us will be doing it the usual way - upright," he assured the man.

"Then...?" Will began, curious.

"She's too short," he explained. "She said that the calibration monitor was designed for someone the average height of a starship engineer - which is twenty-one point three centimeters taller than she is," he added, sharing a grin with Riker at the new engineer's insistence on precision. "She said she was concerned that if she stood on a platform to do the calibration, someone might accidentally jar the platform - and then the day's work would be ruined. And we can't have that," he solemnly informed the first officer.

"It would be inefficient," Will agreed, equally grave.

"And heaven help us if the good lieutenant does anything that's inefficient," Geordi added, breaking into a laugh. "So she made a few measurements, rigged a pair of magnetic boots to the catwalk on the balcony - and she's been hanging there ever since, calibrating the crystals. Seventeen hours," he added, growing serious once more, reminding the first officer of the enormity of the task.

"Seventeen and a half," Will corrected him. He studied the woman's ruddy face, then glanced at Geordi. "She's going to have a hell of a headache when she's done," he said quietly, a touch of concern in his voice - but only a touch. Lt. Andile had made it quite clear from her first day aboard that she did not like to be worried over.

"Yeah - but she says it's good for her back," Geordi replied.

Riker frowned. "It's still bothering her?"

Geordi nodded. "She hasn't said anything about it, but every now and then I'll see her limping a little."

"You should order her to report to Sickbay," Will began.

"That's easier said than done, Commander," the engineer replied. "Technically, she's not under my command; she's a guest here from the shipyards at Utopia Planitia - and I have no authority to give her orders in anything except the installation protocol. Her commanding officer there might be able to order her to get it checked out - but that seems a bit extreme for a few pulled muscles."

Will nodded, agreeing - but unhappy with the answer. "Maybe you could suggest she skip a few of those daily exercise routines," he suggested.

Geordi's eyes widened with amusement. "Right. And then I try suggesting she get more than two hours sleep a day, or eat a decent meal once in a while." With a smile, he shook his head at the senior officer. "No thank you, Commander; I need her working with me, not against me. If her back begins to bother her enough, she'll get it checked out. But as long as it doesn't interfere with her work, and as long as she doesn't complain about it, I'm staying out of that mess."

Will sighed - but he knew Geordi was right. Biji... Lt. Andile, he corrected himself, was not a member of his crew, and a pulled muscle - even one that had lingered for several weeks now - was not reason enough to create any problem between her and Geordi. But it did remind him of the basic drawback to having any personnel on the ship who were not officially assigned there: How did one enforce discipline if they didn't have to follow orders?

It wasn't a problem for Biji, he reminded himself; she was harder on herself than any Starfleet officer would dare be - but there had been others who had visited the ship in the past, and others who would visit in the future, who would not be nearly as self-policing as she was - nor as courteous... A thought running through his head, he made his way through the chaos of bodies toward the warp core - and the inverted woman who hung there.

He studied her in silence, waiting for her to pause for a moment in her work, not wanting to disturb her in the middle of some critical calculation...

"Good evening, Commander," she said quietly, her eyes still pressed against the viewing port, her fingers flying over the terminal that she had strapped to the front of her thighs.

Will's eyes widened - then instantly narrowed again as he refused to let his surprise at her recognition show.

"It's still afternoon, Lieutenant," he corrected her.

"I suppose that would depend on your interpretation of what is evening and what is afternoon, sir," she said, still not looking away from the port, her fingers still flashing over the keyboard, somehow dodging the obstructions that hung down from the ubiquitous tool belt she wore. "All time-related designations are, after all, rather arbitrary on a starship, what with not having a sun or rotational period to define naturally occurring time periods. For my purposes, I have always defined evening as starting at eighteen hundred hours - and it's eighteen oh three now. Hence, the 'good evening'."

Will glanced at the chronometer on the wall, surprised at the lateness of the hour as well by her knowledge of the time - then reminded himself that he had sworn not to let anything the woman did surprise him anymore. Probably a miniature chronometer built into the calibration monitor - or directly into her head, he added to himself, wondering - facetiously, he insisted to himself - if the woman wasn't actually an android in disguise. God knew she could give Data a run for his money when it came to technical expertise and fanatical attention to detail.

Like the time, Will reminded himself, realizing he hadn't bothered to answer her comment. "Then good evening," he conceded. "How's it going?"

"Well enough. We got a little behind schedule earlier. The third crystal, which should have been covering the lower end of the mid frequencies, was refusing to allow itself to be properly tuned. I had to refloat the entire array, then rebalance them - which is what I should have done in the first place," she admitted; Will suspected that behind the monitor, she was blushing in embarrassment at the mistake.

A mistake she didn't usually make, he added. "Then why didn't you?" he asked, curious.

"Starfleet's SOPs," she replied grimly. "Standard operational procedure says you free mount the crystals then tune them to their ranges, then install the assembly and fine-tune them. The problem is that if you get a balky crystal - like the third one here - then you have to start from scratch - and do it in situ, or you get the same problem all over again. It would have been more efficient to do it this way from the start - which is what I told Starfleet in the first place," she added. "It would have saved us hours!"

Us, Will noted with a grin - as though someone else had been hanging upside down with her for the better part of the day. "But if your way is so efficient, why do the specs call for it to be done in advance?" he asked.

Andile looked away from her monitor, meeting his eyes, her expression as undisturbed as if they had both been upright. "My way is efficient, but only if you practice. But practice takes time, and Starfleet's not about to take ships offline for weeks on end so their crews can practice. They feel that the overall cost is not offset by the improved speed - or by the resultant efficiency," she sighed disappointedly.

"But we're not pressed for time on this installation," she continued a moment later, "so I've given you a primo set; you'll get better than ninety-eight per cent from these babies," she continued, turning back to the monitor, hitting a few more keys - then slinging the keyboard under one arm.

Seeing her put the keyboard away, Will started to glance at the chronometer - then stopped, realizing there was no reason to bother. He knew what he would find there; the chronometer would read exactly eighteen oh-eight, precisely seventeen and a half hours after the time the lieutenant had begun the day's work.

He smiled to himself, realizing what she had done; she could have finished the entry on her terminal before turning to talk to him - but that would have meant she would have completed the job ahead of time (or, more likely, exactly when she had anticipated it would be done, he added to himself) but she had made the point of taking the extra moment to talk to him so the project would come out exactly as she predicted.

Trying not to chuckle at her near-obsessive attention to detail, he watched as she reached up, grabbed the catwalk with one hand, unfastened the boots with the other, then let go of the walk and executed a graceful backward flip before hitting the ground with both feet.

And promptly began to collapse, the keyboard sliding from beneath her arm.

Will grabbed the woman, steadying her with one hand while reaching out for the keyboard with the other, uncertain if a drop would damage the equipment - and not about to risk the seventeen-plus hours of data that was recorded there.

Not the he wasn't concerned about the engineer, he hastily added to himself, carefully setting the board down and turning his attention to the woman. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"Oh... yes... fine, sir," she insisted. "Just came up... down... a little too fast," she added, her voice quavering with effort.

Too much effort, Riker recognized immediately; watching her face whiten, he realized she was on the verge of passing out. Seeing a chair a few steps away, he tightened his grasp around her waist and led her to it, carefully lowering her into the seat, then crouched down before her, ready to catch her if she fell, watching her face as the color slowly returned to it.

"Do you want to go to Sickbay?" he asked solicitously.

Andile shook her head furiously. "No! It's not... necessary," she added hurriedly, then raised her head to meet his eyes "I'm fine..." she said then forced a smile to her lips. "After seventeen hours upside down," she said, a hint of chagrin in her voice, "I think my heart had gotten used to gravity getting the blood to my brain - and it forgot what to do for a minute.

"But I'm fine now," she added a few moments later, her carriage steadying; a touch of color coming to her cheeks - and a smile to her lips as she looked down at him from the chair.

She's looking down at me, Will realizing the source of her smile, trying not to laugh at the realization himself. Usually, he was the one looking down at her - but then again, so did everyone else aboard the ship - for at just under five feet in height, Lt. Andile was unquestionably the shortest human Will Riker had ever met in Starfleet. In fact, he thought to himself, she was one of the shortest people of any species he had ever met - and after twenty-some years in Starfleet, he had met a lot of people.

But then, Andile didn't fit many of the parameters of a standard Starfleet engineer, let alone one of its premier engine designers. Despite her insistence on precision and detail - a trait that was possessed by most of the engineers Will had met - she had little of the cold detachment that seemed to be their sole emotion; Andile cared about her people as passionately as she cared about her engines - and it showed in the way the crew, including those who had nothing to do with the installation of the new engines, responded to her.

Rare was the night she didn't have an invitation to join one group or another at Ten Forward - though it was rarer still that she accepted one of those invitations, usually begging off with an honest plea of work; no matter how many hours she worked each day, Will reminded himself, there always seemed to be twice as many needed to complete the requisite paperwork that accompanied a project of this magnitude. And what few hours she did have to spend in Ten Forward seemed to be spent not with the small groupings, but rather leading whoever was there in a mass discussion of... of, well, whatever they wanted to talk about.

And not just the techno-talks she held with her staff every morning, he added; there had been discussions on every topic from the Progenitors to the Dominion, from tennis to warp physics, from Xenophon to xenophobia. There didn't seem to be a topic she wasn't willing to broach - though more often then not, she let the crew lead the way, letting the topic end on what seemed to be bothering them - and letting them vent their worries on her...

...and everyone else in the room, he realized. One man's burden became everyone's - and one worry, carried in part by a dozen friends, carried in part by a caring superior officer, seemed all the less burdensome.

But who does she talk to? Will mused - and sadly suspected he knew the answer.

For despite her unquestionable popularity with the crew at large, the invitations that she had been extended had always been from groups - never for her to join anyone alone - a plight he could empathize with, even as he could sympathize with the members of his crew. After all, Andile was, well...

Unattractive, he decided emphatically, refusing to proclaim her ugly, even to himself. She wasn't, he insisted stridently. Not really. She was just... well, too thin, for one thing, he told himself as he looked back at her, seeing the harsh angles of her cheeks and jaw protruding sharply through her too pale, too papery skin. Another ten kilos... He thought for a moment, remembering the feel of her ribs protruding through the uniform as he helped her to the chair, then amended the thought - another twenty kilos, and those lines would be softened out, smoothing the razor sharp angles and planes into something softer, something less... chilling, he admitted, resisting the shudder that threatened as he surreptitiously studied her almost skeletal face.

Twenty kilos, he decided - and a few hours out of Engineering, he added. A little sun and some fresh air on a planet's surface might put some color in that too pale skin, idly wondering how many years it had taken for the confines of Utopia Planitia and God knew how ships to bleach away every trace of life from her flesh.

Of course, her decision to wear her hair drawn back in that tight braid didn't help her appearance, he added with a sigh. It was unquestionably her finest attribute, her raven hair amazingly thick, softly lustrous, its ends skimming the top of her hips - and yet she managed to make even that feature unattractive, pulling the strands off her face in a too-tight braid that only served to emphasize how thin her face was, how angular its lines. Of course, the style was eminently practical, he reminded himself ; working where she did, loose locks would invariably catch in the equipment, so something was needed to hold the strands in place - but surely there had to be a more attractive, yet equally practical, solution.

And her choice in uniforms did her no favors, either, he added as he studied her. If there was a style less suited to a woman who lacked the soft curves her gender was usually noted for, he couldn't imagine it - but she had undoubtedly chosen the skin-tight jumpsuit for its practical reasons.

Practical it was, however. Unlike his own uniform, there were no vests or jackets to have to be shed - and therefore carried along - as she worked, no pleats or gathers of fabric to be caught on protrusions in the tight recesses of the Jeffries tubes and accessways, leaving the engineer as much freedom to move as if she had been stark naked - a startlingly unattractive thought which he quickly chased from his mind. The only flaw, Will added, was the over-long sleeves which hung down a good inch and a half below her wrist - and even that was probably done intentionally, the added length used to offset the effect of the personal transporter she wore wrapped around her upper arm, he decided, just as the slightly longer hems on her pants offset the pull of the omnipresent tool belt cinched over her hips.

Practical, efficient - and extremely unbecoming, he thought; if there was a less appealing uniform she could have selected, he couldn't think of it, wondering if that fact had played in her choice of attire.

He shook his head, setting the idea aside for the moment. Analyzing and counseling the crew about their personal problems was Deanna's area of expertise, not his.

And, he reminded himself again, Andile wasn't even a part of his crew - not that she wouldn't benefit from a brief talk with the Betazoid, he added - and not just about her innermost thoughts. Given ten minutes with the engineer, he had no doubts that Deanna could find a uniform design that was both practical enough to suit the engineer and manage to compliment what few physical attributes she did have. Given an hour, she might be able to talk Andile into changing her hair; two hours and she might even have Biji wearing make-up, he added.

Not that her physical appearance was any concern of his, he hastily chided himself, All that mattered was that she was capable of doing her job.

Of course, if her appearance was related to some health problem, it might affect her ability to do her job, he reminded himself - and that would be his concern, and one he wouldn't have to refer back to her commanding officer at the shipyards.

And while a lack of a social life wasn't directly one of his concerns either, it could affect her ability to perform just as readily as a physical ailment, he added. And if it did, then it would be his business.

He sighed. I should just bite the bullet, he thought to himself; and try to find someone who might be interested in her. After all, it couldn't be that hard, could it? There were four hundred people still on board the ship; someone would have to find her... interesting, he insisted. And it wasn't as if she was hideously disfigured, he told himself; she was just plain ug... just plain, he quickly amended. But charming, he added truthfully; intelligent, an excellent conversationalist...

"And I've got a great personality," Andile muttered under her breath.

"Pardon?" he said, startled back to the present.

"I said it's time I got back to reality," she repeated, enunciating each word carefully, then gesturing toward the keyboard he had set down. "If I may...?"

Will reached for the board then handed it to her - then watched as she fumbled with it, her hands trembling as she tried to wrap them around the piece of equipment.

She stared at the offending limbs for a moment, then crossed them, wrapping her hands around the opposite wrist, rubbing them gently.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Will asked as he watched her.

Andile gave a half jump, as though she had forgotten her was present, and instantly stopped the massage. Grabbing the keyboard firmly this time, she smiled up at him and insisted, "I'm fine - really," as she stood.

Will followed her rise, his hand still outstretched, ready to grab her if she began to waver again...

... but she was rock steady now, he realized; he dropped his hand even as she glanced at the computer terminal on the console. "I need to download this, sir," she added firmly; he was dismissed.

"If you're not up to it, lieutenant, I can find someone else..." he began, but her smile stopped him.

"Not necessary, sir; I'm fine - and beside, I'd just have to double check their work before I sign off on it. RHIO, you know."

Will grinned. Rank, he thought, recalling the woman's first use of the phrase, did indeed have its obligations. How true, how true - and how to heart Andile took those obligations. But it did mean the work got done - correctly and on time. He nodded approvingly, his concern over her disappearing.

"You'll send a copy to my terminal?" he asked - though he knew the question was unnecessary.

"As always, Commander," she agreed, "along with tomorrow's agenda with projected completion times."

He nodded approvingly, then turned away - only to turn back a moment later. "Lieutenant, even though Starfleet doesn't recommend in situ calibrations, you say they can be faster?"

"Faster and more accurate," she agreed. "Provided you keep the staff in practice," she added warningly.

He nodded, turning away once more - then turning back. "Tell me, Lieutenant, is there a reason that someone couldn't write a holodeck program that would adequately simulate the installation process - so Geordi's team could learn it and stay current on the technique? Or is it too complex...?"

Andile frowned. "It is complex - and writing a program adequate to the task would be a bitch of a job. There are a hundred variables involved in just the set-up - and to make sure that everyone's really learning the program, you have to integrate variables on the variables so the staff can learn to respond to a changing situation. It would be a lot of work - and would take someone a long time to write a program that would accomplish the task - and longer still to test it out. That's why Starfleet hasn't done it," she informed him with obvious disapproval. "They feel their way is good enough."

"Oh," Will replied, disappointed, then turned away once again.

Andile watched him for a moment, then reached into a pouch on her tool belt and removed a small disk. "Commander!" she called to the man's back.

He turned once again.

"But as a wise man once said, 'Good enough... simply isn't'," she said with a grin. "Enjoy," she added, tossing the disk to him.

He caught it with one hand and stared at it.

A holodeck program? he thought to himself, puzzled - then his eyes widened in astonishment - and awe.

"This ship is the best work I've ever done. I intend for it to stay that way - and I know you do, too," she explained, her voice soft with reverence - and pride. "I was going to give that to Geordi when I left. I wanted his people - and my ship - to have a leg up on every other Engineering crew in the 'fleet - if they're willing to work for it," she added defiantly, as if to challenge him.

A challenge she knew he'd accept. "Oh, they will," he said, still stunned - and impressed as hell. "They will." He hesitated a moment, then looked at her. "Nice work, Lieutenant," he added.

She gave a slight curtsey to him. "Live to serve, sir," she said lightly.

He stared back, puzzled.

"Sorry," she apologized. "Punch line of an old joke."

Will thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I can't place it," he admitted.

"Pardon?"

"The joke," he said. "I can't place it. I thought I knew just about every joke going around Starfleet, but..."

"Oh," Andile said, understanding. "This one's a little before your time, Commander - and," she added, suddenly blushing, "a little... well, rude," she explained.

Will's eyes brightened, ignoring her embarrassment. "How... rude?" he pressed, curious; what did a woman who could turn the air blue with profanity consider to be 'rude'? he wondered.

Andile shook her head, refusing the question. "Rude enough to get me in trouble if I tell it while I'm on duty - but not as bad as a lot of others I know." She hesitated, then peered at him, suspicion - and hope - in her eyes. "Why do you ask?" she said softly.

Will smiled. "Just curious. I enjoy a good joke, but there's not many I don't know, so when I hear a new one - or an old one - I'm interested in finding out where it came from - and finding out if there are any more like it at home." He hesitated, glanced at the chronometer, then back at her. "Maybe when you're done here..." he began.

Andile shook her head, an apologetic smile on her lips. "I'd love to, sir - but after the download, I've got to finish my progress reports and turn them in. You know how Starfleet is: if it wasn't documented..."

"... It wasn't done," Will finished, sighing in disappointed agreement. "Damn shame you can't stay on after this project's over," he muttered.

"Not to worry, sir," she laughed. "I've got some down time coming after this assignment. I promise I'll write up every joke I can remember and forward them to you so you won't be deprived of my vast storehouse of humor - if you promise not to tell anyone where you got it," she added. "I like my job; I'd like to keep it."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant; I can keep a secret. But I didn't mean just that," Will replied, growing serious. "I meant I... we will miss you. Your work," he held up the holodeck program disc, "and your style," he added with a grin, "would fit right in around here - and there aren't many people I can say that about," he said - then stopped, as surprised by his own remark as Andile clearly was.

Surprised - and suspicious, Will realized as she studied him - though whether she was trying to deduce the sincerity of the comment or its proclaimer, he didn't know.

But it was sincere, he decided as he thought the comment through; it was unplanned - but it was unquestionably sincere. She would make a good addition to this crew - just as her absence would diminish them.

As it would diminish the crew at Utopia Planitia, he added regretfully, knowing there was no way Commander Valonsk would give up his premier engine designer so that she could take a post on the Enterprise - if she even wanted it, he added, knowing all too well she wouldn't. Despite her rank, Andile was the leader in her field at the ship yards, the manager of a dozen teams, directing and organizing the work of the preeminent leaders in every area from theory to design to construction to implementation... Here she could hope to be nothing more than Geordi's assistant, subordinate to a man who, while unquestionably gifted and highly skilled, paled in comparison to her abilities and knowledge.

She couldn't possibly want that, he knew - and yet...

And yet there was no mistaking the temptation in her expression, the momentary look of bliss that crossed her face as her mind raced over the idea - or the hint of moisture that formed in the corners of her eyes.

He gawked at her for a moment - then closed his own eyes and shook his head, chasing the idea from his thoughts.

I'm tired, he thought, a feeling of fatigue suddenly racing over him; I'm tired and I'm seeing things, he insisted. After all, Biji doesn't cry, he reminded himself; she doesn't get misty-eyed at little compliments - and she most certainly does not want to be bothered by any offers of any paltry postings we might have. He chased the notion from his mind, hoping he hadn't embarrassed - or insulted - the designer by his implied offer.

He shook his head again. I really am tired, he knew, thinking over his behavior of the last few minutes, realizing how out of place it was - and if I'm tired, she must be a dozen times more so. Time to get out of here and let her get back to her work, he decided.

"If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant...?" he said.

"Of course, Commander," she replied softly.

And sadly? Will thought for a moment - then dismissed that idea as well as he turned to leave.

"Oh, and Commander...?"

He turned, surprised by the sudden lightness in her voice.. "Yes, Lieutenant?" he said.

"Nice perfume," she said.

He stared for a second - then broke into a grin. So that was how she had recognized me, he thought, grateful once again for a logical explanation for what often appeared to be prescience from the woman. That hadn't been the case this evening, he told himself; instead, she had recognized his scent from some earlier encounter. Except...

"Cologne, Biji," he informed her. "Men wear cologne."

"Indeed," she murmured, then turned back to her work.

Will smiled, amused once again by one of her rare linguistic errors; they were few and far between, and, aside from her slight accent, the only hint that what she spoke now was not her native language.

And even so, the difference between cologne and perfume was a minor one, an error many people made. Men wore cologne, women wore perfume...

Except I'm not wearing either, he suddenly remembered. We were running late this morning, he reminded himself, courtesy of Deanna's playfulness - and mine, he admitted - and I barely had time to get dressed, let alone put on cologne.

And in any case, there would have been no need; Deanna had been wearing enough perfume for the both of them - albeit nothing else, he remembered, a impish grin coming to his lips at the memory.

And fading almost as quickly as he began to realize that Andile hadn't misspoken.

He opened his mouth, quickly trying to think up a plausible excuse to tell the engineer - but to his infinite relief, she had already turned her back on him, seemingly focused on downloading the keyboard's data.

He watched her for a moment, then turned one last time, quickly striding toward the main doors - and insisting to himself that the soft chuckling he heard was only a figment of his imagination. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"And so you wound up walking out here?" Picard asked as he settled in beside her on the well-worn couch.

Beverly nodded, then took another sip of the wine, not needed the alcohol as much as she needed a moment - another moment - to try to quiet her still turbulent emotions.

She had thought - in the brief moment when she had thought anything - to simply let him cry himself out, knowing the emotional release in a man so unused to allowing himself feelings would do more than any discussion or explanation could - and had taken him in her arms, hoping her physical presence could console him where no words ever could.

But his grief had brought up the ghosts of her own pain: his sorrow recalled her own. Even as he had come into his arms, crying, she had felt the tears beginning in herself, sobbing for him - and for herself. Everything she had had - and lost; everything he had wanted - and had never had.

They had held each other, grieving, until, at last, the tears were gone - then simply stood there, in each other's arms, seeking - and finding - an emotional refuge in the other's presence.

But the unity brought about by the shared pain quickly faded; shaken and embarrassed, Picard pulled away, taking Beverly's arm and gently guiding her into the great room.

He had left her there, ensconced in the corner of a well-worn couch, still trembling, only to return a moment later, a handkerchief, two glasses and a bottle of wine in hand.

The handkerchief he handed over wordlessly, allowing her to minister to her own tear-stained eyes, then turned to the wine, making a ceremony of opening the bottle: carefully removing the seal, he wiped a trace of mold from the bottle's lip, then carefully uncorked the bottle and ritually examined the cork - not as a semblance of some pretension about the wine, she realized quickly, but rather as a way to buy time, to give her a chance to collect her feelings - and to hide his own, she reminded herself.

Good wine, she added as she took a first sip. She glanced at the dust-covered label, and was surprised to discover the bottle was not one of Robert Picard's vintages, but one of Jean-Luc's father. That made it at least fifty years old, she realized with a start - and possibly far older.

She took another sip of the ancient vintage, a smaller one this time, savoring the rare wine as it deserved - and forcing her mind away from the emotions that still boiled on the edge of her consciousness.

It wasn't what she had intended, she reminded herself. In the best of circumstances, confronting Jean-Luc Picard about his personal problems was difficult; coming here, to his home, to confront him about what she knew must have been a disastrous journey could easily have turned difficult into impossible.

But he was, above all else, her friend; whatever the risks, she owed him this.

But prepared as she might have been for the man, she had been unprepared for everything else. The unseasonable heat that had blasted across France, she reminded herself, sucking the very energy from her body; the heat and the distance - and the confusion, she added. My own damned fault: I should have brushed up on my French rather than assuming everyone had Universal Translators. That might have made me a little more welcome in LaBarre - and the people there might have been a little more forthcoming with information about where the Picard vineyard was. Including, she added as she felt her feet beginning to throb once more, the distance.

"You never told me you lived so far from town," she finally said.

Picard smiled. "You never asked."

"I assumed that when you said you were from LaBarre, you meant you lived there - not eleven kilometers away."

"This is a vineyard, Doctor," he reminded her gently, "not just a house. The vines take space, the house takes space, the propagation sheds..." He shook his head. "It takes a lot of room - and this is not the only vineyard in the region. When one says they are from LaBarre, it is understood that one is from the region, not necessarily from the town proper."

"I understand that - now," she agreed, "but had I known when I left San Francisco this morning, I would have worn something more suitable for walking," she added, glancing down at the road-stained dress and shoes she was wearing. "But then again, none of your fellow townspeople were eager to help me find you in any case. It seems they're very protective of your privacy. They barely acknowledged that they knew who you were - let alone where you lived or how to get here."

And they probably knew best, she admitted to herself as she finished the wine; I shouldn't have come out here. I had the best of intentions but...

But the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Biting her lip, she turned away, only to feel the weight of the goblet in her hand increasing.

Turning back, she watched as Picard refilled the glass.

"And so you wound up walking out here?" he asked as he settled down beside her on the well-worn couch. "I'm surprised you didn't get lost," he added.

"I did - several times," she admitted, thankful for once for his reluctance to talk about himself. "What have the people of LaBarre got against signposts?"

Picard smiled at her. "You should understand, Beverly; you're from a small town, too. The philosophy here is: If you don't know where someone lives, you probably shouldn't be going there," he said. "But at least you found it."

"Eventually. I assume you're going to give me a map to find my way back," she added.

"Of course," he agreed solemnly.

They stared awkwardly at each other for a moment.

"More wine?" Picard finally asked.

Beverly looked at the nearly full goblet, then shook her head, realizing he was a strained for a safe topic as she was. "No, thank you. I've taken up enough of your shore leave as it is - and I'm going to need a clear head to get back to town before dark. But if you don't mind, I'd like to wash my face before I go," she added with a smile. "I don't want to go back to LaBarre looking like this."

Without waiting for his consent, she set down the wine glass and uncurled herself from the couch, rising to her feet, quickly followed by the man.

"Bev..." he began, but she cut him off.

"You were right, Jean-Luc," she said with a shake of her head. "I shouldn't have come out here. This is your leave - and I had no right..."

"Beverly..." he interrupted.

She looked up at him.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Feeling a release of tension she didn't know she was carrying, she gave a sigh, then smiled back. "You're welcome," she answered easily.

He smiled back, then reached for the wine glasses, handing hers to her, then gently touching the rims together.

They drank in silence, then Beverly lowered her glass back to the table. "But it is getting late, Jean-Luc," she reminded him, "and I really should be on my way back. If you wouldn't mind drawing that map..."

"It's more than late, Bev," he said, glancing out the window that filled one wall of the great room. "It's getting dark - and the roads have no more lampposts than they do signposts. I think it would be better if you stayed - until morning," he quickly added. "I wouldn't want you getting lost."

Beverly hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gave a brief shake of her head. "Thank you - but no," she replied, then smiled reluctantly at him. "As you said, I am from a small town - and I know the kind of rumors that might start if I don't come back. I am, after all, a Starfleet officer," she reminded him softly. "Even on leave, I have a reputation to maintain - as do you."

"I don't give a damn about my reputation..." he began to protest.

"Of course you do," she interrupted quietly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have come here in the first place. If who you were - who you are to yourself - didn't matter to you, you would have come back to the ship; you would have come back and asked for help from those who care about you. Instead, you came here, because you didn't want us to see you, in pain and suffering."

"Bev..." he began quietly.

She raised her hand to the side of his face, silencing him, then gently caressing the worried lines that creased it. "I understand, Jean-Luc. You're hurt - but the last thing you want - the last thing you could stand - would be the pity of those people with whom you've worked for so long. That would be a humiliation you couldn't bear. That's why I came here - alone. I was on leave at Starfleet Headquarters when I saw your name on the incoming personnel manifests - and I didn't tell anyone. No one, aside from the people in town, knows I'm here. Your reputation is safe with me," she assured him.

He studied her for a long moment, relief heavy in his expression, then lay his had upon hers, gently drawing it away - only to keep it firmly locked within his own. "I know it is," he said quietly, studying the trapped hand that he held. "I've always known, Bev - but with everything that has happened... I..."

"You doubted," she answered for him. "You doubted your friends, you doubted me... and you doubted yourself."

He raised his eyes to hers, relief and gratitude filling them - along with a renewed admiration for her sensitivity - and her wisdom - and nodded in agreement.

"Appalling, isn't it?" he said lightly, scoffing at himself. "I can captain a starship, lead fourteen hundred crewmen through mission after mission, negotiate treaties, mediate battles - but when it comes to my personal life..."

"Jean-Luc," she interrupted quietly, "you are the captain you are because you've spent the last fifty years of your life learning to do just that. But when have you taken the time to have a personal life? It takes time - time and practice - and just like every stage of becoming a captain, there are going to be times when you succeed - and when you fail. Now you're going to have to do the same things you did when you fail as a cadet: you're going to have to take a step back, try to find out what you did wrong - and learn how not to make that mistake again," she added.

He snorted derisively. "Beverly, I haven't been a cadet for more than half a century - and I'm a little too old to start learning how to do anything - even have a life - all over again," he added sharply.

She raised an eye at him. "I see. So you're going to give up and spend the rest of your life sitting on the bridge of a starship?"

"There are worse ways to spend one's days," he reminded her, a forced smile on his lips.

"Yes," she agreed seriously, none of his artificial mirth crossing her face. "There are worse ways. You could spend it here, sitting alone in this empty house, tending your father's vines. Personally, I don't see much difference. They're both existences - but neither sounds like much of a life," she informed him bluntly.

"Beverly..." he began, only to be cut off by her once again.

"Because that's what matters, Jean-Luc. Not our careers, not our professional roles - they're part of who we are, yes, but they aren't us. I'm a doctor, a Starfleet officer, a mother, a wife, a widow... all those things - but first and foremost, I'm me.

"As you," she added softly, "are you. Sometimes you forget that, Jean-Luc. In your efforts to be the best captain you can be to your crew, you decide that that's the only part of you that matters. But you're wrong, Jean-Luc; you - all that you are - matters to us. To me," she added softly.

"I don't want to see you in pain," she insisted softly. "But closing off a part of your life, deciding that because something didn't happen as you wanted it to you, that you're only going live that part of your life where you've been a success, isn't going to protect you. It's only going to diminish who you are, and who you can be. And I don't want that for you, Jean-Luc. I care for you too much to ever want that for you."

He gazed into her eyes for a long time, saying nothing - then slowly reaching out, drew her into his arms. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I thought," Will Riker said as he stared down at the dark-haired woman seated at the small table in Ten Forward, "that we were having dinner together."

"As did I," Deanna Troi responded, slowly gathering a spoonful of ice cream, chocolate curls and hot fudge onto her spoon. "But one of us was an hour late. So I started - and finished - without you," she added.

Will sighed, then took a seat on the opposite side of the table. "Sorry. Beej and I got to talking about the refit - and I lost track of the time. Will you let me make it up to you?" he pleaded.

"I'll think about it," she agreed nonchalantly, ignoring the grin she knew was on his face, her eyes locked on the compilation on the spoon.

Apparently, it wasn't quite right, Will realized, watching as Deanna frowned - then added a touch more of the fudge to the mixture before raising the spoon to her mouth.

That must have been better, he decided, watching as her eyes rolled up a moment later, a blissful smile coming to her face. "Perfect," she murmured.

"You make eating a sundae look like an art," Will replied.

"Oh, it is," she agreed dreamily. "The temperature of each ingredient must be just right, with the ice cream warming slightly, the fudge more than warm but not really hot, the chocolate flakes at room temperature, but not melting from the fudge - and then one must determine the perfect ratio of ice cream to chocolate flakes to fudge in each spoonful..." She rolled her eyes once again at the memory of the combination.

"No whipped cream?" he teased, noticing the absence of the usual white cloud from the top of the bowl.

Growing serious, Deanna shook her head. "No. Biji pointed out the whipped cream is too light in comparison to the weight of the ice cream and the fudge. The textures didn't fit together - and she's right. She suggested the chocolate flakes as well," the Betazoid continued. "Chocolate chips have too much cocoa butter; they get too hard from the ice cream and won't melt properly when you put them in your mouth. She suggested using chocolate shavings instead - and she was right about that too. They melt as soon as they reach your tongue, and the flavor explodes just as the ice cream melts and the fudge thickens..." She rolled her eyes once again - then focused on him.

"Of course, one can only get one perfect spoonful from each sundae," she continued, taking a second, less carefully arranged spoonful from the bowl. "After that, the ice cream grows too warm and the fudge too cool - not that it's not delicious, it's just... it's not perfect."

"And perfection's becoming the byword around here lately," he murmured.

Deanna looked up at him, then set down her spoon worriedly. "Biji again?"

Riker started to shake his head - then stopped; if he couldn't talk to the ship's Counselor, to his friend, to his Imzadi, who could he talk to?

He sighed, then nodded. "As acting captain, I'm all for perfection, Deanna - but..."

"But watching someone drive themselves that hard, day after day, can be painful," she finished for him.

He nodded. "The time table for the refit, for example. I know that even with the best laid-out plans and the best preparation possible, something's going to go wrong. It's inevitable. That's why Starfleet assigned us here for four months, when Biji's timetable said three. They knew something was going to go wrong."

"And it hasn't?" Deanna asked.

"Actually, it has; we've had the usual number of screw-ups and mistakes - and yet we're precisely where her itinerary said we should be," he admitted. "It's gotten to the point where Starfleet's getting suspicious; they're beginning to wonder if she's cutting corners in order to maintain her schedule."

"Is she?" Deanna pressed, worriedly.

Will shook his head. "If she is, she's able to hide it from everyone on the ship as well as the computer diagnostics. No, I don't think there is anything that complex involved; I just think she built time into the original timetable that would allow for correcting mistakes and resolving problems - as well as appropriating time each day to teach and train the engineering crew on what she's doing - and more importantly, why she's doing it."

"I would think you'd appreciate her doing that, Will; not only are you getting new engines - but you're getting a better educated staff in the process," she pointed out.

"I do appreciate it - but it's just another example of her perfectionism. What she set out to do - guide the installation of our new engines over a three month period - should have been good enough..."

"But good enough, Commander, simply isn't," she reminded him.

He smiled, knowing he had been caught with his own words - then shook his head. "But perfectionism is too much," he argued.

"Why?" Deanna countered. "Will, it isn't as if she's trying to force her own standards on the crew; she isn't. In fact, she goes out of her way to make sure that she's not imposing her habits on them; yes, she explains her way of doing things, gives her reasons - but if you choose not to do them, she doesn't force you to comply or belittle your choice. Her perfectionism is her own standard - and her own problem. As long as she doesn't impose it on others..."

"I know, I know," he sighed. "But it's still there - and it's still so apparent to see that it's hard not to comply," he complained.

"And that's a problem?" she answered with a smile. "Will, as captain of the ship, you should be happy to have someone who can motivate others to better themselves - and do so in a way that leaves them knowing they made that choice, rather than being compelled to change and resenting that fact. Change must come from within - and Biji is simply providing an example of how positive that change can be."

"Yes, but..." He glanced at her ice cream bowl, then back up at her. "But it's still painful to see someone trying so hard to help others - without ever granting themselves the rewards of that effort. For example... I've never seen you eat vanilla ice cream before," he said.

Deanna glanced at the bowl, then back at him. "I don't usually. It was a suggestion from Andile. She explained that chocolate has a more intense flavor at body temperature - but by its nature, ice cream must be well below that point - and hence the intensity of the flavor was lost as the temperature dropped. To compensate, more cocoa is added to the ice cream - but more sugar has to be added to offset the bitterness - and as the sugar increases, the chocolate tones are lost once again. So she suggested using a neutral ice cream - vanilla - and allow the fudge and the chocolate shavings to carry the depth of the chocolate tones. And she's right," she added, staring at the melting amalgam. "It was delicious."

"I'm sure it is," Will agreed. "But I'll guarantee Andile didn't taste it, did she?" he asked.

Deanna thought for a moment, then slowly began to frown. "No. She didn't. I didn't realize it at the time - but you're right. She talked about it, described it, gave her reasons - but she didn't eat any of it." She thought for a moment. "Come to think of it, I've never seen her eat anything," she mused.

Will stared at her knowingly.

"Which doesn't prove she's an android," Deanna quickly retorted. "Maybe she doesn't like eating with others," she suggested. "Maybe she has terrible manners and she's embarrassed by them."

"Maybe," he admitted, "but give me another explanation for her appearance," he countered. "Her Starfleet records have her as being in the service for over eighty years - that means she's got to be almost a hundred years old - but she doesn't look a day over twenty! If she's not an android..."

"Cosmetic surgery," Deanna replied.

"Not very good surgery," Will answered, thinking back on the woman's gaunt face and figure.

"Perhaps," Deanna conceded, "but that's all the stronger argument against her being an android. An android could have easily changed appearance to something a little more... average, more aesthetically pleasing."

"If it could be done," Will argued. "Maybe she looks the way she does because she doesn't have a choice.

"Or maybe she does - and she opts to keep her appearance the way it is because she prefers the isolation. Will, have you ever considered that maybe Biji's shy?"

"Shy? Biji?" he said, incredulously.

"It's possible," the Betazoid protested. "Think about it, Will: when she's leading those meetings at night, everyone's free to talk about their problems - but I've never heard her once discuss her own," she pointed out.

"Maybe she doesn't have any," he reminded her.

"No," Deanna replied immediately. "Biji has feelings, I'm certain of it - even if I can't sense them," she admitted - then added, "In fact, she probably has more - and more intense ones - than most people. After all, most perfectionists are driven by their feelings of self-doubt and insecurity," she added, thinking about the engineer, "Feelings that she doesn't want anyone else to know about." She thought for a moment, then looked up at him with a coy smile on her lips. "Then again, it could be that she talks about her self all the time at those meetings - and we simply haven't been there to hear her. After all, our nights have been a little busy," she reminded him.

Will grinned back at her.

"But if you'd like," she continued a moment later, her eyes growing serious once more, "I can meet with her; I know she's not a member of the crew - but a Counselor is a Counselor - and friendly face is a friendly face. If there's anything that's on her mind..."

Will reached across the table, laying his hand over hers. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it. As you said, she's not a member of this crew - but I would hate to have her leave, knowing there was something troubling her - and knowing we did nothing to try to help her."

Deanna turned her hand over, wrapping her long fingers around his hand, then smiling up at him. "It's strange, Will, but as an officer is coming up the ranks of Starfleet, they have to learn create a certain distance between themselves and the people they command; one can't be overly emotional about their crew, or he will never be able to be an effective leader. But at the same time a good leader has to develop a genuine emotional concern about those same people; if he doesn't care, his crew will know it - and they will develop doubts. About him, about his ability to lead them, about his concern for their safety - and more dangerously, about themselves.

"It's a difficult balance to achieve, Will - but it is one that marks the finest leaders in any organization," she told him. "Listening to you tonight, hearing how you're worrying about someone who technically isn't even a member of your crew... I know that you are one of those people - and that you are going to be one of those captains."

He stared back at her, touched by the compliment - then smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "A fascinating observation, Counselor; perhaps you'd care to continue this discussion on minimizing distances between captain and crew... in private," he suggested.

"I thought you were hungry," she pointed out.

"I am," he agreed with a knowing smile.

"Ah," she answered, smiling back. "And these distances between captain and crew you're talking about... just how much distance do you believe we should maintain?"

"In these circumstances," he replied, "as little as possible."

They rose from the table, each refusing to yield their grip on the other's hand, making their way toward the door together.

It wasn't subtle, Will reminded himself, thinking back to his encounter with his temporary engineer; it wasn't hiding anything from the other crew members gathered in the room - but then again, it wasn't a secret either.

And it shouldn't be, he argued, wondering why he had been mortified by Andile's discovery. After all, if the crew didn't believe he was capable of real feelings for one person, how could they accept that he was capable of feeling anything toward them?

Indeed, for some time after he had first come aboard the Enterprise, he had wondered about the ship's captain, not doubting his capability as a officer - that was clear enough in the record for anyone who wanted to check - but wondering how any man, so seemingly bereft of deep emotions, could engender the type of loyalty that a captain should have from his crew - and how, if he didn't possess those emotions, he could return them to his crew in kind?

And yet that loyalty was plainly there, as Will knew from the countless tales that circulated around Starfleet. Picard's crew would do anything for their captain - but it took several years before Will realized that loyalty was engendered by the crew's knowledge that their captain would do anything for them as well. Risk his life, risk the ship, sidestep the Prime Directive... anything - except publicly display his emotions.

His was a temperate leadership; understanding, empathizing, sympathizing - but never overt or blatant turns of emotion, either toward himself or toward those beneath him. Emotions held in check by reason, feelings tempered by logic.

Compassionate - but not passionate, Will decided.

It works for him, Will thought - but I can't see myself taking that approach to a command - or to my life, he added, looking at the woman beside him.

Deanna glanced up at him, startled by the sudden surge of emotions emanating from the tall human. "Imzadi...?" she whispered, overwhelmed.

Imzadi, he replied silently, then, glancing around him to confirm they were alone in the corridor, pulled her into his arms.

Surprised - but delighted by the unexpected embrace, she raised her head, tilting it back to receive his kiss...

A soft chirp, muffled by the closeness of their bodies, interrupted the contact.

For a moment, he stared at her, as if uncertain whether he should answer the call or continue with the kiss - but as the chirp repeated itself, they both realized the answer.

"Damn it!" he muttered quietly, "I swear they must wait until we're alone to call." An apologetic smile on his lips, he pulled back, then tapped the small badge. "Riker here."

"Commander," Data's crisp voice came back to him, "there's an incoming call for you from Starfleet Command."

"Patch it through," Will said.

"Sir," Data replied, a hint of hesitation in his usually atonal voice, "it is from Admiral Czymszczak, on a secured channel," the android added.

Secured channel? Will thought, his mind racing. While we're still in dock? Either someone's playing a joke - or something's seriously wrong.

Probably the first, he decided quickly; after all, we're in the middle of dismantling the old computer system, a week away from beginning the installation of the new one - and almost three weeks away from being ready for a test run on the new engines, he insisted. Until those tasks were completed, the Enterprise's only real value was as scrap metal.

"Put it through to the conference room on Deck Ten," Will replied, then flashed a second apologetic smile at Deanna. "It's probably nothing," he insisted as he stepped away. "This will only take a moment..." he added, then turned back down the hall.

Watching him, she shook her head, knowing better. Whatever the call, it wasn't going to be resolved in a moment. If the call was legitimate, he'd be up for hours, working on... on whatever the Admiral was calling about. And if, as she knew he suspected, it was a joke being played upon him by one of his more juvenile friends at Starfleet Command... Well, it would take some time to plot out a suitable revenge - and longer still to lay the trap so the poor soul wouldn't suspect it until it was too late, she knew, having been through one of Will's elaborate schemes once before.

She understood why he played these intricate games; being cooped up in spacedock, watching over the incredibly complex installation of a new engines and a new computer and yet being unable to assist in those installations was incredibly frustrating for the usually active man. He was used to being in space, on a mission, with something constantly challenging his mind and his body. That was what he had been trained for and done for so many years - not sitting here, watching over several hundred tonnes of inert metal, incapable of moving anywhere - and being incapable himself of helping speed that process along.

This wasn't being a ship's captain was about, Deanna thought; not even an acting captain. What Will was doing was... baby-sitting.

Paper-pushing.

Make work.

No wonder the captain had taken leave when he did, Deanna decided; he'd been through this before and knew how dull a refit of this type could be. What better time to leave Will in charge - and let him sample the other side of command, the part no one ever talked about.

A wise decision of Captain Picard's, she added, realizing her earlier compliment to Will hadn't been insincere. This time, in dock and with nothing to do but direct the day to day running of the ship had allowed him to develop those skills that field work rarely granted time for: compassion, understanding, empathy... all the skills needed in a good captain

Deanna smiled at the wisdom of the older man - and at the thought of him, off in the Briar Patch, relaxing, finally taking the time he needed - and spending it with someone special. Someone he cared for. Someone, she added, who cared for him.

Perhaps not the person she would have wanted for him, she added unhappily - then chased off the thought. Beverly and the captain had settled for friendship - a good and deep friendship - and that seemed enough for both of them.

I'm just glad that Will and I decided that it wasn't enough for us.

A wave of joy washed over her, and she smiled at the realization of what they had found - together. Happy and at peace at what they had, she turned down the hall, making her way back to her own quarters. If Will finished his work early enough, he knew he could always join her. And if he didn't manage to make it back to her quarters tonight...

Well, there was always the morning, she added with a pleased sigh. 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Beverly snuggled into the corner of the couch once again, her feet drawn up beneath her, swaddled in the deep folds of the blue and white bathrobe she had appropriated moments after she stepped from the shower, the worst of the road's dirt and dust washed from her body - and from the filthy dress she had set to soaking while she bathed.

For a moment, she had hesitated to put on the robe, having seen it often enough before to know that it belonged to the current occupant of the house - and finding the thought of wearing so personal a piece of apparel as his robe almost too presumptuous... too intimate.

But it was either the robe or putting on the wet dress once again - or appearing at the dinner table dressed in a towel.

She smiled at the thought of Picard's reaction to that - then smiled again at the memory of realizing that the robe had not been in the bathroom when she had begun her shower.

Yes, it was an intimate piece of clothing - though whether by offering it to her he was offering an intimate glimpse of himself, however, or simply an expedient to returning to the main room - and the dinner he was preparing - she wasn't sure.

More likely, she added a few minutes later, it was for a more basic, rational reason: now that the sun was down, it was getting damned cold.

She was doubly grateful as she entered the living room a moment later and saw the fire set in the great room's fireplace - and saw the two place settings arranged on the low table before the fire; a quiet, intimate dinner like the ones they had so often shared aboard the ship.

Like it - and yet, she realized as they began to eat, very unlike those meals.

There, they had always talked as they ate: about work, about hobbies, about whatever topic had interested them, personal or professional. But here... Here, they had eaten in silence; each still a little unsettled by the distance that had grown between them - and more disturbed by the pieces of themselves they had revealed earlier that day - until, by silent but mutual consent the meal had been finished, the places cleared - and they had found themselves back on the old couch, each of them firmly installed in their own corners, an awkward silence filling the gap between them.

For a time, Beverly played with the lip of the wine goblet, drawing a bead of wine along the edge, then raised her eyes to stare into the flickering flames that rose from the burning wood.

"I love fires," she said quietly.

"I know," he agreed from the other side of the couch, a wine glass in his hand.

"I love watching the flames dancing on the wood, as though they were alive, reaching to the skies... It's so easy to lose yourself in them, to find yourself so enrapt by their magic that you forget who you are, where you are..."

Feeling his hand wrap around hers, she turned from the fire to see him looking at her.

"Bev..."

"I'm not asking you to talk about it - at least, not yet. But you should - sometime. Soon," she added.

He smiled then shook his head. "Maybe... someday. For tonight, I'm just grateful to know that I have someone I can talk to about it - when I'm ready." He leaned toward her, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently - then released it as he reached for the wine bottle, silently proffering it to her.

This bottle, like the one they had shared during the meal, hadn't been quite as dusty as the first - but like them both, it had contained a marvelously rich and complex wine. Whatever Robert and Maurice Picard's faults, Beverly thought as she watched Picard refill the glass, making bad wine hadn't been one of them.

He set the bottle down on the floor once again, then raised his glass to her, their eyes meeting - and a tacit agreement made: the silence was over - providing certain topics were avoided.

The touched the rims of the glasses together.

"What I would like to talk about," Picard began as he drew back his glass, "is what the devil you were doing spending your shore leave at Starfleet Command."

Startled, Beverly paled - then hurriedly straightened herself. "If you don't mind, Jean-Luc, I'd rather not talk about that topic," she said quietly. "Let it suffice to say I was not spying on you; the fact that I saw your name on the incoming personnel manifests was pure happenstance."

He stared at her, surprised by the hurt in her voice. "Bev, I'm not accusing you of spying on me - and if I gave you that impression, I'm sorry," he apologized... unnecessarily, he realized, watching her blush.

My God! he thought, astounded at her reaction. She's embarrassed! By what? Just what the hell had she been doing at Starfleet? he wondered.

"No, I'm sorry," she began contritely. "It's just that... I was"  
But he shook his head, stopping her in mid-sentence. "You don't have to explain, Beverly."

She looked at him, seemingly tempted, then smiled wanly and nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

"Any time," he agreed, smiling, his eyes meeting hers - then tightening his grasp on her hand, gently - very gently - pulled her toward him.

It was a peace offering, Beverly knew, an apology for the things he had said and done; an offering, she knew, that cost him greatly. Not that Picard loathed close contact - but distance, both emotional and physical, had become a necessary part of his life as a starship captain. When he touched someone, it was with a measured amount of contact - a clap on the shoulder or a pat on the hand - and usually for a very specific reason - usually to praise or reassure one of his crew. He didn't bear the touch of others readily - nor did he accept their contact easily.

Knowing that, knowing hard it was for so closed a man to offer this closeness, she slid across the couch, moving closer to him - but stopped before she made contact with him. This, then, would suffice, she thought; I accept your apology, she told him silently - but I know what doing this costs you - and I won't exact that price. This will be good enough for us both.

But good enough, she remembered a moment later, simply wasn't; to her complete surprise, she felt him move closer to her, then felt his arm wrap around her shoulders.

For a moment, she felt herself stiffen at the unexpected touch - then began to understand.

It wasn't an attempt at passion, she knew - but for Jean-Luc, for someone who had denied himself so much of human contact as well as human emotions, it was something more - an attempt at true intimacy - something they both desired for so long - and yet, something they had both denied themselves.

As they had denied it to one another.

No, Beverly corrected herself, as she had denied it to him.

And still he offered it - as friendship, companionship, romance - whatever she would accept - and tonight, he was offering it again - as a shoulder willing to share her burden, without fear of embarrassment for either of them.

She sighed softly, relaxing, easing herself into his embrace, letting her head rest against his shoulder as her arm rested against his, their fingers still intertwined.

For a moment, they shared the silence, studying the fire as it slowly consumed the oak logs.

"I was looking for Wesley," Beverly finally said, her voice quiet and low.

Picard glanced down at her, watching her eyes as they studied the fire, seeing the deeply held pain there - and wondering why he had never seen it before.

Or have I, he wondered, and simply glossed over it, expecting Beverly to hold back her problems as I've held mine?

I'm sorry, he said silently, tightening his fingers around hers. "And?" he asked allowed.

She shrugged, then shook her head. "Nothing. I had hoped that as we begin to reestablish peaceful contacts with the worlds around us, that someone, somewhere, would have had contact with the Traveler - but no one seems to have heard or seen him anywhere. I don't know if that means they were able to hide themselves away before the war, or if they were so far away that it didn't matter to them - or if..." She stopped, hesitating as her emotions threatened to overcome her for the second time that day.

Hearing the catch in her voice, Picard tightened his grip around her shoulders, then pulled back so he could meet her eyes directly. "Bev, the Traveler was not stupid; he knew what was happening in the galaxy around him - and he would have had the good sense to get himself and Wesley safely away before they were in danger. If they were even in this region of space or time," he added with a forced cheerfulness he didn't feel. "For all we know, Bev, they could have gone ahead to the future where the war was already over - or gone on to some plane of existence where war doesn't even exist. But wherever they are, I'm sure Wesley is safe," he assured her quietly.

"I wish I could be as sure," she whispered.

"You can't," he replied. "You're his mother - and there are some responsibilities - like worrying about him - that you will never be able to shed, even when he's my age." He gave a short laugh.

Surprised, Beverly looked at him, the smile on his face unexpected - and seemingly out of place.

He must have known it as well, for he shook his head, dismissing any notion she might have that he was belittling her worry. "I was just remembering..." he began, then smiled again. "The last year my mother was alive, she sent me a gift for my birthday. It was a sweater, Beverly," he said, shaking his head once again. "A sweater," he repeated with a smile. "She didn't want me to get cold. I had been a Starfleet captain for ten years when she died, responsible for the lives of hundreds aboard the Stargazer - but all she could see was her little boy - and worry that he was warm enough," he said with a smile and a final shake of his head - then met her eyes once again.

"No matter his age, Bev, Wesley is, and will always be, your little boy - and for as long as you're alive, you're going to worry about him - and nothing - not even the knowledge that he is a fine young man with a good head on his shoulders - is going to change that. But now the hardest task of being a parent is before you: hoping that your child takes everything you've given him - the education, the learning, the patience, the time and the love - and trusting that he will do the best he can for himself," he advised.

She looked at him for a moment. "You would have been a good father," she said quietly.

"I was - to Meribor and Batai," he agreed. "Or at least I tried. But..." He shook his head, then took another sip of the wine.

"But they weren't real," she continued for him.

"They were," he protested, then gave a quiet sigh. "At least to me. I know; that life I lived was no more real than a dream - and yet there are times when I wish I could return there," he admitted.

"Is that why you went back to Anij?" she asked gently. "To try to recreate that dream? To have the family with her that you had had on Ressika?"

He stared at her for a moment, wondering whether to protest this latest incursion into his troubles - then sighed, giving up. Beverly was nothing if not persistent, often times to a fault when she was pursuing some mystery aboard the ship - but that, he reminded himself, was what made her the officer she was.

And the friend she was, as well.

"No," he admitted. "Yes, I went back to the Briar Patch with every intention of asking Anij to marry me - and yes, I would have liked to have had a family with her - but the life I led in Ressika was not the life I wanted with her. On Ressika, everything that made up the life I had known was gone; there was no Starfleet, no interstellar travel - no life beyond the village and that dying world. It forced me to focus on what was there; to appreciate those people, that world."

Beverly pulled away from his shoulder, sitting up and turning to face him. "But here you do have those things. How, then, did you expect to raise a family? On a starship?" she asked.

Jean-Luc smiled, shaking his head. "No. Anij would never have tolerated leaving the homeworld - or her people," he said. "One of the first things she said to me, the day I first met her, was, 'Where can warp speed take us - but away from here?'

"No, if I wanted that life with her, it was not going to be as a shipboard family. Which left me two options: commuting back and forth between my position as a captain and the Ba'ku..."

"Or resigning," Beverly said.

He studied her for a moment, taken aback by her easy acceptance of his decision. He had thought the idea, the very notion that he could even contemplate leaving Starfleet, leaving his ship, his friends, his reason for being, should have shocked her profoundly... as it should have shocked him, he reminded himself.

And yet the decision had been inevitable... inescapable. Not easy; he had argued with himself for weeks, citing and weighing each case for staying or leaving, spending weeks of sleepless nights, suffering the pangs of guilt and grief at leaving his friends behind, leaving them to a future he no longer wanted, worrying over the thought that he was abandoning them... But they were adults, he reminded himself, adults and officers, and fully capable of handling anything on their own.

Hubris, he had chided himself; pure hubris. To presume that I was so important, so essential... to Starfleet, or to them.

Or to anyone, he added, refusing to acknowledge the sharp pang that suddenly tore through his heart.

A soft touch, a hand resting on his own, roused him from his mire of grief and guilt.

"I'm sorry," he began, but she silenced him with a shake of her head.

"For what? For being human? For daring to give in to your feelings?" she asked quietly. She smiled gently, shaking her head. "Don't apologize. I know you. You're tired, angry, frustrated... You've fought the good fight, fought it longer and harder than anyone I know, and it's been difficult for you. Rewarding, yes, I know," she added, knowing the protest he would make. "I know you loved the life you had - but sometimes it wasn't enough."

He met her eyes, stared into their azure depths, still amazed, even after all these years, at how she could see into his very soul.

Beverly raised a hand to gently caress the angle of his jaw, silently granting him approbation with her touch. "You are entitled to move on with your own life, Jean-Luc; more than that, you need to move on. We all have to, some day," she reminded him softly.

He squeezed her hand, thankful once more for her friendship - and her understanding.

"Yes," he confessed. "For a time after we left the homeworld, I refused to even consider the possibility. After all, there was a war on: how could I even consider leaving, turning my back on the Federation? And then..."

"And then we spent almost two years in dock," she said quietly.

He shook his head, rolled his eyes upward, then gave a chagrined and bitter chuckle. "What hubris, Bev; what pride I had. Thinking I had to stay in Starfleet, as though I was important in the grand scheme of things - as if we would lose the war if I were not involved.

"The Admiralty, in its infinite wisdom, cured me of that self-delusion," he added scornfully a moment later.

"And yet you didn't resign then," she replied.

Picard nodded, conceding the point. "I... couldn't. Not then. There was work to be done - even if Starfleet didn't want me doing it, I couldn't leave. Not then. But now..."

"Now the war's over," she agreed.

He nodded. "More than that. The war's over, the Klingon Empire is rebuilding itself, the Cardassians and Romulans are battling their own internal struggles rather than us, the Federation is slowly regrouping; for the first time in years, we were at peace. Any work I could do here was being done; there was nothing left for me. It was time to leave - and start a life of my own," he said.

He studied the glass in his hand, then raised it to his lips, draining the last drop from it before refilling it - then stared at it silently for a long time.

"I asked her to marry me, Bev," he said at last. "She said 'no'."

Beverly reached for his arm. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I told her I loved her, that I was ready to leave Starfleet, to make a life with her on her world - to have a family... But she said 'no'," he repeated.

Beverly lay a commiserating hand on his arm. "Did she say why?" she asked gently.

He looked at her, confused and miserable "She said... She said she couldn't marry me because she loved me," he replied.

For a moment, Beverly felt a puzzled as Picard looked. "I don't understand," she said at last.

"Nor I," he murmured. "Nor I," he added after a moment's pause, knowing that question was coming.

"And...?"

He laughed bitterly. "And then she left," he said. "She just walked off and left without saying another word. I stayed for a time, thinking she'd come back, that we'd have a chance to talk... but after a few weeks I realized she wouldn't return. Not while I was there - and the longer I stayed, the longer I would keep her from the people and the life she loved. I returned to the anthropology team that was studying them, then left when their supply ship came back," he said simply.

"And came here," she said.

He smiled. "It is my home," he reminded her.

But to his surprise, she shook her head. "No. Yes, it's your house - but your home is up there," she replied, glancing through the picture window at the starry sky outside. "It always has been - and it always will be.

"Maybe Anij knew that," she said gently. "Maybe that's why she wouldn't marry you. Maybe she knew that your first love - your true love - will always be a starship - and your home would always be in the stars. Maybe... she didn't want to be second in your heart," she added softly.

He stared at the woman beside him for a long time, then followed as she turned her gaze back to the flames, flickering and glowing in the hearth.

Neither spoke.

After a time, though, he began to feel her head weigh more heavily against his arm, her breathing softer, steadier. Freeing his arm from the weight of her head, he reached for her wine glass, easing it from her sleeping hand and set it on the table before them, then pulled the afghan from the back of the couch over her. Then slowly, careful not to awaken her, he wrapped his arm around her once more, drawing her to his shoulder once again, and turned to watch the fire as the flames began to slowly fade.

A long time later, as the embers faded to black, he turned and stared out the window at the stars. 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Will strode down the hall, barely noticing the deserted corridors that had been filled with crew only a few months before. Twenty years of having walked through spaceships teeming with people of all races and species, he thought to himself; twenty years of having learned to accept the crowds as the norm - only to find himself confronted with this near emptiness as his new standard. At first, it had been awkward, traveling through the ship in relative silence, straining to hear the faintest sound that would assure him that someone - anyone! - else was present.

But now, only two months later, he was beginning to grow used to a quiet passage as he moved from room to room, learning to appreciate the serenity that his silent journeys could bring.

Amazing how fast the mind adapts, he thought to himself - I just hope I can adapt back to the crowds as readily, he added as he reached the conference room door.

The doors slid open, ushering him into a room that felt barren, disused. If it hadn't been on a starship, if it hadn't been on his starship, he amended, he would have almost expected to find a layer of dust coating every surface, bearing witness to the lack of use this room had had in the last few months.

But starships don't get dusty, he reminded himself; the air doesn't grow stale, the cobwebs never gather in the corners. Nonetheless, the room felt empty, deserted - barren.

We need to get back in space, he thought - and soon.

Taking his usual seat at the side of the table, he pivoted the computer screen to face him, then tapped in his personal code, opening the channel to Starfleet.

"Admiral Czymszczak," he said formally to the gruff-faced, grey-haired human that faced him on the screen.

"Commander Riker," the man replied.

"What can I do for you, Admiral?"

Czymszczak glanced at a padd in his hand then back at Riker. "I've been reading your reports on the engine installation..."

"Yes, sir. Everything is on time according to the itinerary," Will replied proudly. "We should be ready to start in-system testing in three weeks..."

"You have thirty-nine hours," Czymszczak interrupted.

Will stared at the screen, stunned, uncertain whether he had heard the man correctly or not. "Sir?"

"You have thirty-nine hours to complete the installation and perform field tests," he repeated. "At oh nine hundred hours the day after tomorrow, the Enterprise E must leave orbit if it is to reach its destination on time."

"Leave orbit?" Will echoed. "Sir, I'm not certain that's possible. The engine installation aside, the new computers system hasn't even been brought aboard yet..."

"You will find that the system is being transported aboard even as we speak," Czymszczak replied - and as if to confirm that announcement, Riker's commbadge chirped.

With a glance toward Czymszczak of apology, Riker touched the badge once again.

"Commander," Data said, "we're getting a communication from the Daystrom Institute, requesting permission to begin transport of the new computer system..."

"Permission granted," Riker replied, adding, "Call a senior staff meeting, Data; this room, ten minutes."

"Yes, sir - but I must advise you that only four members of the senior staff are on board," the android said.

"I understand," Riker said tersely, then thought for a moment. "Inform Cmdr. James and Lt. Andile as well; we're going to need their input." He turned back to the terminal screen. "That's another concern, Admiral. We've been in dock for two months; three-quarters of my crew are on shore leave. There's no way to reach them all in time..."

"I'll take the responsibility for contacting your crew, Commander - and for replacing those who can not return in time," he added. "You'll have a full contingent before you leave," he assured the man.

"Sir, it's not just a matter of having adequate numbers!" Riker objected. "This crew has trained and worked together for years! To suddenly bring in a thousand new people..."

"Commander," Czymszczak interrupted him, "a Starfleet officer does not give his superiors a list of his problems; he presents them with a list of his solutions. I'm telling you what the situation is; now you will find a way to make it work," he said grimly.

"Yes, sir," Will said, choking down his rage. "Sir," he added curtly, "may I inquire what the nature of this mission is?"

Czymszczak grinned - but there was no mirth in his eyes, only a cold, mean-spiritedness that Will was all too familiar with. "No, you may not, Commander. This mission has been given an Alpha Omega security clearance - and you, Commander, are not rated that highly," he added, almost smugly, as though he were delighting in reminding the man of his lower security status.

"Then how...?" Will began, but Czymszczak cut him off.

"I'll brief your captain on the nature of the mission," he explained.

For a moment, Will felt an unnatural surge of exultation as the Admiral's mistake registered.

"Sir, Captain Picard is on leave," he informed the admiral, refusing, with only a little difficulty, the temptation to gloat. "He's not scheduled back from the Briar Patch for another eight months," he added. "And even if you could get a subspace message through to him, travel into and out of that area is limited to sub-light; it would take two weeks just to get him back to Earth," Riker explained.

"And therefore I should promote you to captain, change your security clearance - and detail this mission to you?" Czymszczak sneered derisively. "I think not, Commander. There was a time when you were considered the up and coming officer in Starfleet - but you passed up too many opportunities, let too many chances go by - and it's too late now to try making up for lost time. You were a first rate officer, Riker - once - but you're not captain material. Not anymore.

"If you were," he continued coldly, "you would have known that Captain Picard has been back on Earth for three weeks. It seems he was no more fortunate with his inter-species relationships than he's been with his human ones," he added with a cruel smile.

Will stared at the man, stunned into silence by the vitriol in the man's voice - and by the sudden realization that his captain - his friend - had been under a far more watchful eye than any of them had known about, or even suspected.

"But he is back," Czymszczak continued, ignoring Will's silence, "and I will take the responsibility for letting him know his leave has been rescinded. I wouldn't want to burden you with that problem as well, Commander. Thirty-nine hours," he repeated, then stabbed at the terminal on his desk, his image fading from the screen before Will, leaving him to sit, stunned, in the slowly fading light of the conference room.

A first rate officer - once.

Riker stared ahead for a moment, then rose slowly, making his way from the table to the ceiling high windows.

The captain stood here sometimes, he thought to himself as he stared out the windows; stood here when he needed to think, letting his mind drift over the problems that confronted him as he stared at the stars and the planets before him.

But there weren't even any stars for him to study, Will thought, only the metal pincers of the docking frame that held the ship in place as the crews worked on her, obscuring the view that had brought solace to the ship's captain so many times.

No stars, Will thought to himself, wondering if the absence didn't mean the heavens were in agreement with Czymszczak: he wasn't captain material; he wasn't entitled to their glorious presence.

He studied the metal fingers that held his ship... the ship, he amended a second later - then slammed his fist into the wall support.

No! He will not do this to me! I may not be 'captain material' - but I'll be damned if I'll let him - or anyone else - keep me from being the best first officer I can be!

Furious with Czymszczak - and with himself for allowing the man's words poison him - he started to take his position at the side of the table once more - then stopped short.

With a calculated motion, he changed direction, then slowly lowered himself into the chair at the head of the table. 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"So what you're saying, Doctor," Picard said as he set a stack of folded clothes on the table in front of her, "is that while it's perfectly acceptable for you to spend your leave helping me, it is not acceptable for me to do the same for you? Correct?"

"That's not what I'm saying, Jean-Luc!" Beverly insisted frustratedly, pulling the robe around her more tightly, wrapping her arms tightly across her body. "What I'm saying is that I barged in on your leave! I'm sure you had other things planned - and I don't want to interfere with those plans."

"Beverly, what I had planned was to spend the next eight months with Anij, preparing to leave Starfleet, learning to adjust to life on her world," he reminded her - then stopped abruptly, as if his words had suddenly made the fact real to him.

For a moment, he said nothing, the ache searing through his soul once again, his eyes closing against the pain - then gave a slow shake of his head as he raised his eyes to hers once more.

"But that's not what happened," he continued a moment later, his words slower, more thoughtful now, a wan smiled forced on his face, "and now I'm back here, with nothing to do - other than pretend at being a vintner - which was never my idea of how to spend a leave. So you have two options; you can spurn my offer and leave me here to do nothing except feel sorry for myself - or you can let me repay your generosity and help you try to find Wesley," he said firmly.

Beverly looked at him, hurt in her eyes. "You don't have to 'repay' anything, Jean-Luc; that's not why I came here..."

"That's not what I meant," he said softly, interrupting her. "After all these years, Beverly, you must know that. Wesley is a fine young man and I, too, would like to know he's safe. More importantly, I'd like to know that my best friend isn't worrying herself sick about her son," he said, raising a hand to her face, holding it there so she couldn't turn away from him. "Please, Beverly," he pleaded quietly, "let me be the same friend to you that you've been to me. Let me help you."

Beverly looked at him uncertainly. "Wes is no longer a member of Starfleet, Jean-Luc; there's only a limited amount of resources we can use to find him," she reminded him.

"Officially, yes. Unofficially..." His voice trailed off as he smiled knowingly at her. "Unofficially, I can put the word out with some of the other captains; ask around, see if anyone's had contact..."

"I've been doing that," she reminded him.

"You've been doing that with your acquaintances, Bev," he reminded her, "but most of them are involved in the medical field. They may not be aware of the type of subspace anomalies that have accompanied our encounters when we've seen the Traveler - but a command officer would - or at least they'd have access to ship's science logs. I can ask them to review those logs..."

"Jean-Luc..." she began to protest.

"I said ask, Beverly," he repeated. "Anyone who doesn't feel comfortable in helping me doesn't have to - but I'll guarantee that more than a few of my acquaintances are going to be willing to have their debts canceled in exchange for a simple science log review."

She pursed her lips, still uncertain.

"Please," he added quietly, almost pleadingly - then gave a little snort of self-derision. "I need to do this, Bev - I need to do something besides sitting around here, feeling sorry for myself!" he admitted.

"And since you've helped put that new burden on my shoulders," he added with a grin, "it seems fit that you should be the one to help distract me from it - for the time being."

Beverly grinned back. "Ah, so now it's all my fault, Captain," she replied.

"Indeed, Doctor," he agreed, his eyes twinkling brightly. "So will you let me help you or not?"

"Well, if you're going to put it that way..."

"I am."

"Then your offer is accepted," she answered. "Thank you, Jean-Luc," she added softly.

He bowed his head in acceptance. "You're welcome," he said. "Now, I'll make some coffee while you get dressed," he added, gesturing at the clothes he had placed on the table, "then we'll go into town and get you some proper clothes," he said.

"You don't have to do this, Jean-Luc," she protested, looking at the bundle uncomfortably. Wearing his robe was awkward enough - but his clothes?

"You have another idea?" he asked.

"My dress..."

"Is ruined," he reminded her.

She looked at him, then sighed, nodding her head. Despite a long soak in the sink and her best efforts to remove the road dirt, the dress had refused to come clean, leaving it permanently stained.

A standard clothes refresher would have solved the problem instantly, she thought to herself - but had Robert Picard permitted refresher in his house, he would most likely have permitted a replicator as well. Either would have solved her problem, she thought as she stared at the clothes he had given her - but either would have meant that they had no need for a trip back into LaBarre - a trip, she suddenly realized, to which she was looking forward.

It would be nice to see where Jean-Luc grew up, to get to walk in the town, meet the people... and have them meet her, she added a little more soberly, realizing what her appearance there, with Jean-Luc, might suggest to them.

"And you're not concerned that your reputation's going to suffer when I show up in LaBarre, wearing these?" she teased, gesturing at the clothes he had given her.

He looked at her, an equally mischievous glint in his eyes. "I see. I show up in town, a beautiful woman on my arm, dressed in my clothes, having to shop because she has nothing else to wear, clearly disheveled from what has been an unmistakably long night - and you think my reputation is going to suffer?" he asked. "Think again, my dear doctor," he said.

She glared at him, then reached for the clothes as she stood up. "Next time, I'll have learned enough French to be able to defend myself," she insisted, then headed for the bathroom.

It won't help, he informed her silently; the townspeople had made up their minds about her the moment she had asked where he lived.

And, he reminded himself as he turned to the kitchen, they wouldn't be too far from wrong. Beverly had, after all, spent the night with him, shared a bed with him - or, more accurately a couch, he amended, and had awakened to find herself lying in his arms; all that was missing from their night of passion was... the passion.

A minor omission, he added, and one that would be soundly disbelieved if he tried to deny it.  
Which he wouldn't; let them think what they will, he reminded himself - because they're going to no matter what I do.

Smiling to himself at the inescapability of some aspects of living in a small town, he set the water to boiling, measuring the coffee into the pot, setting the two mugs at the long unused table. It would be good to have someone at the table with him once again; it had been a long time since anyone had shared this room with him - a long time since he had been willing to share any part this life he had once had. Even Anij, he thought; she would never have left her world to come here. Marrying her would have meant giving this up, giving up so much of his past...

Perhaps it was for the best, he thought.

"It's not over," a soft voice came from the hallway a few minutes later.

Startled, he turned to look at Beverly who was leaning against the door jamb, now dressed in his clothes, a shirt and a pair of shorts that, despite being several sizes too large, still managed to show off her exquisite figure.

She looks, he thought to himself, spectacular - except for the look of worry on her face - then realized she had spoken.

"Pardon?" he said.

"It's not over," she repeated. "It's going to take time for you to learn to deal with the pain of losing Anij, Jean-Luc."

He smiled assuringly. "I'm fine," he promised.

"No, you're not," she insisted gently as she straightened, slowly entering the kitchen. "Jean-Luc, I know you; you're going to try to put it all behind you, to go on with your life - and to pretend this never happened.

"But it did," she said as she walked up to him. "It did - and you need to come to terms with it - and with yourself." She drew a deep breath. "Maybe... maybe you should have stayed on the Ba'ku homeworld a while longer," she mused.

"Anij wasn't going to change her mind," he said tersely.

Beverly shook her head. "I didn't mean for that. I meant... The Ba'ku have made a practice of studying their own lives rather than studying the world around them. Maybe you should have taken advantage of that - and studied yourself," she said.

He growled derisively. "I think I know myself well enough, Doctor."

"Oh? Is that why you came back here, where you were alone, where no one would be with you, instead of returning to the ship, where the people who love you, who could help you were," she replied.

He stared at her, then turned back to the coffee, saying nothing as he filled the two cups, then gestured for her to take a place at the table.

The sat wordlessly, sipping at the hot brew gingerly, an awkward truce filling the stressed silence, neither willing to risk a word or a glance at the other.

"Bev..."

"Jean-Luc..."

They both spoke at once, then awkwardly, uncomfortably smiled at each other.

"You first," he said.

"No," she said.

Picard hesitated, then said, "I appreciate what you're doing, Beverly; I really do. I just... need time."

"I know - and I'm sorry if I'm pushing you," she said, laying her hand over his. "It's just that I do know you - and I know you would rather just go on with your life and pretend this never happened, or justify everything that happened as being for the best. It would be easier, simpler - but a part of you, Jean-Luc, a part of a man I care for very much would be lost. And I don't want to see that happen."

He studied her then raised an eyebrow. "So I should do this for you?" he asked, gently facetious.

She smiled. "You should do this for you - but when you're ready. Just know that I'll always be there for you, Jean-Luc," she said softly.

He smiled back, tightened his grip on her hand, and, drawing her close, kissed her forehead.

She would be there, he knew, for as long as he needed her, forever, if that was what it took - a friend, always.

But not so long ago, he had hoped for something... someone... more in his life. 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Go on; pull the other leg, Commander," Sandra James laughed fifteen minutes later, her long blond curls bobbing as she chuckled. "It's got bells on it."

Data stared curiously at the woman on his right, then glanced beneath the table; there were no bells on her leg - on either of them, he added.

"Commander..." he began, but a soft touch from his left side stopped him.

"It's a Earther phrase, Commander," Andile explained quietly. "It means 'you can't fool me' or 'I'm not falling for this joke'."

"Ah," Data said in understanding - though judging from the puzzled look on his face, Andile wasn't sure he did - though whether he didn't understand the phrase or the nature of humor itself, she wasn't certain. Then again, she wasn't sure she understood the nature of humor either; the gods knew this wasn't a particularly funny joke, she added with a voiceless growl.

"No joke, Cmdr. James," Riker said sharply, interrupting Andile's thoughts. "We're under orders from Admiral Czymszczak himself to complete computer and engine installation, perform field trials and be ready to ship out in thirty-nine hours. Those are our orders - so I don't want to hear that it can't be done. What I want to know is what do we need to do it," he snapped. "Cmdr. James?"

Sandra James stared at him, taken aback by the unfamiliar sharpness in man's tone - then turned away, thinking. "The physical installation can be done in fifteen hours," she murmured, more to herself than to the others at the table. "That's easy - relatively easy. But the nature of my computer design requires an intense relationship between your previously installed iso-linear chips and the latest in bio-neural processors. That relationship isn't too far from the one a human brain makes; unfortunately, like a human brain, it's going to take time to make all the neural synapses communicate with one another. It isn't possible in thirty-nine hours," she announced anxiously. "You're just going to have to let the Admiral know that I can't do it. We can't do it," she added, a tremor in her voice. "He'll have to send someone else."

Will's eyes widened at the woman's response, astounded at her announcement; hadn't she been listening to him? he wondered. Before he could issue a rebuke, however, Andile spoke up.

"Cmdr. James, everything is possible," she said quietly, seeing the near-panic in the woman's eyes - and, more importantly, the fury in Riker's. "Even the impossible is possible - if you learn to think outside the rules." The gentle advice given, Andile turned to the issue at hand. "I agree; full isolinear/bio-neural compatibility can't happen in thirty-nine hours - but according to the data you submitted to Starfleet when you proposed the new design, partial compatibility can be established in that time. Cmdr. Data, you've reviewed those data charts," she continued, turning to the android beside her. "Can you calculate what percentage of compatibility we'll need for each of the ship's functions?"

He thought for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Indeed."

"Then all we need to do is prioritize, based on the systems necessary for departure, then add functions as more compatibility is established. At least," she added, turning back to the computer technician once again, "your proposal said the system could be initialized incrementally."

"Well, yes, of course it can - at least in theory," the woman responded. "But..."

"Sometimes, Commander," Will interrupted, his voice quieter as he felt his own anger fading, mollified by Andile's calmness, his focus drawn back to the new mission, "a theory is all we have to go on. Get me a timetable on what degree of functionality we can expect over the next seventy-two hours, Commander; Data, determine the priorities and the amount of computer space necessary and work up a schedule."

Data nodded blithely, but Sandra continued to stare at them, stunned and bewildered. "But... But that's not how I designed the computer!" she insisted. "In all our mock-ups, we waited for full integration before we executed the memory transfer..."

"That's not an option here," Will said, his tone quiet but firm as he saw her fear beginning to swell into shock. He understood that shock; he'd seen it on more than one face as the idealistic dreams and plans of the computer mock-ups and drawing board plans were shifted - or outright discarded - in the harsh reality of life on a starship. "We just don't have that time. What we do have is access to all the help we need; just tell me how many you need and what level of qualifications - and I'll get them here."

Sandra James looked at him, a bit blankly, then nodded, still dazed by the sudden acceleration to her carefully laid out plans. "Yes, sir," she said, then fell silent, thinking.

The others at the table watched her silently for a minute, waiting, until Will finally pressed, "Commander?"

Sandra looked up at him, still dazed. "Sir?"

"How many - and what qualifications?"

Her mouth dropped, apparently overwhelmed that he was asking for an answer so quickly. "I... I don't know, sir! I need time to reexamine the installation protocols..." she began.

Seeing the woman's growing panic, Andile quickly chimed in. "Nine, sir," she said smoothly.

"Pardon?" Will said.

"I said, we'll need nine people, sir, Daystrom Chief Technicians, Starfleet literate and familiar with the Commander's system - and familiar with my engines as well. Nine Chief Techs - and as many other qualified warm bodies as you can find," she added.

Will glanced at the younger woman. "Does that sound right to you, Commander?" he asked her.

Sandra stared at him for a long moment, then finally allowed herself a short nod.

Will studied her for a moment, worried; she wasn't sure nine was enough, too few or too many, he realized. She was guessing, he knew, as if she wasn't sure how many people she would need to accomplish this installation of the very system she had designed.

Youth, he sighed to himself. She was brilliant - she had to be brilliant for Starfleet to give her the responsibility of overseeing a project of this importance - but she didn't have near the experience she needed - and certainly not enough to be able to carry it off as a lieutenant commander.

But she would learn under fire, he told himself quickly. She would have to, he added grimly - or she might well take us all down with her. He nodded at her uncertain acceptance of Andile's figures, then made a note on his padd.

Oblivious to his commander's concerns, Data turned to the engine designer beside him. "I was not aware that you were so familiar with Cmdr. James' computer design," he said, clearly surprised at the revelation.

"What? Oh, you mean knowing the number of techs she'll need? It's got nothing to do with being familiar with the computer, Commander," the tiny woman replied with a grin. "What I am familiar with is the Daystrom Institute, and I know they have only nine Chief Techs - so that's the most we can get. So we take them all. And if that's not enough, then we're SOL - and so is the Admiral, but no one can say we didn't try our damnedest," she said firmly.

Data stared at her, puzzled, then raised a brow in comprehension of her reasoning, if not her logic - or her language. "SOL?" he finally asked.

Andile reddened slightly. "Umm... I'll explain later," she murmured, then turned back to Riker, who was now addressing his Chief Engineer.

"Regarding the engine installation..."

"Commander," Geordi cut in, "our situation isn't the same as Cmdr. James. Even if you were to double the number of engineers we had - triple them, even - there's no way we can be ready for field tests in fifteen hours! What you're asking me to do..." he began.

Will cut him short. "I'm not asking anything, Commander," he snapped. "I'm telling you the situation - and we need to find a way to make that possible. We have orders to leave Earth orbit in thirty-nine hours; we need twenty-four hours to run the field tests. That leaves us fifteen hours to complete the engine installation," he said shortly. "Now how do we do it?"

Geordi looked at his padd, then back at the man, confused by the raging fury in his friend. "We don't," he said quietly. "We can't. It's not a matter of manpower, sir, it's a matter of knowledge - knowledge I don't have! To get this all done in the time we've got... I'd have to cut corners, ignore safety checks, calibration standards, validation protocols - and to be honest, I'm not sure what can be safely deleted and what can't. And even if I could, it would leave us sitting on a set of engines that I've never worked with. If anything goes wrong..." He shook his head. "No, Commander, it can't be done. At least it can't be done safely - and I won't be responsible for taking that risk with the lives of fourteen hundred people..."

"I will."

The five people seated at the table turned to stare at the woman who had interrupted Geordi.

"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?" Riker said to Andile.

"I said, 'I will.' Take the responsibility," she clarified, then turned to Riker. "I can finish the engine installation and have them running in fifteen hours - and I can validate them during the field trials." She glanced at the engineer across the table from her and smiled apologetically at the man. "I know which rules can be broken, Geordi," she said softly. "I know which rules can be bent - and I know which rules can be completely ignored. I know the book on these babies - because I wrote it, and I know precisely how much margin we have for error in every step of the installation. It can be done," she said certainly, turning back to Riker. "I can have you ready for your mission in thirty-nine hours."

"Biji," Geordi interrupted, "I appreciate that you can do what you're saying - but... it's not enough," he informed her bluntly. "Running these engines - running any set of engines - is more than a matter of installation, validation and field testing. It takes time, lots of time, for anyone to become well versed in the intricacies of any propulsion unit - and longer yet to get used to the subtleties of each engine. And I just don't know these engines well enough to accept that responsibility for the consequences."

"I know, Geordi," she agreed, "but I can troubleshoot them for you..."

"From Utopia Planitia?" he scoffed - gently. "Beej, even using subspace, there's always a matter of time lag in any communications we'd have - and even if we had instantaneous contact, you know as well as I do that there's no way you can really troubleshoot equipment long distance," he reminded her. "You need to be there, to see the system, to feel what's happening... and you can't do that from Earth."

"I know," she said quietly.

He nodded, glad she understood his reasons - and hoping she'd take his next suggestion as readily. "Therefore, Commander, the only way I think we can accomplish our goal is to re-install our old engines..."

"No," Andile interrupted once again.

"Pardon?" Riker said.

"I said, 'No'," she repeated once again. "Yes, you can rip out my engines - and you're going to have to do just that to make your time constraints: butcher them and dump the parts in space and re-install your old engines - though I can just imagine what Starfleet's going to say about that," she informed them all, "or you can do it the easy way."

"Which is?" Riker asked.

"You said it earlier, sir," she replied soberly. "I'll stay on."

Will stared at her, stunned at the idea - then slowly began to nod. It wasn't the first time they'd done something like this - brought aboard a Starfleet expert to run a piece of equipment - though in the past the results had been catastrophic. But Biji wasn't some self-involved egotist bent on proving some dubious theory, he reminded himself - and having her aboard, even temporarily, would not only allow them to break orbit on time, but it would also give Geordi the time he needed with the woman to learn the engines just as he would have had if the installation had taken place on their original schedule.

Of course, the commander at Utopia Planitia would raise holy hell when he heard about it, he thought to himself - but Admiral Czymszczak had told him he'd get the people Riker needed - and he needed Andile.

One thousand crew members, nine chief computer techs and Starfleet's finest engine designer: there's your solution, Admiral! he thought in triumphant anger. Now you find a way to implement it!

Deanna turned to stare at Will, unused to such vehemence in the man's emotions. Whatever this mission was, she thought, it was tearing him apart.

"Done, Lieutenant," Riker said, ignoring the worried gaze of the Counselor. "I'll get Admiral Czymszczak to approve your temporary transfer," he added.

Andile nodded - but Will could see a cast of disappointment in her expression.

It's only temporary, he reassured her silently, understanding her unhappiness, watching as she wrapped the fingers of one hand around the other wrist, nervously rubbing the joint; we'll get you back to your laboratory as soon as we can.

But in the meantime...

"Counselor," Will continued, turning to Deanna, "Admiral Czymszczak is aware of our staff situation and he will be attempting to recall as many of our crew as possible. But for those who can not get back in time, he will find replacement officers to serve on this mission."

"Commander," she quickly interjected, "while we can replace one crewman with another with a minimum of disruption, replacing the hundreds of people who won't be able to make it back in time is going to place a tremendous strain on the crew - not only the ones who are remaining aboard, but the new ones as well. Usually after a new crewman transfers aboard, they're given at least a few days to orient themselves, to learn the systems and protocols... and even then, it takes time to get the mesh of personalities right in each crew on each shift. It's a process that can take months..."

"We don't have months. We have thirty-nine hours," he snapped at her, then turned to the gathering. "This is not a performance evaluation; this is an emergency mission, and argue with it as we might, the decision had been made; this ship will be leaving here in thirty-nine hours, with functioning engines and computers and fully staffed. If that means a period of social and emotional hardship, so be it. We've all been through similar - if not worse situations; we've all survived. We will survive this - as will those who are transferring aboard.

"Counselor, you'll be in charge of assigning temporary quarters for the new crewmen and giving them a quick rundown on the ship. And you can start with the Lieutenant, here," he added, nodding at Andile.

Who shook her head in return. "Not necessary, Commander; I know this ship," she replied.

Of course you do, Will realized at once, instantly apologetic; you must have studied it from every aspect, inside and out, in order to plan the installation of these engines. "My apologies, Lieutenant - but Deanna should run over ship's protocol with you," he added. "Life at the shipyard isn't quite the same as life on a starship," he said with a smile, "and there will be certain expectations of any lieutenant - even one whose rank is honorary..."

"Begging your pardon, Commander," Data interrupted, "but the Lieutenant's rank is not gratuitous; she attended the Academy and served as a line officer prior to her transfer to Utopia Planitia. She is an active lieutenant is good standing according to Starfleet personnel files."

Will raised an eye again, surprised again by the woman. "My apologies again, Lieutenant," he said. "On what ships did you serve?"

"Most recently the Lexington," she said. "But I've spent time on starships throughout my tenure in Starfleet. It helps me understand what the crews want and need from their equipment," she added obliquely - so obliquely that Deanna found herself frowning at the woman - though why, she admitted to herself, she wasn't certain.

Seeing the frown, Andile smiled reassuringly at the Betazoid, then at Riker. "I assure you, Commander, I really do know how to behave myself on a ship," she assured him. "And in any case, I'm not going to have the opportunity to overstep the bounds of starship protocol; I have every intention of confining myself to the engine room throughout my stay - with your permission, of course," she added, looking back at Will.

"You have my permission, Lieutenant," he agreed, "and I believe the captain will concur when he gets back."

"The captain...?" Deanna said, astonished, her concern about Andile instantly disappearing. "You mean you're not going to lead this mission, Commander?" she asked.

"No," he said bluntly, ill-concealing his hurt. "Captain Picard been recalled from his leave."

Perplexed, Geordi started to ask the most obvious question - then stopped. Either Will couldn't talk about it - or he wouldn't. Whichever the case, pressing him here and now, especially in front of a couple of relative strangers, was not going to get the man to reveal the whole story, he knew. There would be time for that later - possibly much later, Geordi added, seeing the anger in the man's eyes; this was a blow that would not die easily, he knew.

"Sir," Data spoke up, "even if the recall was issued when you received the orders for the ship, it will not be possible for the captain to return in time to join this mission prior to our intended departure. The nature of the radiation in the Briar Patch makes warp speed impossible; minimal travel time from there to here is..."

"He's already back on Earth," Will said, feeling a slight flush of vindication at Data's pronouncement; if Data, the most intelligent, most cognizant creature on the ship wasn't aware of the captain's return, then his own ignorance at the fact seemed a little less devastating. "He's been back for several weeks," he added, then glanced from Data to Deanna to Geordi.

That means something, Andile thought as she watched the four, the disappointment on their faces obvious - a disappointment than ran far deeper than the one Cmdr. Riker was feeling over losing the chance to head the ship during this mission, she added. These people had been hoping for... something... for their captain, she realized, something they thought he needed or wanted - and now that's fallen through.

How sad, she thought to herself - and how lovely, she added, knowing their pain was borne of a deep devotion to the missing man.

Smiling to herself, she felt a soft upswell of confirmation.

As you knew it would be, she reminded herself.

As I hoped it would be, she corrected.

"Any other questions?" Riker said, interrupting her thoughts.

For a long moment there was silence around the table, then Will set his palms down on the ebony surface. "Then you're dismissed," he announced as he raised himself up. "We'll have a staff meeting in eight hours; I'd like a progress report from each department then. We have thirty-nine hours to get ready for... for whatever lays out there," he concluded solemnly.

But as she began to rise from the table, Andile felt a hand grab her arm. Turning to stare at the android beside her, she saw him motion for her to stay for a moment - a motion that caught Deanna Troi's eye - and her empathy.

She lingered for a moment, watching as Data approached Will, her Betazoid curiosity piqued by the unexpected change in the usually imperturbable android.

"Commander," Data said, "I must point out that the Lieutenant has been on duty for thirty-six consecutive hours. She is overdue for a rest period..."

A flurry of rage suddenly filled Deanna's senses - and just as suddenly disappeared, stunning the empath with its intensity - and its brevity.

"Commander!" Andile exclaimed, mortified, hurriedly rising from the table to join the two men. "I assure you that I am perfectly fine - and capable and competent to perform my duties..."

Data interrupted. "Research into human behavior and physiologic requirements show that the efficiency of the average human's performance decreases after eighteen hours of continuous effort..." he pointed out calmly.

"Sir," she retorted, "I am many things - but 'average' isn't one of them!"

Will raised a hand, silencing the two - but unable to stop the sharp glare that Andile radiated at the android.

For a moment, Will studied Data - then turned to the tiny woman, studying her in turn. I've known Data for years, he thought to himself; I understand him - and I understand what motivates him, in this case, the best interests of the ship as well as a concern for the health of its crewmembers. But you, Lieutenant? he mused. I have no idea what drives you - but something certainly does. The question is - what?

"Is this true?" he finally asked her.

Andile glared at the android once more, then turned to Riker, her expression instantly under control. "That I've been 'on' for the last day and a half, yes - but that my efficiency has dropped, no. You can check the computer logs if you don't believe me, sir; I have it programmed to maintain a reading on the efficiency levels of all Engineering staff - myself included."

Seeing the doubt in his eyes, she pressed on. "Sir, at Utopia, we'd have time constraints imposed on us all the time. That meant that we frequently pulled double and triple shifts - and since my job was to oversee the work of those beneath me, I had to be there for all their shifts. That meant eighty and hundred hour rotations for me - but if you check the computer records, you will not find one instance of my efficiency dropping below acceptable levels during that time," she insisted. "Thirty-six hours is nothing - and another thirty-nine hours is still less than those eighty hour shifts I pulled routinely," she added. "This will be a POC."

"POC?" Riker replied.

"Piece of cake," she responded with a smile.

Riker studied her dubiously. She was looking haggard, drawn, exhausted, he thought - but then she usually looked that way, he reminded himself.

And it wasn't as though they really had any options here; Andile might be staying aboard for a time after they completed the field trials - but they still had to get through those trials in the next thirty-nine... thirty-eight, he corrected himself as he glanced at the chronometer... hours - and making that completion time was something that relied upon this woman and her remarkable mind.

"I'm relieving you duty, Lieutenant - effective in thirty-nine hours," he added as he saw her open her mouth to protest. "Have your final report on my... on the captain's desk..." he corrected, "by then," he added, then turned to his temporary first officer.

"I appreciate your concern, Data, but we do need the Lieutenant and her expertise to complete the installation. But you are correct; since she is to be a member of the crew, her welfare is now our concern," he added, then looked back at Andile. "I'll have someone set up a cot in Engineering; if there's a quiet period, you will rest..." he insisted - but Andile shook her head.

"That's not necessary..." she began, only to be interrupted.

"Excuse me?" he said frigidly. "I thought you said you were familiar with protocol on a starship. That means following orders, Lieutenant," he informed her.

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "I only meant that a cot wasn't necessary. If I need to grab a nap, I'm perfectly comfortable sleeping on the floor. I've done it before - and I'm sure I'll do it again," she added with a smile.

"That may be - but on this ship..." Will began to argue - but Andile instantly cut him off.

"Even more importantly 'on this ship' - or at least, on this mission," she said. "Sir, grabbing a nap on the floor - versus sleeping on a bed, even a cot - makes a strong psychological statement to the crew. Being available to the team makes it easier to them to ask questions - but a bed, a cot, anything that smacks of a formal rest period may cause them to hesitate rather than wake me. And while I want your people to think for themselves, I don't want them to guess - and guess wrong. Sleeping on site - and on the floor - is the best thing for all of us - at least for the next thirty-eight hours," she added with a smile.

He studied her for a moment - then sighed silently. Her arguments were convincing, he admitted. But sleeping on the floor, sleeping on the cold hard metal deck plates of Engineering, just because her team might need her? he thought disbelievingly. How necessary could that possibly be?

Not necessary at all, Will knew - but it would be efficient. And Andile was nothing if not efficient.

After all, the woman wore a tool belt so she wouldn't have to waste time moving to and from her supplies when she was working in the engine's accessways; she always wore a personal transporter band around her arm so she wouldn't have to waste time going to and from the transporter room when she needed to get back to the dock. Then why not camp out on the floor in Engineering? he asked himself.

Because it was absurd, he replied. Because no reasonable person would have denied themselves a decent bed when he or she had the option. Because there was no emergency so great that it couldn't wait the few minutes it would have taken her to walk from her quarters to Engineering.

There was such a thing as dedication, he sighed - and then there was obsession.

But engineers tended toward obsession, he reminded himself - and Andile's obsession was perfection - at least in her engines, he added, studying her gaunt appearance once again.

Another thing for Deanna to discuss with her, he thought - then turned his attention back to Andile. "Agreed. But once the trials are done, eight hours rest - in your own quarters - and no excuses," he said firmly.

Andile nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied, then turned to Data. "Then if I may be excused, Commander?" she asked evenly, no hint of triumph in her tone or her manner.

Data frowned, clearly unhappy with the compromise - but far too much the officer to argue the order in front of Andile - especially after Riker had reminded her about the need to follow such orders. Reluctantly, he nodded. "I shall join you in Engineering after I complete the system prioritization," he said, then glanced at Riker. "With your permission?" he added.

Will nodded, then watched as the two left the room, leaving him alone with Deanna, who was still staring at the closing door.

"Problem, Counselor?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, then shook her head. "No," she amended. "I mean... I don't know."

"Are you sensing something about our new lieutenant?" he asked concernedly.

"No - and that's what's got me worried - in part," she admitted. "When you made the announcement about having to move out, the tension level in the room jumped - Commander James in particular. Will, she was... terrified, on the verge of panicking."

He sighed. "I thought the same thing - but you have to bear in mind that, rank aside, she really has little experience on a starship. She only graduated from the Academy two years ago; if she hadn't come up with this leap forward in computer technology, she'd still be only an ensign."

"And yet they promoted her to lieutenant commander," Deanna murmured.

"I suspect Starfleet Command felt they had to," he explained. "There are officers who would dismiss the commander - and her ideas - without a second thought if she were still an ensign. Sometimes you need the rank to make people pay attention," he replied.

"But rank alone isn't enough," Deanna countered. "Will, she is young. She's very unsure of herself..."

"That will come with time," he assured her.

"...and she's very unsure of her computers," she added worriedly.

He frowned at the revelation, hoping what he had seen in the woman's eyes was nothing more than his own concern echoing back. But if Deanna had felt it as well... "Could you sense anything specific?" he pressed.

Deanna shook her head. "Nothing identifiable - but I know she's concerned; when you told her she was going to have to reformulate the installation protocol... Will, she was almost panicking. If Biji hadn't calmed her down..."

"But she did," he reminded her. "And that may be what she needs - someone with a little experience, who doesn't panic at the first complication..."

The worried expression returned to the empathy's face. "And that's the other problem. Will, Andile doesn't panic - at all. As I was saying, when you announced the mission, the tension level of every person in the room jumped - except for Andile. The most intense feeling I could perceive from her was a sense of... mild dismay," she informed him.

"You've said before that she's almost impossible to read," he reminded her.

"She has some well-developed shields," Deanna conceded. "That's not unusual in humans her age. But even the best shields crack at times, even Biji's. When Data protested her long hours, I could feel a sudden burst of anger from her - but when you made your announcement... I felt nothing more than a mild concern," she said.

"You mean she's not worried?" he asked, astounded at the idea.

"I didn't say that," Deanna quickly corrected him. "From her behavior and her mannerisms, I believe she is quite concerned about the mission - but I couldn't sense it in her emotions," she admitted.

"Perhaps she doesn't have emotions," Will suggested, a teasing grin on his face.

Deanna smiled at him, relieved. It was the first smile he'd managed since he'd left Ten Forward, since before Admiral Czymszczak had announced this mission - and the end to his temporary reign as the acting captain of the Enterprise.

That had been a terrible blow, she knew - and one he had taken hard. Somewhere, in the back of both of their minds - and probably in the minds of half the crew - was the very real possibility that Captain Picard might never return from the Ba'ku homeworld - and the temporary assignment become a permanent one.

Not at the captain's expense, of course, Deanna protested silently; Will cared too much for the man to want his personal gain to be at a cost to his friend. But to have been given this role - and then to have I taken away at the first opportunity he would have to prove himself... It had hurt Will, she knew. Hurt him hard and deeply.

But seeing him now, the smile returning to his lips, the mischievous glint in his eyes... She felt the relief welling up in her. "She does," she insisted, "and if you're back on your theory that she's an android, I assure you she isn't. I told you, Andile has emotions..."

"Data has emotions," he pointed out quickly.

"Yes," she conceded, "but the source of his emotions is a mechanical chip; his emotions feel... different. Andile's feelings are as human as anything you or I feel," she assured him. "They're just... " She hesitated, thinking. "Controlled," she decided at last. "Reigned in - as if she didn't want people to see what she's really feeling."

"You think she's hiding something?" Will asked worriedly.

"Unquestionably," she said, then smiled as she saw the concern on his face. "But we all are hiding something, Commander; things we don't want others to see in us. Weaknesses, failings, hurt, unhappiness," she added, laying her hand on his arm. "Just as you're trying to hide your disappointment right now," she added, looking up into his eyes, seeing the hurt that he was carefully hiding. "Would you like to talk about it?" she asked.

Riker shook his head. "No. Not right now," he said firmly. "Right now, I have..." he glanced at the chronometer, "...thirty-eight hours to get this ship ready for a mission about which I know nothing - and for all I know, will not be told about," he added acidly. "Which means I have to have her ready for anything - and everything. Just as you have preparations for a thousand new crewmembers coming aboard in the next few hours," he reminded her.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, hearing the gentle dismissal. "Maybe we can talk about it... later," she added, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

But there was no smile on his, she realized as she waited for his response; no smile on his lips - and none in his eyes.

"I'm afraid not, Counselor," he said firmly. "I'll be working on getting the ship ready for the field trials - and for the captain's return."

Deanna stared at him, stunned by the unexpected rejection - then forced the hurt from her face before he could see it. "Of course, Commander," she said smoothly, then quickly left the room before he could say anything.

He watched her leave then turned from the door. I'm sorry, Imzadi, he told her silently, but I do need some time. Time alone. Time to think. Time to understand why I've made the choices I've made - and time to think about what that means for the life I thought I was going to have.

But even that indulgence was going to have to wait, he reminded himself; in eight hours, the people who had just left the room were going to be back, ready to update him on the ship's readiness - and he needed to be prepared to put those reports into some context that the captain would be able to use.

He turned, looking around the room, then stopped, his eyes locking on the head chair where he had just been sitting.

The captain's chair, he thought. It's just a chair, he reminded himself, no different from any of the others that lined the long table, no larger, no smaller, no softer or stiffer, but the captain's chair nonetheless - and one that will never be mine. 


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth TNG Part: 10?  
Rating: R (violence and language)  
Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.  
Archives: ASC certainly; anyone else, please ask.  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this.  
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis.  
Many thanks to those who have sent their comments and suggestions. I really appreciate the feedback.

Chapter 10

"Just give me a little time to pack and close up the house..." Picard continued, talking as the two walked toward the front door of the house.

"Really, that's not necessary, Jean-Luc! After all, this is still your leave!" Beverly protested instantly. "We don't need to go all the way to San Francisco. We could just call people from here; it would be much simpler..."

"No. We need to do this in person, Bev," he said, stopping in mid-step to turn and face her. "Calling from here would be simpler, I agree; simpler for us to ask - but simpler for them to say no," he reminded her.

"And much harder for Starfleet to prove the misuse of their data files if your requests are in person - and off the record," she added.

Picard looked at her, a knowing glint in his eye. "There is something to be said for that as well."

Beverly sighed, still reluctant to be persuaded - then nodded. "All right. If you're certain," she added.

"I'm certain," he assured her - hen hesitated, sobering as another thought cam to him. "Bev, would you mind... I'd like to stop in Paris on the way..."

She gave him a puzzled stare, then shook her head. "No, of course not," she said easily - then looked at him intently - and worriedly. "Jean-Luc? What's wrong?"

Picard shook his head - then forced a pained smile to his face. "Oh, nothing."

She studied him intently, then shook his head. "It's not 'nothing', Jean-Luc," she countered softly. "Tell me," she urged him tenderly - then added, "please?"

He stared back at her, then forced a smiled. "It's just... " he began, then shook his head. "I need to meet with a lawyer there..."

"A lawyer?" she replied, curious.

"Marie's lawyer," he added, then shook his head, chasing off the pain once again. "About the house," he added.

Beverly shook her head. "I don't understand."

"The house," he tried, desperate not to think about what he was saying, what it really meant. "As eldest son, it was Robert's," he told her, " and as his only son, by all rights it would have gone to Ren? But when..."

His voice cracked, refusing to say the awful words that stabbed at his soul, even now, even four years after that awful day.

He bit his lip, then shook his head again, and managed, "It became Marie's, of course. As Robert's wife, it became hers... but she wanted nothing to do with it. Too many memories..." he managed, closing his eyes against his pain.

Beverly reached up, gently drawing her hand along the line of his jaw, wishing she could caress away the ache that filled his soul.

"I understand," she said quietly.

He endured her touch, suffered her gentle stroke, refusing to allow himself the surcease she offered.. then felt her arms slowly encircle him, drawing him close to her, as if she could absorb away the hurt that had poisoned his soul for too long.

For a moment he resisted - then against his will, felt himself easing into her embrace.

"She won't come back here," he whispered. "She can't."

"I understand," Beverly whispered back.

"She's had her lawyers draw up the papers, giving the house to me... They've been there for four years," he added. "Waiting."

She said nothing, knowing the words would come in their own time.

"But I couldn't. Taking the house back, knowing I was the last of my family? It was the death knell for the Picards, formally making me he last of the last..."

"But...?" Beverly prompted after a long silence.

"But it wasn't fair to make her suffer that pain either; to remind her every day that her husband, her son, our future... was gone," he said, pulling back, needing to see her face, to see her sapphire eyes, not caring about the tears that gave his hazel ones their shine. "She deserves better than that," he said.

"So you're taking the house back?" she said.

"Yes. I'm not sure what I'll do with it," he admitted. "Maybe just come back here on leave... tend to the vineyards," he suggested, a half-smile breaking through to his face. "It is in my blood," he added.

She smiled back. "You don't have blood, Captain; you have plasma, mixed with interstellar dust. You home is and has always been in the stars... but," she added, "sometimes it's nice to know that someplace, somewhere, there's a little terra firma waiting for you. Even if you never go there," she added.

"Like Caldos?" he replied, remembering how adamant she had been about keeping Felisa Howard's home for herself - and then never having returned there.

Beverly nodded. "It's like friendship, Jean-Luc; sometimes, just knowing it's there is enough."

Their eyes met for a long time - then Picard reached up, taking her face in his hands, and tilted it down, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

"Then Paris first - and San Francisco after," he announced.

"Agreed," she said a moment later, satisfied at her plans for the two of them - and at her plans for Jean-Luc. " Then shall we?" she added, stepping up to the door and pushing it open the door to let him in.

But even as Picard entered the room, the quiet but familiar chirp of the communicator called out to him. Glancing back at Beverly, he groaned and shook his head. "That's a sound I didn't miss in the least," he informed her, then moved quickly into the kitchen, tapping the terminal that stood on the counter.

Probably just a confirmation of the comm system being re-initialized, he told himself, wishing there had been some way of keeping the line closed - but there were too many things he needed to do in the next few days if they were to spend the next few weeks searching for Wesley. Close the house, contract with Michel to take care of the vineyards... or maybe with his son, he added, smiling to himself; maybe make the boy's responsibilities official - and see how he really likes it... His mind ran over the hundreds of small projects that had to be concluded in the next few days.

No, annoying as the communicator could be, it would make the move easier.

But next leave, he resolved silently, I'm going someplace where they don't have the damned things.

He thumbed the comm button to accept the call, opened his mouth to speak - but found himself cut off before he could even speak by the figure materializing on the screen before him.

"Picard," came a gruff - and, Beverly thought, somewhat familiar voice. She drew closer to the kitchen.

"Admiral Czymszczak," Picard replied instantly, glancing up at her, stopping her before she could come closer.

Czymszczak noted the glance. "Nice of you to turn your comm system on - finally," he said sharply. "We've been trying to reach you for hours. I suppose you and Dr.Crusher didn't want to be disturbed."

Picard's eyes widened. How the hell...? "How can I help you, Admiral?" he replied, careful to keep his voice even - and his eyes on the monitor before him.

"To be honest, Picard, I doubt you can; any man who would take a year's leave when the Federation is in the condition it's in is not a man I would send on a top-level assignment - but the Admiralty, in its infinite wisdom, has decided otherwise. Effective immediately, your leave is rescinded. You are to report to Starfleet Command for an emergency briefing at oh four hundred hours, local time."

Picard looked at the antique clock on the fireplace mantel, and was making the time conversion in his head when Czymszczak roughly added, "That's two hours from now, in case you'd forgotten what time zone we are in here."

"I was aware of the time zones, sir," he replied smoothly.

"Good. Then you won't be late," the man added curtly, reaching forward to terminate the call.

"Sir," Picard quickly interjected, stopping the man in mid-motion. "If I might ask... What is the nature of the emergency?"

"I'm certain you are aware, Picard, that this line is not secured - and that in any circumstances, it is not the responsibility of an Admiral to provide his officers with briefings prior to the actual meeting itself. You'll find out what this is about - when you get here!" he roared. "Czymszczak out!"

Picard watched as the man stabbed viciously at the comm button, then glanced up at the physician as the signal was terminated.

"The Admiral is still a horse's ass, I see," Beverly murmured as she approached the table.

"Beverly, he still is an admiral," Picard cautioned her, "and our superior officer..."

"Jean-Luc, Thaddeus Czymszczak may have the authority to give me orders - but he's a far cry from being my superior - or yours! He's the son of an overly wealthy family who didn't know how to raise their child to behave responsibly - so they bought him a position at the Academy, bought him a commission - and when they realized he wasn't going to make anything of himself in the field, they bought him a place in the Admiralty!" she sneered.

"Beverly," Picard cautioned again, "I don't like him either - but I doubt his family resorted to outright bribery to buy him a position at the Academy."

No, he thought; bribery was too obvious, too unsubtle - and if such a case were ever to be made public, the Academy would have expelled him before his family could act. And, after all, the charges of having his grades fixed had never been proven, Picard reminded himself, just as the rumors that he had bought his way up the chain of command had never been substantiated; all that was known was that Thad Czymszczak was the second youngest man to ever reach the Admiralty - and the first to do it without serving as a ship's captain.

But being a captain had never been an official requirement for receiving a promotion to admiral, he reminded himself - one merely had to prove one's self worthy.

And Czymszczak's initiation of the first peace talks with the Meritoi in over a century certainly had proven him to be worthy, Picard added.

Follow that up with his discovery of the nearly fatal flaw in the Cardassian battle ships that had given the Federation an edge in the last war... No, Czymszczak had earned his place in the Admiralty, Picard thought. But not his place in Starfleet, he added.

About to voice his opinions to his friend, he was quickly interrupted by a second chirp from the machine. With a frustrated sigh, Picard thumbed it once again - only to find this time a far friendlier, if not happier face, before him.

"Will," Picard said, a pleased relief in his voice.

"Sorry to interrupt your leave, Captain, but..."

"I know. Adm. Czymszczak just called me. What's happening?"

Will shook his head. "We have no idea; all I know is he's ordered us to be ready to break orbit in..." He glanced at the chronometer beside the screen, "...less than one hour."

Picard stared at him - then broke a smile. "Will, you're not scheduled to leave McKinley for another three weeks!" he said, suspecting another of Will's practical jokes.

But there was no trace of a smile on the man's face or in his eyes - only fatigue. The order, absurd as it was, Picard realized, studying his subordinate's grim face, was legitimate.

"I'm well aware of our schedule, Captain," Will answered, rather tersely. "Nonetheless, Starfleet ordered us to complete both the installation and field tests by this time tomorrow."

"Is that possible?" Picard asked carefully; Starfleet could order anything it wanted, he reminded the officer silently - but that didn't mean it could actually be done. He hoped the man knew enough to protest when the safety of crew or the ship would have been endangered.

But he needn't have worried, he realized a moment later. "Technically, no - but as I'm coming to learn, doing the impossible is what we do best. We've got half of the Daystrom Institute working in the computer core and three quarters of the staff from Utopia Planitia were shipped in to help out the engineering crew. It's going to be tight - neither the computer people or the design engineer will sign off if they're not satisfied - but my guess is we're going to be ready when the Admiral gives us the word to do... whatever it is he's got planned. Which is...?" he pressed gently.

Picard shook his head. "I haven't a clue, Will - but I hope I will after I get through a briefing at Starfleet Command in two hours. What about the crew?" he added, his mind slipping into its familiar command pathways once again.

"We're recalling everyone we can find, but for that's not going to be many. The Admiral, however, has promised us a full crew before we depart," Riker added, a dubious expression on his face - an expression that Picard suspected was reflected in his own.

A full crew, but not necessarily a well-trained one, they both knew - and certainly not one that was integrated to working with the existing crew of the Enterprise - or possibly even on a Sovereign-class ship, Picard thought. Well, there was nothing that could be done for it, he sighed - but this must be one hell of an emergency if they were preparing to ship off a barely completed ship with a barely competent crew. It smacked of a disaster, Picard thought - either one they would have to resolve - or one they might well cause.

The expression on Will's face seemed to reflect those same concerns, he added, studying the younger man's face, seeing the fatigue and the stress etching new lines there - along with something else, something new, something, Picard thought, that he did not like seeing in his friend's face - a worry, a self-doubt he had never seen there before.

Exhaustion, he decided, realizing the strain the man had been under for the last few months - and especially the last few hours. Well, he'd review the ship's work as soon as he got aboard and reassure the man about the quality of the work he had done - even though, he added, Will should have had no doubts about that. He was a good officer, an excellent leader - and if he could stand a three month stay in dock, overseeing a complex engine installation, Picard added with a grin, he could take any of the rigors of a command of his own.

A command of his own, Picard thought approvingly. That day was coming - and soon, he hoped, looking at his first officer. God knows you've earned it, Will.

"Please have status reports from all departments on my desk by the end of your field trials, Will - and I'll see you as soon as I get aboard... That is," he added with a rueful grin, "if I'm coming aboard."

Will did not return the smile. "I have no doubts of that, Captain," he said, almost tersely. "Riker out."

Picard stared at the screen once more - then glanced up at Beverly. "Is something wrong with Will?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of, Jean-Luc, but I've been off the ship for almost as long as you have. Maybe the strain..."

Picard shook his head. "Will's carried a greater load than this before - and carried it well. No, there's something else on his mind.

"And on mine," she interjected. "Jean-Luc, I know your comm system was off - but I've had my badge with me."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I presume that that's how Czymszczak knew I was here - but if he knew I was visiting you, why didn't he make any effort to reach you through me?" she asked.

"More to the point, why hasn't anyone tried to reach you to call you back to the ship?"

She looked at him worriedly. "I don't know, Jean-Luc."

"Then I think we had better find out," he said grimly, then gave her a sympathetic look. "Our search for Wesley's going to have to wait," he added as gently as he could.

She nodded. "I know. I'll just have to do it next leave," she said softly.

"No," he said firmly. "We'll do it - and as soon as we're back."

"Of course," she agreed wanly, knowing he meant what he said - but knowing, all too well, how often those assurances were lost to the priorities of Starfleet.

As did he.

But this time, he promised her - and himself - silently, he would not let her down; he would not turn a blind eye to her pain, anymore than she had to his.

You've always been here for me, even when I didn't know I needed you, he thought to himself. This time, let me be here for you. He reached for her hand, enveloping her delicate fingers in his.

"Don't worry, Bev; we'll find him," Picard said, squeezing her hand gently. "Someday, somewhere - we'll find him." 


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth TNG Part: 11?  
Rating: R (violence and language)  
Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.  
Archives: ASC certainly; anyone else, please ask.  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this.  
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis.  
Feedback is welcome.

Chapter 11

Briefings never are brief, Picard wearily thought to himself as he began to materialize aboard the Enterprise. The meeting that was scheduled to start in two hours had been canceled; the one that had been arranged in its stead was delayed for six hours - and by the time the members were finally assembled, a half dozen more meetings had been scheduled to follow it.

Now, more than twenty-four hours since he left LaBarre, and almost a day and a half since he had last slept, he had finally back aboard the ship he had left three months before - but how long he, or any of them, would be able to remain, no one could say.

He growled to himself at the thought, ignoring the welcome the transporter officer offered as he stepped off the platform - then stopped, looking at the being behind the console.

"Good... morning, Mr. G'Sef," he said, after a surreptitious glance at the ship's chronometer.

"Good morning, sir," G'Sef, a grey-faced Ballorian, replied. "Welcome back," he added, repeating his earlier greeting.

"Thank you," Picard replied, somewhat chagrined at having ignored the first welcome. "Standing the late shift tonight?" he added, the answer obvious, but his curiosity surging. Why his transporter chief would be standing the night shift - the most boring and tedious of all the transporter shifts in the best of situations, and doubly so while in dock - he didn't know.

Punishment? he wondered, then shook his head. Ballorians were, as a species, almost monomaniacal about following regulations, both in the letter and in spirit - and, as far as he could remember, G'Sef had no infractions on his service record, even during his Academy years.

Then as a honor to his arrival? he wondered, quickly dismissing the thought. None of his senoir officers would have been so sycophantic - even if they had had any idea of when he would be beaming aboard.

But if this wasn't an effort to curry favor and it wasn't a punishment - then why?

"Yes, sir," G'Sef answered. "The lieutenant suggested that if the senior officers were to take the off-shifts on occasion, the junior officers would get a more field experience more quickly," G'Sef explained, almost proudly. "It would speed up their training and their efficiency."

The lieutenant? Picard thought, surprised at G'Sef's odd inflection of the article - as though there was only one lieutenant aboard this ship.

"The lieutenant also explained that if everyone, regardless of rank, pulled a few of the less opportune shifts, then the night shift might not appear to be a punishment for lack of rank," the Ballorian continued.

An intriguing idea, Picard thought.

"And has it worked?" he asked, curious.

"Our efficiency has improved..." G'Sef began.

"I wasn't aware there was a problem with your efficiency," Picard interrupted, taken aback by the notion.

"There wasn't, sir!" the transporter chief replied. "But... My transporter team had a meeting and we discussed our levels of performance - and we agreed that while it has been above average, we wanted to improve it. And three months in port, moving tonnes of material and staff in and out gave us an excellent opportunity for the whole team to practice. A good thing, too, since we needed to bring aboard over a thousand new crewmembers after arriving back at dock. It could have been difficult - but with everyone having had ample practice during the last few months, we were able to man all the transporter stations at one time. We brought the transport time down from over two hours to less than ninety minutes," he added proudly.

"Excellent work, Chief," Picard said, impressed.

"I can't take the credit sir," he replied, almost humbly. "It was my team that did it."

Picard held back the gape that threatened, quickly saying, "But you can take the credit for leading that team, Chief. It was good work - on their part and on yours," he added.

G'Sef smiled at the compliment, then turned back to his board as Picard made for the doors.

G'Sef smiling! he thought as he entered the corridor, astounded at the fact. He'd known the man for the five years - and never had he seen him smile before! And calling the transporter crew a team instead of his staff? That was a first, he thought with a shake of his head; Ballorians in command positions were rare, mostly because their species had yet to fully comprehend that a command position was rarely that, but rather a leadership role that responsible for teaching and guiding as well as directing those answering to that leader.

Certainly G'Sef hadn't fully understood it; while his team always exceeded the standard in efficiency, it was also the department with the highest turnover rate, usually due to G'Sef's high-handed - albeit well-intentioned - leadership style. To learn he had had a meeting with the team - rather than for his staff - and that he had allowed them to set their own goals - and achieve them...

Picard shook his head. If Will had done nothing else than getting G'Sef to understand his real job - and do it well - he had exceeded Picard's expectations.

Except, of course, he had done more, Picard knew; despite the absolute insanity that must have filled the ship during the last two days, the ship looked as neat as the day he left - and if the final readouts he had seen at Starfleet Command were accurate, she was running even more smoothly than before.

Stopping before the lift doors, he studied the polished metallic surface, then patted it approvingly as the doors opened.

"Good to be home," he murmured to himself - and to his old friend.

Stepping in, he rode the lift in silence, curious as to whether G'Sef's new policy about senior officers covering the less desirable shifts would be in effect on the bridge.

But after forty-some hours of chaos, he reminded himself as he called out for the bridge, there was likely to be only one officer still fully competent to sit in the command chair - even if the ship were in dock.

Possibly one of the only crewmen, period, he added as the lift doors opened, revealing a skeleton crew manning the ship's command center.

The being seated in the center chair stood at the soft shush of the doors opening, then pivoted to face the man.

"Welcome back, Captain," greeted Data.

"Thank you, Data," responded Picard, somewhat brusquely. He wasn't certain just how garrulous - or inquisitive - the android was going to be about his early return - and he wasn't in the mood to discover the answer. Better then, he thought to himself, to quickly set the tone for any conversation they might have. "How did the new engines perform?" he asked before Data could start to question him.

"They were..." Data hesitated for a moment, as if checking a piece of data in his memory files. "Spiffy," he finally proclaimed.

" 'Spiffy'?" Picard echoed, unable to resist a grin. "That's an unusual choice of words to describe the trial run of a warp engine."

Data looked at him, perplexed by the comment, then considered for a moment. "Spiffy," he said after a brief pause. "A colloquial term meaning neat. Trim." He thought again, then nodded, approving the word's use. "Though perhaps the word is most often applied to clothing or fashion, all three words could be applied to ships, and considering the actual run results against projected expectations, it would apply to the field test results in specific," he announced. "And the lieutenant said it was a more acceptable phrase than 'kicking ass and taking names', which was her original assessment of the engine's performance today." Seeing Picard's expression, Data explained, "The term is an idiom dating to the United States of the twentieth century. It means to..."

Picard raised a hand to stop the andrid. "I know what the phrase means, Data," he said quickly. I just don't want it used on my ship, he added silently. "And the computers? Were they... 'spiffy' as well?" Picard asked gingerly, uncertain if he was about to encounter, however obliquely, another vulgarism.

Apparently not, for the android frowned, clearly surprised by the idea. "Lt. Cmdr. James did not describe the results as such, though the initial results were within design parameters. Her complete report is logged in the computer; I have taken the liberty of having her report, along with the inspection reports and validation protocols for the engines and computer systems and the standard departmental reports transferred to your quarters," the android added.

Picard rolled his eyes up. Lovely, he sighed. Inspection reports and validation protocols. A thousand pages of numbers - all relevant, of course - but all meaningless unless your fortИ was warp field physics or bio-cellular computer circuits. Which, he reminded himself, mine is not. But it better be - and soon - if I'm to make heads or tails of what these people are going to be telling me.

"If you would prefer however," Data continued, "I can summarize each report for you now, beginning with ..."

Picard quickly raised a hand to stop him. "That won't be necessary, Commander. I'll review them when I get to my quarters."

Which is where I should be going, he added, glancing at the chronometer as he stifled a yawn. He turned, starting back for the lift, then turned to the android. "Mr. Data, would you please notify the senior officers that there will be a meeting in the conference room at 0800 hours tomorrow, to discuss our assignment."

"Yes, sir," replied Data.

"Thank you," he added, nodding gratefully at the man. "I'll see you in the morning," he added. "I'm anxious to see these... spiffy engines of yours perform."

Data frowned once again. "They are not my engines, sir; in view of the structure of Starfleet and the Federation, the true ownership of the engines could not be accurately assigned to any one individual. But as engineers feel a degree of possessiveness toward their equipment, especially the equipment they are involved with on an intimate basis, i.e., the design and/or manufacture..."

"It was a rhetorical comment, Data," Picard interrupted quickly.

"Ah," the android said, registering the remark as such in his positronic mind, then giving him a puzzled stare. "I do not believe, however, that the lieutenant is being rhetorical when she calls them her engines," he concluded.

Picard stared at him for a moment. "She isn't?" he asked evenly.

"No, sir. She believes - and has logically argued - that the engines are hers," Data said flatly. "But she is happy we are utilizing them on this ship."

"Is she?" Picard echoed.

"Yes, sir," he answered evenly - even proudly, Picard realized.

"Well, I pleased that she's happy," he said caustically - though the sharpness of his remark was lost on the android.

"As am I, sir," Data agreed - happily.

Picard stared at him for a moment. I know I'm tired, he thought, looking into his friend's golden eyes - but am I tired enough to imagine there's something behind that expression?

Probably some new emotion that he's experimenting with, Picard decided, turning toward the lift. Or some new social behavior routine. Or...

Or I'll figure it out - later, he decided.

"Good night, Data," he said.

"Good night, sir," he replied "Sleep well," he added as Picard stepped into the lift.

Would that I could, Picard thought as the doors closed behind him. But there were dozens of reports to be read before he could rest - reports that, unlike his investigation into Data's new behavior, that would not wait until later.

New engines, new computers, new attitudes, new behavior programs, he mused as he reached his quarters a few minutes later - at least this hasn't changed, he thought as the doors opened and the room light came up. My desk in the same place, the chairs, the couch, the table, the flowers...

The flowers.

A spray of white stephanotis stood in a delicate crystal vase in the center of the low table, their color and scent belying their freshness - and a card, with a neat note penned on its face, betraying their sender.

He picked up the card - then smiled.

Some traditions are worth keeping. Breakfast?

There was, of course, no signature, but then again, he had no need of one.

Dropping his bag heavily by the side of the chair, he touched the computer terminal before him, sending his acceptance of her invitation - then coding it so it wouldn't disturb her sleep. No sense in waking her now, he told himself - and God knew they all might crave the memory of an uninterrupted night's sleep in the weeks - and years, he added grimly - that were to come.

All the more reason to get through these reports, he reminded himself, keying up the reports that Data had forwarded.

"Departmental Report on Computer Installation and Readiness", he read with a noiseless groan, then drew a deep breath and began to read.

The smell of coffee reached his senses long before his mind registered the presence of a second person moving about his room.

Opening his sleep-heavy eyes, he stared blindly at the woman in the room - then quickly began to sit up as she sat down on the arm of his chair, a smile on her face - and a heavy mug in her hand.

"That smells wonderful," he said blearily, reaching for the mug.

"It tastes even better," Beverly said as she handed it to him, then set a plate of croissants on the low table in front of him. "When Geordi brought the replicators back on line a few hours ago, he must have upgraded some of the programs," she said happily, "though after trying some of the stuff Alyssa was brewing in the lab yesterday, anything would taste better in comparison. Still..." She raised her mug to her lips, took a deep sip, then sighed.

Picard followed suit, his eyes widening at the taste of the brew. "Quite good," he murmured, then took a second sip, the complexities of the flavors playing across his tongue, slipping through the fatigue that filled his mind. "Excellent," he repeated, the weariness beginning to flee from his thoughts - and from his body. "This is far better than what the replicators used to make."

"Wait until you try the croissants," she replied enthusiastically. "They're wonderful! This upgrade - at least what I've tried of it - is incredible! And here I was, steeling myself for another few months of replicated foods," she sighed.

"There's nothing wrong with replicated food," he argued. "Replicator food is very good; in fact it can be almost as good as the finest food in any world - providing that someone takes the time to analyze every aspect of the food - the taste, texture, aroma, visual appeal - and then takes the time to program that information into the computer," Picard said as he took a sip from the mug - and gave a sigh. "As someone has clearly done here," he added.

"I'm just glad that they didn't finish installing the program last night, or you would have spent the entire night drinking coffee and working. It's bad enough you slept in the chair," she added, looking over him disapprovingly.

"Hm?" he said, then glanced down at himself, finally realizing he was still in the chair where he had been reading, still dressed in his uniform - which was now thoroughly disheveled. "Oh. Indeed. I was reviewing the ship's reports..."

"And you fell asleep," she concluded for him with a disapproving sigh. "As your doctor, Jean-Luc, I should remind you that you do need rest - in a proper bed..."

"But as my friend," he interrupted, "you'll spare me the lecture." Patting her arm reassuringly, he rose from the chair, grabbed the bag he had left beside the chair, and strode toward the antechamber that contained his bed and bathroom.

Beverly turned away, granting him a moment of un-asked for privacy, as if the events that passed beyond the wall between these two rooms - even something as innocent as retrieving clean clothes - were for him alone. They were friends, she thought to herself, good friends, even intimate friends, she admitted - but there was, and would always be, a barrier between them, as real and as unyielding as the wall that separated them now.

With a disconsolate sigh, she drew the coffee mug to her lips, carefully ignoring the man.

A moment later the sound of running water came back to her.

"Of course, if someone was dedicated enough to good food to want to write a proper program," he called back over the noise, "they'd be far more likely just to cook the food in the first place. After all," he added, the water stopping, "you can't write a replicator program without understanding the mechanics behind how to cook. And if you can cook..."

"... you wouldn't have to bother with a replicator," Beverly murmured to herself.

Picard stepped back from the sink, standing in the bathroom's doorway and looked at her, a questioning expression on his face. "I'm sorry; I missed that," he said.

Beverly glanced up - then smiled back.

If there was a wall between them, she admitted to herself, it was far more her making than his; he stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dressed in nothing more than his uniform trousers, patting at his face with a towel, waiting for her answer, he was obviously at ease with her presence in his room - and in his life.

And you worry about your reputation, she thought. What do you think people would say if they could see us here, together, so early in the morning?

What would they say, my dear captain, she thought with a smile; what would they say?

They would say nothing, she answered herself, because they would never know; whatever walls she might have built between herself and her friend were nothing compared to the walls he had erected between this private world and the galaxy around them.

And yet there was nothing here that he couldn't share with that world - for there was nothing truly here. A friendship, yes - but anything else - everything else - was mere illusion.

The illusion of intimacy, she thought sadly, without the insecurity of being intimate. A non-relationship relationship - for both of us.  
Are you really willing to settle for so little when there's so much more out there? she asked him silently.

Or could it be that you're as scared as I am?

Could it be that you're no braver than me?

She shook her head - then realized he was still watching her, waiting for an answer. "What I said was you wouldn't need to bother with a replicator if you could cook," she repeated, louder this time.

"Agreed," he replied as he stepped back into the bathroom, his body - but not his voice - concealed from her once more. "Providing you had the skill and the interest, and, more importantly, the equipment and the time. Unfortunately those latter two are not readily available on a starship - at least, not for her senior officers," he added, reentering the room, drying his hands on the towel, a clean uniform and countenance replacing the sleep-worn ones.

Beverly caught herself smiling appreciatively as he approached. As emotionally trying as his leave had been, it had at least given him the months of fresh air and exercise that a starship could never fully provide; walking toward her, she once again admired his strong, lean body, made even more handsome by the crisp black and grey uniform. She hurriedly raised the mug to her lips, hoping he didn't notice her stare - or the blush that accompanied it.

"I don't know," she continued a moment later, her composure returning as he took a seat on the couch beside the chair. "I saw how quickly and easily you made the coffee back in LaBarre; it didn't take much more time than having the replicator make it - and it was good. It might even be fun to try," she added. "Next time we're in Paris... " She stopped, then corrected herself. "The next time, I'm in Paris, I'll..."

Picard met her eyes, then, setting down his mug, reached for her hand. "Bev, about what happened..." he started tentatively. "I'm sorry..."

She smiled again, a little sadly this time and reached for his hand. "Don't apologize," she said, taking his hand in hers. "It's not necessary. I told you, Jean-Luc, I understand. You are who you are - but you should remember that I am who I am. I would never ask you to do something that makes you uncomfortable. I'm glad we traveled back to Paris together - but I understand your reasons for wanting to arrive at Starfleet Command alone. And don't worry," she added reassuringly, "I made sure that at least a dozen others transported back before I did. I doubt that anyone even noticed that we both came in from Paris."

He sighed, relieved, thankful at her foresight - and repentant at his own reluctance. They were friends, after all, good friends; traveling with a friend was nothing to get embarrassed about. And if anyone saw something more in their relationship than that, it was their problem, not his. And yet...

Beverly leaned forward, pulling him toward her and kissed his forehead. "You are who you are, Jean-Luc," she repeated softly.

The question is, he thought to himself, is this who I want to be?

Maybe Beverly was right, he admitted; maybe I should have spent more time on the Ba'ku homeworld, learning about myself - but that was then and there, and this is here and now.

Back on the Enterprise.

Back at my job.

Back home.

It took him a moment to realize how good the thought felt, how contented the knowledge made him feel. This was home, he reminded himself; space. I knew it the first time I ever left Earth - how good, how right it feels to be on a starship, in space, exploring... He shook his head, laughing at himself, the thought of trying to spend the rest of his life locked on a planet, no matter how beautiful it - or its people - were, playing at being a farmer when his heart, his very soul were bound up in the vastness of the galaxy itself.

Beverly was right, he thought. This is my home; how could I have ever thought otherwise?

Drawing a deep breath, he smiled at her then pulled away. "Speaking of which..." he began, "did you ever get a recall?" he asked, his mind moving from his personal concerns to those of the mission.

"No - and it's strange that you ask," she admitted, rather glad at the change of topic. "I decided at last that I hadn't gotten one because I was with you - and perhaps the Admiral assumed you'd relay the message to me."

"I'd hope not," Picard replied. "considering that he wouldn't discuss the nature of the recall over the communicator, he should have known that I wouldn't have discussed it with you until I'd gotten a security clearance."

"I thought that as well - but the Admiral has been noted for making assumptions," and bad ones, she added silently, knowing Picard was thinking the same thing.

"But what really surprised me was that I wasn't the only one who didn't get a recall," she went one, her puzzlement showing. "When I finally got back to San Francisco, I ran into a few others from the crew who had heard about the leaves being rescinded through the grapevine - but they had never been called directly - and a few of them were right there at Starfleet Command when the recalls began.

"That's strange, Jean-Luc, because our commbadges were working - we checked - but no one tried to reach us. For a while I thought we were being deliberately excluded - for security reasons, for logistical reasons, for who knows why - but when I reported in, no one prevented me from coming aboard. It was almost as if Czymszczak put very little effort into recalling the crew."

"But he did recall some," Picard replied. "I saw the crew roster; at least some were contacted directly by Starfleet and ordered to report."

Beverly pursed her lips. "A slip-up somewhere down the line?" she asked, disbelievingly.

"Unlikely - but not impossible, considering what's happening..." he began, only to be interrupted by a soft chime at the door.

"Excuse me," he said to her, then rose from the chair, giving an automatic tug to the bottom of his shirt as he did so, ready to greet the first visitor of the day.

Of which there would be at least a few, he knew, mostly from his senior staff. Beverly, of course, was already here - which was, he realized as he glanced at her, where she should be. Looking at her, sitting in her usual place, feet curled beneath her, hands wrapped around the mug and looking back on where he had been, sitting easily beside her as if they had never been apart, it was astounding how easily they had fit themselves back into this simple routine.

There was something a little sad in that realization - and something wonderful, he thought.

As for the balance of his team... Data he had already seen last night - and the despite the android's still emerging emotions, his sense of separation and reunification were still developing; Picard could have been gone a week or a year without evoking terribly different responses from the being.

Geordi, he added, might show up at the door, welcoming back the ship's senior officer - but considering the efforts that had been necessary to get the ship ready in time - and the captain's impending return to the ship - it was far more likely he was putting in some last minute work on the engines to make sure everything was as close to perfect as possible.

Deanna would, on the other hand, definitely show up - in part, because of her deep affection for the man - and, he reminded himself soberly, because as ship's counselor, she would want to know what his emotional state was. After all, there was no hiding that he had arrived back from the Briar Patch months ahead of time - and alone. If there was an unresolved problem that she needed to evaluate before this mission began, she wouldn't hesitate to do so - but under the guise of a friendly welcome home.

Whether Will would stop by was another question; there was no doubt that he would be disappointed by the abrupt termination of his new, albeit temporary command - but their friendship had transcended the inevitable competition for rank that would exist between any captain and his competent and skilled first officer - or at least Picard hoped it had.

But Will was competent, he reminded himself; he was intelligent, thoughtful, capable, skilled ... he had all the abilities and the experiences that would make for a good captain. A good captain of this ship, in particular, he reminded himself, knowing that this was the command that Will had yearned for - and that, with his assignment as acting captain and Picard's own departure from Starfleet possible, one that Riker had to have held out some hope for. More importantly, he reminded himself, Will was his friend.

But friendships, he reminded himself bitterly, had been lost over less.

Walking to the door, he reviewed his senior staff roster, sighing over the absence of his one time Klingon Security officer, then placing a silent wager on whose face it would be on the other side of the door.

"Good morning, Counselor," he greeted, even before the door was fully open, smiling at the startled face of the beautiful Betazoid.

"Good morning, sir - and welcome home!" she said, recovering almost instantly. "It's so good to have you back!" she beamed back delightedly, then rose up on her toes to give him an affection peck on the cheek.

"Thank you," he replied, taking her hands in his, quietly meeting her inquisitive gaze.

I'm fine, he assured her silently, trying to project waves of self-confidence toward her.

She stared back at him, reading the emotions as carefully as she could - then smiled again.  
Whether she accepted his self-assessment, Picard wasn't sure - but at least she accepted it for the moment - and that was going to have to do for now, he added silently. "Can I get you some coffee?" he asked.

Deanna's eyes widened. "You've tried it then? It's wonderful, isn't it?" she said. "Biji said she'd try to get the replicator files up and working by this morning - but with all the computer problems we've been having, I didn't think she'd be able to get the system online - let alone initialize the upgrade!" she added enthusiastically.

Biji? Picard asked himself. One of the computer technicians from the Daystrom Institute, he decided, knowing the name fit none of his old crew - nor none of the new transferees, he added, running over the list in his mind.

"I'm glad to hear it," Beverly chimed in as she rose from her chair. "After talking to Alyssa, I was afraid we'd be eating ration bars for the duration of this mission."

"Beverly!" Deanna exclaimed, surprised by the voice, then hurrying to greet the woman, hugging her enthusiastically. "When did you get in? I didn't see your name on the manifest!"

"It was late," the physician murmured - though she wasn't about to admit her late arrival was done deliberately to avoid empath; her emotions had been a little too heightened, her thoughts a little too focused on that of Picard - and Deanna was a little too aware of the relationship between the two of them not to pick up on her feelings.

But that had been last night, she reminded herself - and now, things were just as they had been before. Friends, she added firmly. Just good friends.

Nonetheless, Deanna must have sensed something, Beverly realized as Deanna stared at her, then turned to look at Picard. "I'm sorry," she immediately apologized. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Only breakfast," Picard interjected.

Of course, Deanna thought a little disappointedly, wishing that the meal - and the closeness she sensed between the two - had stemmed from something more, something deeper... but it hadn't, she knew sadly.

A shame, she thought; they both care for each other deeply - but Beverly was still carrying a terrible hurt from losing her husband - and the captain... Deanna studied him for the umpteenth time - and found herself no more able to understand his insistence on the lonely life he chose than she was when they had first met.

But it was the life he had chosen, she knew, a choice made all the more apparent by his premature return from the Ba'ku homeworld.

At least he had this small pleasure once again, sharing breakfast, confidences - and, she earnestly hoped, at least some small measure of his pain - with his closest friend.

"I take it you met all the new transferees?" Beverly said, quietly changing the topic. "What did you think about our new doctor? Greg Matthews, right?"

"Not Greg, Beverly. Gregory," Deanna corrected her emphatically. "Doctor Gregory Matthews."

Beverly looked at her, taken aback at first - then disappointed and disapproving - then quickly reigned in all her feelings. Just because she preferred a more casual approach to her work and her patients didn't mean every physician did - and being a stickler for protocol - and titles and proper names - usually had no bearing on a doctor's ability to perform his job. After all, she reminded herself, Jean-Luc demanded the same adherence to those protocols - and she thought nothing the less of him for doing so.

But Jean-Luc had earned that respect, she reminded herself; this new physician had not - and his demand rankled her, as it clearly did Deanna, she added, seeing the disparaging look on the empath's face.

Picard must have seen the expression as well. "I can't place the name," he quickly interjected. "What ship did he come from?"

"He didn't sir; his transfer was directly from Starfleet Medical," Deanna explained. "He's never served on a starship before," she added hesitantly.

Beverly glanced at Picard, wondering if he sensed the same reluctance in the empath that she did. "A recent graduate?" she pressed. It had been awkward having Alyssa serving as a fellow physician in the first few months after she had received her medical degree, she reminded herself - and they had had the advantage of having worked together as doctor and nurse for years. To break in a doctor new to medicine and to Starfleet...

"Not according to his record," Deanna replied. "It says he's been at Starfleet Medical for the last five years," she said. In theory, she thought, it was a good sign, but...

"But?" Picard offered, sensing her hesitation growing.

She sighed. "But... something about him doesn't feel right. It could be his ignorance of ship's protocol, it could be his naivetИ... or it could just be me," she admitted. "I met over one thousand new people yesterday, and he was one of the last ones to beam up. By that point, I'd read so many people, I was too exhausted to make an accurate assessment about anyone." She sighed, then flashed an apologetic look at Picard. "I will, of course, meet again with those later transferees, sir," she added.  
"And I'll check out his medical credentials - and his skills. If he's not competent to be working as a starship doctor..." Beverly began.

"You'll do what?" Picard asked, concern heavy in his voice. "By the time you make that determination, we'll be long gone - and there will be no way to make any crew changes."

"Captain, the only reason Starfleet sent a third doctor aboard was because of a change in medical protocols - one doctor per shift," she reminded him. "Until now, we've managed to get along with just two doctors on this ship - and as long as we have the EMH to back us up, Alyssa and I can handle just about anything." Not necessarily easily, she added, remembering all too well the long hours she and Alyssa had shared in the past - but that had always managed. Still, an extra body, even if it wasn't one that met her exacting standards, could come in handy. "But the fact that he was at Starfleet Medical for so long is a good sign. They don't accept anyone who isn't fully competent - and then some," she reminded them. "We're just going to have to introduce him to the realities of life on a Starfleet vessel.."

Picard raised an eye at her, knowing how daunting that task could be, then turned to Deanna, looking at her accusingly. "One reason I took my leave, Counselor, was so I could avoid these kinds of problems."

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "We just wanted to make you feel at home when you returned," she explained with a smile.

Picard smiled back, about to make a retort when the door chimed once again.

Excusing himself, he left the two women, betting with himself who would be at the door this time - then smiled widely as the door parted, revealing the form of his first officer.

"I'm too late," Will sighed emptily as he glanced across the room, spying the coffee mugs and the empty plates on the table. "I was hoping I could be the one to let you know the replicators are up and running - but you've obviously learned that for yourself."

"A welcome discovery, Will; from what I had heard, I was afraid we'd be on ration bars and water for the duration," Picard replied.

"Never," Will said emphatically. "Biji won't eat them," he explained with a grin, then thrust out a hand at his commander. "Welcome home, sir. It's good to have you back."

If there was any insincerity in the man's voice or face, Picard could find no trace of it as the two shook hands. Will seemed genuinely pleased to have him back, he thought - and he was surprised at the wave of relief that washed over him at the realization.

"It's good to be home, Number One. Even under these circumstances," he added.

"Which are...?" Will pressed.

"Which we will discuss at the meeting - which is where we should be going," he added, turning to the others. "Counselor? Doctor?" he said, gesturing them through the open door.

"Welcome back, Beverly," Will said as she passed him. "How was your leave?"

"Good. Too short," she added, "But it's good to be home."

"It is indeed," Picard agreed.

Taking a step to catch up to him, Will quickly fell into step beside the man. "I don't know if you had a chance to review the reports..."

"Most of them - but what a report says and what's really happening are usually quite different. How has everything been going?"

"Aside from a few glitches, amazingly well, considering the time constraints we were working under - and the massive shift in personnel," Will admitted. "You should give your crew a lot of credit for keeping their heads together while all hell was breaking loose around them," he said.

"I shall - but I give most of the credit to their commanding officer," Picard countered.  
But the compliment, however well intentioned, seemed to miss the mark; Will simply nodded indifferently. "Yes, sir. Cmdr. James - that's Lt. Cmdr. Sandra James, your new chief computer technician - says that we're within design tolerances on all essential computer functions, and within safety parameters on the rest of the systems that have been installed - but that it will take some time to bring everything on line. The system was not designed to be installed in less than three weeks; the fact that she was able to get the system functioning in less than fifteen hours says a lot for her - and for Biji."

Picard stopped in mid-step. "That's the third time I've heard that name. Who, pray tell, is Biji?" he asked. "One of the computer technicians, I assume."

Will hesitated, reddening rapidly. "No, sir - though she's probably as qualified in computers as she is in her own field. Biji is the technical expert that Starfleet sent to oversee the engine installation," he said quietly.

"Indeed," Picard mused. "I take it then that she's qualified in that field?"

"Oh, yes," Will agreed, somewhat uncomfortably. "Uniquely so. You see..." He hesitated for a moment. "She designed the engines, sir."

Picard stared at him for a moment, his expression growing blank. "Biji," he said quietly. "As in B.G. As in..."

"Yes, sir. Lt. Andile, herself."

Picard's eyes widened. "She...is on my ship," he echoed softly.

"Yes, sir," Will said. "And sir?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Admiral Czymszczak's granted her a transfer to this Enterprise. As of oh-seven hundred this morning, Lt. Andile, the Bitch Goddess of Utopia Planitia, is a member of your crew." 


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth TNG Part: 12?  
Rating: R (violence and language)  
Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.  
Archives: ASC certainly; anyone else, please ask.  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this.  
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis.  
Feedback is welcome.

Chapter 12

Outwardly, Picard remained seemingly unaffected by the revelation - but from deep within him, Deanna could sense a flurry of emotion rising up in the man.

Concern, worry... almost panic, she realized with a start.

Surprised by the intensity of the emotion, she turned to him, ready to reassure him about Andile - but before she could do so, she felt the momentary sensation dropping away.

She smiled, finding herself relieved by the sudden outburst, gratified to be reminded that her captain was as human as ever - but, as ever, still in complete control of his emotions. Biji's reputation was, after all, monstrous; despite every accomplishment she had to her credit, she had as many demerits as well - and the latter, Deanna reminded herself, were far better advertised than the former. No wonder the news had given the man a momentary jolt of terror: Who wouldn't be stunned to learn they had the best - and simultaneously the worst - engineer in the 'fleet as a member of their crew?

But the captain was not a man to give in to his fears, irrational or real; as she felt his panic subside, she let herself relax - but nonetheless made a mental note to discuss the engineer's presence on the ship with him... later. For now, however...

She turned her attention to the captain, seeing a disapproving frown growing on his face.

"Number One, you are well aware that I do not permit the use of derogatory names - even nicknames - on this ship," he reminded the younger man.

"I am well aware of that, sir," Will responded instantly. "And I assure you that no one on this ship has called her that."

"To her face," Picard replied.

"At all," Riker insisted firmly.

"Captain," Deanna chimed in, "we are well aware of your policy - just as we were well aware of the Lieutenant's nickname. In order to prevent any problems, Cmdr. LaForge and Commander Riker had a discussion with the engineering staff regarding that matter before she came aboard. It was clearly understood by everyone that she was to be addressed by her correct name and rank - in private and in public."

"Considering her reputation, I didn't want anyone to slip up," Will added with a smile.

"Considering her reputation," Picard grimly reminded him, "she's more than entitled to that respect. Under her auspices, there have been more new designs, more innovations, more improvements to warp engine efficiency in the last ten years than in the previous fifty - and her ship design theories..." He nodded at the thought, truly impressed. "You're aware of her involvement in the design of this ship," he asked rhetorically.

"I know she was on the team that designed her," Riker agreed mildly.  
"She led the team, Commander," Picard countered sharply. "It was the first - and only - time in Starfleet history that a ship's design has been under the guidance of a single person - a single vision - aimed at creating a fully integrated ship."

Will's eyes widened in surprise. "Then why are these engines only being installed now?" Beverly interjected.

"This ship, the Enterprise E, was not intended to be brought into service as early as it was," Picard explained. "But after the Enterprise D was destroyed at Veridian Three, the completion of this ship was moved up - but the installation of the engines was delayed."

"Not technical problems, I hope," Will said worriedly. "I'm not thrilled about being a guinea pig for another engineer's experiments on warp propulsion." Once was enough for that, he thought emphatically.

"No," Picard assured him. "The delay was not... technical... in nature," he said slowly.

Sensing something in the man's voice, Deanna turned to him, but he was already going on, this second emotion fleeing as quickly as the first had.

"These engines do utilize a new theory - but I have been assured that they have been field tested quite thoroughly," Picard continued. "The lieutenant's reputation has been built, in part, on her steadfast refusal to allow Starfleet to utilize her designs until they meet her standards - which include being proven both effective - and safe. And more than once that's meant putting her career on the line," he added. "She's entitled to a certain degree of respect, Commander."

"Respect she's given, Captain," Will insisted.

"By calling her Biji?" he said doubtfully.

Deanna smiled. "Sir, it was the lieutenant's own suggestion."

Picard looked at her, puzzled.

"Indirectly," Will added with a smile. "Her second day on board, she called Geordi's staff together, and told them point blank, 'I'm Lt. Andile - but I know you all know me by another name. Let's not any of us pretend otherwise; I'm a bitch and we all know it. But Starfleet regs mean you'll end up in the brig if you call me by that, so I'll make it easy on you - you can call me B.G.' And they did - but within the week, B.G. had become Biji to half the crew."

"And to the other half?" he asked skpetically.

"She's 'the lieutenant'," Will said with a smile.  
The lieutenant, Picard thought, remembering both G'Sef's and Data's use of the specific article - as if there was only the one.

But considering her well-earned reputation, perhaps there was, he admitted. Still, he found himself frowning at the name. "Even so, it sounds disrespectful."

Will nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, understanding Picard's thoughts - but privately disagreeing with them. "I'll instruct the crew not to utilize that name."

"Sir, if I might..." Deanna offered.

Picard looked at her.

"Sir, not only does the lieutenant not object to the name, I believes she derives some degree of pleasure from it," she said.

"She enjoys being called a bitch?" Beverly said incredulously.

"No," Deanna said, turning to her. "No one would, Beverly. But they're not calling her that."

"But B.G. means..."

Deanna smiled. "What B.G. means is one thing - but 'Biji' is something else. The crew has rejected using those initials - which means they've rejected calling her a bitch. Instead, they've given her the name Biji out of their respect - and their affection.

"And she's aware of that affection, sir," she continued, looking back at Picard, "and I know she appreciates it - even if she doesn't admit that appreciation."

Picard raised an eye. "Oh? Why not?"

Deanna smiled. "For the same reasons you don't, sir," she said knowingly. "She's in a position of authority, of power and responsibility; she believes she has to maintain a professional distance from those around her. But that doesn't mean she doesn't appreciate it."

Picard pursed his lips, thinking. "I can't say I disagree with her attitude - but about that name... " He thought for a moment, then sighed. "For the moment, I won't interfere - providing the lieutenant doesn't object."

"She doesn't, sir," Will assured him.

"Then I'll withdraw my objection," he informed them.

"Yes, sir," Will said with a relieved glance at Deanna.

"Then Lt. Andile is overseeing the computer installation as well?" he continued as the four began to walk again, stopping moments later in front of the conference room doors.

"No, sir; strictly the engines," Will replied as the doors opened. "But with her knowledge of the inter-relationships of the ship's functions, she's been able to help Cmdr. James resolve many of the problems we've encountered," he said, leading the way into the room.

"And not just Cmdr. James, sir; Biji's been helping out in almost every department since she came aboard. Without her, I don't think we could have gotten the ship to where she is now," Geordi agreed, hurrying from his place at the table to greet the man. "Welcome back, Captain," he said, extending his hand.

"Thank you, Geordi," he replied, taking the hand, shaking it warmly. "It's good to be home - even if the ship isn't quite as I left her," he added.

Geordi grinned. "I understand, sir - but we were supposed to have a full year for the refit - not three months. And no one ever intended these computers or engines to be installed in less than three weeks, let alone in fifteen hours. The fact that we're managed to get both systems up and running - at least in part - in less than two days is a bit of a miracle - but we're a far cry from being ready to undertake a mission," he continued. "We're having problems bringing every system on-line; the interface between the iso-linear system and the bio-neural is balking when we try to initialize some of the programs - but no one knows why. Cmdr. James and Lt. Andile have been working to resolve the situation - but it's going to take time."

"How much time?" Picard asked worriedly.

"I don't know. A few days, a few weeks..." Geordi guessed.

"We don't have a few weeks," Picard said. "We don't even have a few days."

The others looked at him worriedly, then followed as he motioned them to take their places at the table.

"Where's Data?" he asked.

"On his way," Will informed him. "There were some last minute instructions from Starfleet..."

"Regarding?" Picard asked.

"Regarding last minute crew additions, sir," Data replied as the doors opened. Moving quickly to the captain's position, he handed him a padd, then took his place at the long table.

Picard glanced over the orders, then frowned.

"What is it, sir?" Deanna asked.

"It seems we're being diverted from our original course even before we've started our mission," he murmured. "Starfleet's sending us an additional crewmember - but the soonest he can get here is in eight hours - and they don't want us to wait that long. So we're to rendezvous with his ship instead. That will put us only four hours behind." He shook his head disapprovingly. Only four hours, he thought - but every hour was so critical.

Setting the padd down, he raised his head, looking over the familiar faces assembled before him, wondering how many more times they would be able to meet like this, then drew a deep breath.

"Three days ago," he said quietly, "the Federation Council was dissolved."

There was a shocked gasp from those gathered around the table - then silence as they waited patiently, their eyes meeting his with expressions of fear - and quiet resolve.

Picard studied them once again. "In the months and years that have followed the end of the Dominion war, the efforts of the Council have been focused on resolving the conflicts between ourselves, the Cardassians and the Romulans in the hopes that, having resolved those major conflicts, we could return to the goals on which the Federation was based - the peaceful exploration of the galaxy.

"But in attempting to resolve those conflicts, it had become apparent that we were doing so by ignoring many of the problems and concerns of the smaller, non-aligned worlds. Yes, there were efforts made to keep them in the Federation, to try to explain to them the benefits of maintaining their alliance with us - and yet, having done so, we then promptly turned our attentions back to the Romulans and the Cardassians - and ignored the concerns of the planets we had just sworn to attend to.

"We failed to keep our word to them - and in doing so, we have alienated them - and caused the Romulans and Cardassians to look upon us with grave suspicions - for if we could not keep our word to our smaller allies, how could we be expected to keep our promises to them?"

He sighed, shaking his head, wondering the same thing to himself - and wondering once again, just as he had when the news was first given to him, why no one had bothered to fulfill those promises when they were made. God knew that if there was anything the Federation had in excess, it was ambassadors, politicians who wanted nothing more than to spend their days standing as representatives of the Federation on those smaller worlds where their status, their position, would be elevated far above anything they could achieve on Earth.

And yet somehow they had failed in that task, Picard thought - though how so many could fail and so completely still bothered him - as had the fact that none of the others at the meetings had been able to adequately explain that failure.

But there would be time to analyze what had happened later - if there was a later, he added, looking back to the table.

"Our mission, then is to begin to rebuild that faith in the Federation," he informed them quietly, "by resolving the conflicts between ourselves, the Cardassians and the Romulans - as swiftly as possible - and presenting that new alliance to a final meeting of the Federation Council in three weeks. It is the hope of the Federation representatives that by doing so, by showing that we have resolved our major conflicts, that we are able and ready to fulfill our commitments to the other worlds who have given us their trust."

"And just how are we to do that, sir?" Will asked.

Picard smiled. "That Commander, is the difficult part - and our mission.

"Working on the theory that the negotiations have been so delayed due to the thick layers of bureaucracy exist between the actual negotiators and their governments, the Federation has made arrangements for the Cardassians, the Romulans and our own people to send a representative - a single representative with the authority and the power to act on behalf of their worlds - to negotiate an alliance among our the governments. Our mission is to meet those representatives, take them to a neutral, mutually agreed upon site, and allow them to work out a settlement - then return them to the Council chambers, hopefully in time for them to announce our new alliance - and to restore the faith of the non-aligned worlds in the Federation."

"And if we fail?" Beverly asked.

"If we fail - if we can not get the representatives to come to a mutual agreement, or if we can not get them to do so before that Council meeting, we may not have a Federation to return to," he replied grimly. "Already we're hearing reports of conflicts in half a dozen systems where factions are fighting to align with one government or another; there have already been dissolutions of two world governments and the break-out of a civil war on a third.

"Other ships have been sent to attempt to quiet those worlds - if possible," he added. "But if we don't get this situation under control, the same thing will happen throughout the quadrant - and we'll be back to where we were before the Federation existed, with each world trying to align itself with whatever government it sees as most advantageous to its own needs - and in seeing the more powerful worlds attempting to take over the weaker ones.

"Hundreds of thousands died in the Dominion War - but if this situation isn't resolved now, the wars to come will exact a far greater toll. Billions will die; our worlds, our civilizations as we know them, will be thrown back a thousand years - and we may never see the re-emergence of a Federation or its like again."

The people at the table stared at one another for a moment, the harsh reality of Picard's announcement sinking in.

"Captain, what about the Klingons?" Geordi finally asked.

"At the suggestion of the Federation representative to the Klingon government, the Chancellor has agreed to support the Federation in this matter," he said.

As well he should, Geordi added silently; after all, it had been the current Federation ambassador who had killed the previous Chancellor - though when Worf had killed Gowron, the position of Chancellor had become, by right and tradition, his. But Worf knew his own limitations, Geordi reminded himself; he might well make an excellent Chancellor - in time - but not at that moment. At that moment, the Klingons had needed someone they knew and respected, someone who had proven himself time and again as both a leader and as honorable, someone who would unify them in the battles against the Dominion and the Breen - and it had been through Worf that they had been provided with that leader.

So a payback of a grant of time and support was little enough to ask, Geordi thought - but it was a support that would fade as soon as the Klingon Empire found itself endangered, he knew equally well, whether Worf was there or not. If this mission failed...

If this mission failed, the Federation, whatever of it remained, would find itself battling with the Klingons just as they had for years - and this time, unified under a single, strong leader and with two years to have rebuilt their worlds and their people, they would have the upper hand - and the Federation might well be theirs.

A Federation, Geordi thought, run by the Klingons.

A grim idea, he thought with a shudder then turned his attention back to the captain.

"Sir," Will was saying, "based on the nature of the mission, I understand the Federation's recalling you - but why the rush the Enterprise through the engine and computer installations? There are half a dozen other ships in dock that could have carried out the mission with equal speed," he pointed out.

"I agree - and I raised that same point to the Admiralty. But the Enterprise is the flagship of the Federation, Will; sending her on the mission is meant not only as a symbol of respect to the representatives - but as a sign of good faith to the non-aligned world - that we're taking the situation seriously, that we're willing to put our best efforts into accomplishing this goal," he said.

"With a crew that's never worked together, virtually untested engines, and a computer systems that is riddled with flaws?" he asked dubiously.

"Take it as a compliment, Number One," Picard said with a smile. "Starfleet assumes we'll be able to overcome those problems as well as get our passengers to destination - and to a resolution - with our usual style."

Riker nodded - though somewhat grimly, Picard thought, watching the man. Something was bothering him, Picard thought; he had written it off to fatigue and stress early that morning, but seeing it rise in the man's face once again, he began to suspect it was something more, something greater than sheer exhaustion. But what, he didn't know - and couldn't take the time to learn, he reminded himself sternly. Whatever it was, Will was going to have to deal with it on his own - for now.

"For the moment, our main concern, outside of returning the ship to her normal function, must be with the ship's internal security; we need to make sure that our passengers will be safe," Picard continued.

"Do you think an attempt might be made on the representative's lives?" Deanna asked.

"Counselor, there are those who would like nothing better than to see this treaty between our worlds fail," he informed her. "The Federation has served not only to seek out and explore new life and new worlds - but to protect those worlds we have found and those we have colonized. There are many people and many worlds who would like to see that quest cease so they can explore those worlds for themselves without the restrictions that the Federation imposes - and others who would conquer those already colonized worlds for their own gain. We must assume, then, that there may be attempts made on the lives of the representatives - and against this ship."

"And we've just taken aboard over a thousand new crewmembers," Will remarked grimly. "Any one of them..."

"Or any of the four hundred others," Picard reminded him. Seeing the look of disbelief on Riker's face, he turned to the others and found similar expressions there. "The crew of this ship is no more exempt from having personal or political agendas than any other people, anywhere. We have been at war for two years - and for two years more, we have been struggling to find peace. Our people are as worried about their homes, their families, their lives as anyone is - and when confronted with worry, when confronted with fear, they can act, not from logic and reason, but from expedience and necessity. If they have been convinced that the fastest way to peace is through the dissolution of the Federation, then they will do what they can to speed that dissolution.

"There are other factors as well," he added with a sigh. "With the dissolution of the Federation, there will be opportunities for personal gain that would not otherwise exist. And none of us - not even Starfleet itself - is so altruistic that we would not stop to at least consider what personal benefits we might gain from a situation," he reminded them bitterly.

And unnecessarily, he added, seeing the expressions on their faces. They had all almost died trying to save the Ba'ku from the destruction of their world - a destruction sanctified by Starfleet in direct conflict with the Prime Directive, justified by the benefits that would be given by the destroying the planet's rings - and the planet itself - and collecting the metaphasic radiation held there.

We can justify anything, Beverly thought - if the rewards are high enough.

"Unfortunately, the need for increased Security awareness comes at a time when we can least grant it; with the problems we're encountering, we're going to be having people working in every area of the ship - and at times on systems with which they may not be completely familiar. It will, therefore, be your responsibility to oversee every aspect of the work of those under you - and to sort out legitimate errors and mistakes from those that may be deliberate," he said grimly. "At the same time, I need you all to be alert to what your people are saying - and not saying - to you and to their fellow crewmembers."

He sighed, giving a shake of his head. "I dislike this," he admitted. "I dislike the idea of having to... spy... on the crew of my own ship. I dislike the fact that we have been placed in a position where we can not trust one another to do our jobs and to carry out our mission." He shook his head again, staring at the table before him, then raising his head to look at the people before him.

"But our existence depends on this; our existence as an organization of exploration, of research, of science and of peace. For if we fail in our mission, we not only fail ourselves, but we fail the billions of others who are depending on us."

He hesitated for a moment, then looked at Geordi. "I'd like hourly updates on the status of the computers and the engines. I'd also like to meet with Cmdr. James and Lt. Andile as soon as possible," he added.

Geordi nodded. "Cmdr. James is working in the computer core right now. We could meet with her as soon as you want, sir."

"Fine. And Lt. Andile?" he asked.

"Finishing her upgrade on the replicators, sir," Data informed him.

"She's not in Engineering?" Picard replied, a little surprised; after such a rushed installation...

"No, sir," Geordi replied, seeing the concern in Picard's face. "There's nothing for her to do there right now; all we're doing at the moment is running a diagnostic program."

"Shouldn't she be overseeing that?" Picard asked perplexedly.

"Sir, they're simply routine programs - and the lieutenant's readily available if we need her," he added hurriedly.

"Nonetheless..." Picard began, but Will cut him off.

"Sir," he said quietly, "The lieutenant's a firm believer in the strength of crew morale being a direct factor on the results of any mission. She said it was imperative we be able to provide the crew with the basics of a safe, secure and suitable environment if this mission were to succeed - and that meant, among other things, being able to provide the crew with decent food. I assure you, though, she would not have left Engineering if she hadn't felt she could do so safely," he added quickly.

Picard began to object - then stopped. He had left the Enterprise in Will's hands, trusting the man to use his years of experience, knowledge and good judgment to keep her - and her crew - safe. To press him on this issue now would be to put that trust in doubt - and looking at Will's expression, he could see the man needed no more of that at the moment.

"But it is only the replicators," Will was continuing. "They can wait, if you want to meet with her..."

"No." Picard interrupted. "That meeting can wait," he said, then turned to Deanna. "Counselor, I'd like you to review the personnel logs of all crew members for anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary: extended or repeat trips to specific worlds, sudden changes in personal habits, changes in political affiliations... anything that might indicate that an individual is working for a foreign government," he said grimly.

"Sir, if we do have a spy aboard the ship, it's doubtful anything will be documented in their files," she reminded him.

"Agreed - but a spy is one thing - and someone working out of a change in political beliefs, or toward the safety of their families and their homes is something else entirely. And in any case, I'm hoping that the Admiralty is wrong," he said quietly. "I'm hoping that the faith and trust I've developed in the people of this crew extends to all who have come aboard her.

"But I'm not going to risk the safety of the Federation on that hope," he added, looking at them all. "But neither will I risk the careers of those who do have differing political and personal beliefs. If you do find someone whose loyalty may be at risk, I will meet with them - and if I am uncertain of their reliability, they will be removed from duty for the duration of this mission - but no further action will be taken against them. This is not a witch hunt; we are not looking to persecute anyone for what they believe. I am simply trying to ensure the safety of this crew and of this mission."

The others nodded solemnly.

"Doctor, you will meet with Dr...?"

He hesitated, forgetting the physician's name.

"Matthews," she replied.

"Matthews," he agreed.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Then unless there's anything else...?" he said,

"Yes, sir," Will interjected.

Picard raised an eye to him.

"Sir, in view of the situation aboard, I believe it is imperative that we assign someone to the post of head of Security," Riker said. "I recommend Cmdr. Data..."

"I had considered the same thing myself," Picard agreed, nodding at the android, "but Starfleet has seen fit to assign someone to that post," he said, gesturing at the padd Data had given him. "No offense intended, Mr. Data," Picard added. "I'm certain you would make a fine Security officer."

"No offense taken, sir. But as the situation stands, it would be difficult for me to properly address the needs of that role as well as my current position as operations officer and reviewing the computer and engine installations; I am up to my keister in work as it is," he said smoothly.

Five pairs of eyes turned to him, Will's bright with merriment. "Excuse me?" he said. "'Keister', Data?" he asked.

Data looked at him, confused. "Yes, sir. A slang term meaning buttocks. Backside. Derriere. Behind. Bum."

"I know what it means," Will replied, chuckling.

"We all know what it means," Picard echoed.

"It's just not something we expected from you," Data," Geordi added.

"Ah," Data said, still perplexed. "Ah!" he added a moment later, understanding dawning on him. "You are surprised by my utilization of slang," he explained to himself more than to the others. "The lieutenant has been encouraging me to increase my use of colloquialisms in daily conversation," he explained, then looked at Picard, adding, "but when I informed the lieutenant that you seemed to disapprove of her term, 'kicking ass and taking names' and she informed me that the word 'ass', at least in the manner in which she used it, was considered an inappropriate vulgarism. She therefore suggested using another, less offensive term and recommended employing it only in situations where I felt the individuals present would not be offended. You were not offended, were you , sir?" he added, puzzled.

"No," Picard agreed. "Just... surprised."

"Data, there is a time and a place for slang," Will volunteered.

"And an art to using it," Geordi offered.

"Ah," he sighed. "So the lieutenant indicated. And I have mastered neither," he sighed, crestfallen.

Picard stared at him for a moment, thinking, then nodded to the gathering. "Then if there's nothing else?"

When no one said anything, he tapped his badge. "Picard to Bridge. Make preparations to leave dock. Notify me when Spacedock Command gives us our departure clearances."

"Yes, sir."

Rising from the table with the others, he nodded to Will. "Number One, Counselor, you'll join me in our meetings with Cmdr. James and Lt. Andile," he informed the two. "The rest of you have your assignments," he said, watching as the others silently rose from the table. "Oh, and Mr. Data?"

The android turned to him.

"Next time, try saying, 'I'm up to my neck in work'," he advised with a smile. "It, too is a colloquialism - but I assure you no one will be offended," he advised.

Data considered the phrase for a moment, then nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, sir. I shall do so."

He turned and left, leaving Will and Picard alone in the room.

Picard gave the first officer a rueful glare. "This," he informed the taller man, "is why I hate taking leave. I'm gone for three months - and I come back to find my rule-bound, protocol-oriented transporter chief voicing team philosophies and group-driven goals; my android second officer spouting ancient Earth slang rife with vulgarisms, and half my crew calling the most respected engine designer in Starfleet history something just short of a chargeable offense," he sighed. "Anything else you want to tell me about?"

Riker grinned again. "I thought I'd save the rest for tomorrow," he said mischievously. "I didn't want to scare you off your first day back."

Picard studied him, uncertain if the man was having him on - then realizing that Will himself was equally uncertain about the changes he was about to find on his ship.

Welcome back, he thought to himself. 


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth TNG Part: 13?  
Rating: R (violence and language)  
Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.  
Archives: ASC certainly; anyone else, please ask.  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this.  
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis.  
Feedback is welcome.

Chapter 13

Geordi gave a sigh, then shrugged as he handed the padd back to Picard. "Sir, I'm going to have to take it on faith - and on the word of Starfleet Command - that Cmdr. James' installation is going to work as well in fact as it does on the computer simulations. There's nothing here that indicates the hybridization ratios of bio-neural cells and iso-linear chips are markedly better - or even markedly different - than anything we've seen in the past. As far as I'm concerned, this is just a refinement - not a new system. But," he added quickly, "I'm not an expert in this type of system."

Picard glanced at the padd, then looked around the operations office of the computer core, as if the changes that were described on the device in his hand should somehow be reflected by changes to the room itself. But the room, like the computer itself, had only been altered in small, subtle ways; the power monitors, processing analyzers, and environmental controls that covered the walls and the filled the center of the room were little different than the ones he had left three months before - though here and there a new tell-tale flashed as the machines constantly adjusted the environment of the massive torus that reached through the height of the ship's core, housing the millions of bio-neural cells that held the memory of every aspect of the ship's functions, maintaining the optimum conditions for the living cells to survive.

Optimum conditions, he mused: thirty-six point five degrees Centrigrade, thirty-eight point three percent humidity, nutrient solutions of electrolytes and sugars continuous being pumped in, waste products removed... functions, he thought uncomfortably, little different than those of a living being.

Except no living being required the presence of the gas berezine to maintain its functions, he reminded himself.

Admittedly, the berezine was present in the core in very small quantity - only two parts per million. Weak enough that one could walk through the core and emerge with nothing more than a mild tingle where the acidic fumes had chewed through the surface layers of their skin - but strong enough to maintain the permeability of the bio-neural cell's surface membranes, allowing the nutrients to pass in and out more easily.

Still, the technicians knew better than to expose themselves to it too often, he reminded himself, glancing at the cabinets that housed the environment suits they wore when working within the core - just as they knew to constantly monitor the temperature of the gas; at thirty-six degrees, the gas was stable - but let the temperature climb too high...

But if the core were to get hot enough for the berezine to become unstable, Picard thought grimly, a berezine explosion was going to be the least of their problems.

Providing we can get the system to work in the first place, he added wearily.

"You may not be an expert, Commander," Sandra James interjected quickly - and a little haughtily, "But I am. And this is not simply a change in the ratios, but a whole new integration system. Rather than trying to force two inherently incompatible systems to function together - and in doing so, duplicating a number of their functions - I have analyzed the functionality of both systems, taken the best points of each, and reconfigured the processors to utilize those features to maximize their efficiency and minimize their redundancies."

Deanna stared at the woman, surprised at the speed with which she had recovered her emotional equilibrium. At the conference table two days before, she had seemed completely stunned by the necessity of having to rearrange her plans for the installation - almost to the point of being unable to function. That hesitancy, that inability to respond to a rapid change in the situation had worried the empath; one of the features that marked most Starfleet officers was their ability to cope with change - and to respond to it, quickly and efficiently - and Sandra did not seem to have been gifted with that ability.

But that had been two days before, she reminded herself quietly; the shock of the sudden change in orders had faded - and, if her behavior now was any clue, she had managed to get her mental feet beneath her once again. In fact, Deanna thought, she seemed to have them a little too securely in place; Sandra was not only getting a little cocky in her responses to Geordi, she was verging on being downright rude!

Obviously the captain must have thought so as well, Deanna realized, sensing the tightening in the man's emotions - and seeing the tensing of his back and shoulder muscles. Sandra James might well be the newest and brightest star on his ship, she thought - but if she didn't mind her manners, he was going to see to it that that star was quickly doused.

Or at least dimmed, Deanna added; the captain appreciated the enthusiasm of youth and the new ideas it brought - but in its place and in its measure.

Making a mental note to discuss the need for appropriate behavior with Cmdr. James - and quickly - she turned her attention back to the three.

"I know you're familiar with iso-linear chips," the tall, blonde, computer chief was in the process of explaining. "They're probably what you grew up with in your computers," she added, giving Geordi a reassuring - if patronizing smile, then turned to Picard - and to Deanna's horror, began to explain.

"Iso-linear chips, Captain, were the standard of memory storage and basic processing information for many years. By encoding data into a fixed matrix..." she was saying, her voice growing slightly louder even as she simplified her words.

Deanna cringed.

But Picard simply smiled, raising a hand to stop the woman. "Commander, I am familiar with iso-linear chips," he said evenly.

The surprise on the woman's face was obvious. "Oh. Yes. Of course, you would have had to learn something about them..." she murmured to herself as if rationalizing the man's knowledge, then looked at him again. "The problem with iso-linear chip is that they are limited. You see a capacities of a chip are..."

"Finite, both in storage and in processing abilities and speed," he replied smoothly.

Sandra James looked at him in disbelief, then forced a condescending smile to her face. "Yes, sir. Very good!" she added. "Now in contrast, bio-neural cells..."

"Have a more flexible memory capacity and processing capability because of their ability to re-route information along different neural pathways, as an organic brain can do," he concluded, growing impatient. "Yes, yes, Commander; we all understand the basic of the two systems," he said brusquely.

The woman, however, merely smiled at his response. "Well, sir, the basics are just that - basic. The reality is that the two systems are really quite complex - but to explain it in full would take quite a bit of time," she said.

Time she wasn't about to waste on him, Deanna realized, aghast. The woman was not only digging a hole for herself, she was jumping into it.

"Let's just say that rather than trying to find a ratio of iso-linear to bio-neural processors that maximizes efficiency, I've reconfigured the structure of the computer system to take advantage of each processors strengths and minimize their weaknesses. By encoding the basic, immutable functions and data of the ship into the iso-linear chips which don't require a high degree on processing adaptability, such as propulsion, navigation, life-support and so on, I've allowed the bio-neural cells to be focused on the remaining functions which do require more flexibility, such as data searches, comparative analysis, projections."

"Providing you can install the remaining programs," Will interjected.

Sandra looked at him coldly. "Sir, whatever is causing this problem is not the fault of my system..."

"Then the diagnostics have been completed?" Picard interrupted, looking puzzled. "I saw no mention of that in your report."

"Sir, the installation of the remaining programs wasn't dependent on the outcome of the diagnostics," the woman argued. "Rather than wait, I've continued..."

"To install programs in a system with an idiopathic fault?" he completed, his eyes widening in astonishment. "Commander..."

"Sir, it's nothing! It's... a superficial fault. Some missed connection, some processor error..." she began - but seeing the angry disapproval in his eyes, quickly stopped.

"Commander," he said, choking back his rapidly growing rage, "you do not know what causing this interface problem; you do not know why some - but not all - of the ship's programs are refusing to function - and yet you are continuing to install additional programs, even before you've completed the analysis of the computer diagnostics?" he asked.

Sandra James swallowed heavily.

"You have run the diagnostics, haven't you?" Picard pressed.

"Sir, it's an interface glitch!" she protested. "Your don't run a complete diagnostic for a glitch! It's a minor problem..." she insisted confidently.

Too confidently, Deanna thought, watching her, sensing her outward bluster was covering an inner layer of uncertainty.

But why? she wondered. She was right; Starfleet had given the system its blessing. If there was some basic, underlying problem to the new equipment or the system itself, they would never have approved it for the flagship of the 'fleet.

But that, Deanna might be the very problem the woman was confronting: this was the flagship of the Federation - and the man she was confronting was one of the most respected captains in its history. She might well feel she had to present a strong outward appearance - even if she felt little of that strength within.

It wasn't necessary, Deanna thought to herself, wishing she had had the time to talk with the young woman before this meeting, to help to understand that the captain valued openness and honesty in his crew above all else - and that trying to bluff her way through a problem would do nothing to put her in good stead with the man.

Nor was her new rank helping her, Deanna knew. Despite her demeanor, there was no question in the empath's mind that Sandra James did not think herself an equal to the Chief Engineer - and certainly not a mere two levels below the captain. And yet, there was a superiority in her attitude that was astounding - even offensive, Deanna thought, amazed.

Perhaps that was it, she thought; perhaps she, like so many other experts in a specialized field of study, were so enrapt in their own skills, abilities and knowledge, that they considered everyone else to be little more than dilettantes, pretenders in a realm of experts.

A four-year tour through the Academy wouldn't have had time to change that naive and childish outlook, Deanna knew - nor would have a mere two years on board a starship. And certainly the sudden recognition of her work and nearly instant promotion to lieutenant commander would have done nothing to expand her ability to recognize and appreciate the knowledge - and more importantly, the experience - of those around her.

But those were lessons she was going to have to learn - and quickly - if she was going to stay aboard this ship, Deanna thought to herself, making a mental note to meet with Will as soon as feasible to discuss the woman... and, she added glumly, to discuss Will himself.

She sighed. It would be relatively simply to call Sandra James into her office for a routine introductory meeting. Getting Will to meet with her, professionally... now that, she thought, was going to be awkward.

I've counseled him before - but never since we became lovers - or at least, not this time around, she reminded herself. I'm not even sure if I can treat him now, at least not ethically, considering that we are involved. But then again, I've had to help others for whom I've had deep feelings at some level or another - and I still managed to counsel them.

It would just be a matter of compartmentalizing her feelings toward the man, she decided firmly; of putting away her feelings toward him, of listening to his concerns and directing his emotional growth so that he could resolve those problems... Unless, of course, those problems were about her.

And if it is me, she worried, what do I do then?

Ask the captain to talk to him? she thought - then dismissed the idea. The captain was no more equipped to handle Will's affairs of the heart than he was his own.

Beverly? Perhaps, she thought - but Beverly had been their strongest supporter during the last two years. Just as the captain's lack of emotions disqualified him, Beverly's desire to keep the two of them together would eliminate her as well.

Which left... Whom? she wondered.

She sighed, idly wondering if there was enough time to get a second Counselor from Starfleet - then disregarded that idea as well.

No. Will rarely felt he needed Counseling at all - and on those few times he felt it necessary, he had talked to her only because of their long history together. To ask him to bare his soul to a total stranger would be impossible.

Well, she admitted, not impossible; he certainly had opened up to Biji the first time they had met.

But that, she decided, may well have been the effect of the half-bottle of Scotch she had served Will.

Deanna gave a silent laugh. Now that, she thought, was an idea. A good meal, a bottle of wine... It wasn't listed in the standard approaches to Counseling, she reminded herself - but a good Counselor does what she has to do.

Including paying attention, she added, feeling a sudden surge in the captain's emotions.

"...and have the analysis on my desk in one hour!" he snapped, then turned from the computer chief, heading for the door that led from the control room back into the main corridor, the other three following him quickly.

But despite the determination in his stride, he stopped as soon as he reached the hallway, turning to face the others, his face unreadable - but his thoughts utterly apparent to those who knew him.

He was embarrassed, Geordi knew; he had lost his temper in front of a new crewmember - and in front of his bridge staff - and neither was an acceptable in the set of strict rules that Picard imposed on himself. In any one of them, such rare behavior would have elicited nothing more than a minor comment - but in himself... Geordi shook his head. The captain was not going to forgive himself easily - even though, he added, it was quite understandable.

Who the hell trained her? he wondered, shaking his head at the unbelievable lack of follow-through Sandra James had shown. No routine installation diagnostics, for heaven's sake! No systems analysis! "Not the fault of my equipment!" he thought to himself - as though no piece of gear had ever been damaged in installation - or needed a final tuning once it was installed! Who the devil did she think she was? Richard Daystrom himself?!

He shook his head once again - then gave a glance at the captain. Even so, even after such a reprehensible performance and complete lack of professionalism, Sandra James was going to get off with little more than a long talk from Deanna - and a longer talk from him, he added.

The captain, however, would not let himself off nearly as easily - and not at all while they were standing there with him.

Hoping to give the man a chance to make peace with himself, Geordi turned to Riker. "Commander, before we meet with Biji, I though you and I should review the training protocol she's been developing..." he said with a quick glance down the busy corridor.

Will caught the significance of the gesture at once. "Of course," he agreed, even though he had reviewed the protocol with each addition Andile had made to it. "If you'll excuse us for a moment," Will added to Picard.

The older man looked up from his silent reverie, then gave a brief nod, pretending that he, too, believed they needed to discuss the matter.

"This is Cmdr. James' first time as a project leader, sir," Deanna finally said, her voice low, quiet, carefully measured.

He said nothing.

"She needs time - and guidance - in learning how to deal with those who are not in her field - and in learning how to handle situations," she reminded him.

"Training and guidance that Captain Howard should have provided her while she was still aboard the Excalibur," Picard grumbled.

"Yes, sir," Deanna agreed. "He should have - but he may not have had the time - or the crew - available to give her that training during the war," she reminded him.

"The war's been over for two years," he replied.

"Yes, sir - and in those two years, Cmdr. James' knowledge and abilities has kept her in demand. She's been given a quick series of promotions because of that knowledge - but not the training or discipline that usually accompanies those promotions," Deanna reminded him.

"Regardless, she's been in Starfleet long enough to have learned better..." He let his voice trail off, then gave a shake of his head, studying the floor in silent unhappiness. As have I, he reminded himself bitterly; as have I.

Deanna studied him as he shook his head, feeling his embarrassment, his shame, his regret at his actions - and feeling something else, something much deeper as well.

"Sir?" she said at last.

He glanced up, meeting her gaze.

"You don't want to meet with Lt. Andile, do you?" she asked quietly.

His eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" she replied bluntly. "Your response to Cmdr. James was not so much because of what she was doing - but because of your own anxiety about Lt. Andile. You're very concerned about this meeting with her," she said, opening herself to his emotions, feeling her confidence in assessing what he was feeling growing with each moment. "You're afraid..."

"Not afraid, Counselor," he said instantly.

"You're concerned," she amended, "that you're going to appear as inept with her as Cmdr. James did with you - and that bothers you," she said.

"As well it should!" he retorted. "She is, after all, the foremost engine designer in Starfleet! She designed this ship - and her opinion about how she's been run since then..."

"Is not what you're worried about," Deanna countered gently. "Professionally, you know you've done the best with this ship and her crew as any captain could do. You're concern is with the lieutenant personally..." A thought struck Deanna. "Sir... Do you know the lieutenant?" she asked at last.

He hesitated, then sighed, glanced at the floor - and gave a reluctant nod. "Not personally," he said after a moment's pause. "Only in passing. I was at the Academy when she was there."

Deanna's eyes widened, her concern quickly fading to pleasure. "But that's wonderful, sir! Even if you didn't know each other, I'm sure you had classmates in common! This will be a wonderful chance for the two of you to catch up on old times..."

"No," he said interrupting her sharply. "You don't understand. We weren't classmates, Counselor. The lieutenant was one of the instructors."

"Oh," Deanna said, beginning to understand.

"Oh?" he echoed, raising a brow in surprise at the simple response; he had half expected her to do what she usually did - take his statement, turn it into a question - and turn it back upon him.

Deanna smiled. "I think I understand. Despite your rank - and hers - in your mind's eye, you still see her as a Starfleet professor - and placing her back in that position in your mind, you've moved yourself back into the position you once held with her - a student. A cadet, once again - and about to be reviewed by a superior officer.

"But you're not that cadet any more. You're a Starfleet captain - and here, now, you are her superior officer," she reminded him.

"Easily said," he replied.

Deanna smiled. "But not so easily accepted," she agreed. "I know. But I also know the lieutenant - if only a little. Despite her strength of personality..."

A nice way of saying she earned her nickname, Picard thought to himself.

"... she is a Starfleet officer," she reminded Picard. "In order to transfer aboard for this mission, sir, she had to accept a position as assistant to Cmdr. LaForge. That's a big step down from what she was at Utopia Planitia - but she's taken it in stride. Likewise, she may have been your instructor..."

"No," Picard interrupted her instantly, "she wasn't one of my teachers."

Deanna gave him a puzzled look, surprised at the vehemence in his voice, then dismissed it; he was still tired from the sudden recall, still troubled by whatever had happened with Anij, she insisted to herself; certainly some problem at the Academy wouldn't be bothering him - not after more than fifty years!

"In any case," she continued as smoothly as she could, "while she may have been an instructor at the Academy, here, you're the captain. She knows that - and if anyone is going to have a problem with that, it's not going to be the lieutenant," she said.

Picard studied her for a moment, hearing the unvoiced question - then shook his head. "And neither will I, Counselor," he assured her.

He drew a deep breath, set his shoulders and his emotions firmly into place - then graced her with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Counselor. And now... now, I think it's time I finally meet the good lieutenant." 


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth TNG Part: 14?  
Rating: R (violence and language)  
Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.  
Archives: ASC certainly; anyone else, please ask.  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this.  
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis.  
Feedback is welcome.

Chapter 14

"...a power fluctuation has developed in one of the tertiary conduits of zero point zero zero three per cent," Geordi was saying as he directed Picard, Will and Deanna into the center of the Engineering bay.

"But that's well within tolerances," Will argued as he followed the man into the huge room.

"In Starfleet's tolerances, yes - but Biji... Lt. Andile," he amended quickly, "has a different set of tolerances for her engines than Starfleet has. More like intolerances," he added. "If she can't explain it, it shouldn't be there."

"A good philosophy," Picard said.

"Yes, sir - in theory," Geordi agreed, "but in practicality, it's wreaking havoc with my department," he sighed as he looked around the room.

It should be neat, Geordi thought to himself; neat and tidy - with a place for everything, and everything in its place. When everything was as it should, he knew his department was running smoothly, evenly, as close to perfect as it could be. But looking as it did now... He sighed, keeping his mouth closed, but unable to keep the unhappiness from his eyes.

Following his pained gaze around the room, Picard understood the man's discomfort - and empathized. Things were out of order: something here was wrong.

Not that the signs were obvious; despite Will's retelling of the chaos that had filled the room during the previous two days, there was only one sign that anything was still awry - but one sign, on the dawn of a mission this important, was enough to worry them all.

Studying the floor ahead of them, Picard saw two panels had been removed from the deck and were now leaning against a bulkhead, giving the crew access to part of the kilometers of optic cables and wiring conduits that connected the ship's systems - but simultaneously threatening to give any one else who passed by to take a painful and unexpected fall into the very bowels of the ship. Assorted tools lay scattered around the openings, a further threat to the safety of the still slightly disorganized department - and earning the further disapproval of ship's captain.

But he pressed his lips tightly together, refusing to comment - for now, he added, making a mental note of what he saw.

A moment later, he added another, but somewhat different, note to that list.

Despite the seeming disregard for the safety of the remaining crew, as the four drew closer to the opening he could see that the heavy metal floor panels had neatly stowed, tightly secured against the bulkhead; it was going to take a major shaking of the ship to break them free. Around the opening itself, the faint shimmer in the air gave evidence to the presence of a low-level force field - strong enough to gently push any distracted crewman back from the opening, but weak enough so the emanations didn't affect the readings of the workers inside the passage.

Someone was taking a great deal of care, he thought - but not quite enough. The tools were still unsecured. Safe, Picard conceded; the force field would keep anyone from tripping on them - but their presence still rankled him.

It just wasn't up to his expectations - or to Geordi's.

Or to someone else's he quickly realized.

"Hand me the micro-spanner," came a soft, richly accented feminine voice drifting up from beneath the open floor section.

There was a momentary pause, then a anxious murmur, then...

"You don't have it, do you?" asked the voice, clearly exasperated.  
"Where's your tool belt, Lieutenant?"

"Lieutenant," came a plaintive male voice, "I can't wear one of those things! I know you like them, but they get in my way..."

"A good engineer learns to make way for the proper equipment," returned the softer voice. "Having your tools with you on a job means that you're prepared to handle a situation quickly and efficiently; you know what you have, you know where it belongs, and you don't have to spend time searching before, during or after a job."

There was a moment of silence.

"And you don't endanger anyone else," added the voice, frustration turning to anger and disappointment. "You left everything above - again - didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," came the reply, chagrined. "But with the field on..."

"With the field on, no one outside will be hurt," she said tiredly, obviously having heard the argument before. "But what about me? What about you? What if we take a shaking..."

"We're in dock!" returned the protestation.

"Of course! And we'll never have a problem when we're on a mission! All our problems come only when we're in the safety of a spacedock!" The sarcasm in the woman's voice quickly faded. "Lieutenant... John," she said, her voice growing softer, gentler, "learn now to act efficiently - and safely. Start that habit now, because you won't have time when an emergency does hit. And if a tool belt doesn't work for you, get a pouch, a pocket vest - whatever! - and load your equipment in it and wear it."

"Cmdr. LaForge doesn't wear one," came the sullen protest.

"He does when the situation calls for it!" she retorted, then instantly softened her tone. "John, we all find ways that work for us as individuals," she said, a edge of strength growing in her tone. "You need to do the same: try every option you're offered and see what works for you. Only a fool refuses to take hold of an advantage when it's offered to him. And you're many things, John, but you're not a fool. You are a good engineer," she added, "and you have the potential to be a great engineer - so take hold of every opportunity presented to you to become that engineer. Try a tool belt, try a pouch; give them a chance - a real chance - for a month at least, and see if they work for you."

"Yes, ma'am," came the reply, then, after a moment's hesitation, "You weren't just saying that, were you, ma'am?" he asked nervously. "About being a great engineer?"

A laugh, as delicate and musical as wind chimes on a summer's breeze, drifted up from the opening in the floor.

Picard felt a long-forgotten chill run up his spine.

"You have the potential, John," she said, the faith in her voice tugging at the depths of Picard's soul, "to be whatever you want to be - but it's up to you what you do with it. If being a great engineer is what you want from life, then that's what you can be - when you're ready to do the work it requires," she said confidently, assuringly.

"But you're not going to be anything if we don't get this power fluctuation resolved," she added, her voice growing serious as she returned to the lesson at hand. "Now get me the spanner. A power leakage of that low voltage suggests that we're possibly looking for a damaged cable rather than an out-and-out short," she informed him quietly, "which means we need to open the conduit at each junction and test the line for power flow. It's tedious - but in an emergency..."

"... we'll be prepared," replied the voice, the smile audible in it, the lesson learned - and taken to heart.

As Picard watched, the head and shoulders of a young man appeared in the open panel, searching over the tools for the correct one, grabbing the correct one - then stopping short as he saw the four pairs of black boots meeting him at eye level.

Startled, he froze at the sight - then began to slowly turn his gaze up toward the faces over him, his expression turning from surprise to embarrassment to horror as he realized who was watching - and listening - to him.

"Captain Picard," he whispered.

"John!" called the voice from the floor.

"The spanner, Lieutenant?" Picard said, gesturing to the tool in the young man's hand.

Numbly, he nodded, opening his hand reflexively and dropping the spanner - and was rewarded by a sharp yelp.

"Lieutenant!" he cried, turning white at the sound - and at the realization of what he had just done - and, ignoring the officers, quickly dropped back into the hole. "Are you all right?"

"By the gods, Lieutenant!" came the sharp voice, growing louder as he helped his instructor to her feet, trying to peer under the hand she had pressed to her forehead. "That's precisely why you need to keep your equipment under control! Dropping a valuable tool not only endangers the equipment, but you could have really hurt someone!"

"Yes, ma'am," the lieutenant said humbly - then quickly looked from the tiny woman to the four officers and back again, confused, uncertain whether he should apologize or try to announce their presence to her - or both.

She stared at him, puzzled by his confused behavior, then following his gaze, slowly turned, staring first at the boots, then raising her eyes up to meet their owner's faces. "Oh, hello," she said quietly, seemingly unperturbed.

"Can you spare us a few minutes, Lieutenant?" Geordi asked. "The captain would like a report on what's happening," he explained.

She nodded, then turned back to the anxious man beside her. "I want you to continue this conduit check," she said smoothly, "but first: go get a tool belt or a pouch. Put your equipment in it - neatly, so you know where everything is - and then finish this check. Have the report on my desk before you're off duty," she added sternly. "And make sure you keep this field up; dropping a spanner on my head is one thing - but a fall into one of these pits could kill someone," she warned.

He nodded, chagrined, then turned to slowly begin collecting the loose tools as Will leaned over the restraining field to offer the engineer a hand. Reaching up, she took it - and felt herself lifted in one easy move from the open panel, over the restraining field and onto the floor beside the others.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Riker asked, quickly recovering his footing. He had braced himself for the effort of lifting her up - and had just caught himself before he fell backwards, his body having braced itself for a considerably greater weight than he had encountered. 

She couldn't weigh more than forty-five kilos, he thought to himself, shocked at how tiny the woman truly was.

"Oh, yes, sir," she replied easily, ignoring his worried stare, dusting off her uniform and tugging her sleeves back into their overly long places. "It's going to take more than that tiny spanner to dent this thick skull," she added tapping her own forehead, though the rapidly spreading bruise seemed to belie the easy way she tossed off the event.

"You sure?" Geordi asked worriedly. "That bruise looks pretty bad. Maybe you should go to Sickbay..."

Andile laughed again, the sound still soft, delicate - and heartfelt. "I'm fine, Commander. And I'm certain the captain would like his report now, rather than after whatever delay the good doctors in Sickbay would deem necessary," she added, looking at Picard.

He nodded, then glanced at Will, waiting.

For...? Will wondered - then understood what the man wanted. An introduction - a proper introduction - to the woman before them.

That was unusual, Will thought, a little surprised at the tacit request for such a formality. Usually the captain didn't bother with that part of the protocol, introducing himself as need be - and already knowing the names and faces of those who served beneath him.

But Andile was not serving beneath him, Will realized a moment later. True, she was a crew member for the duration of this mission, but in the captain's eye, she was more - much more. She designed this ship, she designed these engines - she was responsible for creating or working on half the ships that were coming out of Utopia Planitia these days - and that, Will realized, merited a huge level of respect. Respect that she had earned - and that the captain was going to give her - starting with a proper introduction.

"Captain," he said quickly, "may I introduce, Lt. Andile, formerly of the Utopia Planitia shipyards, temporarily assigned to the Enterprise E? Lt. Andile, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise."

As he watched, Picard stepped close to the woman, his eyes locked on hers - then realized Andile's eyes were focused on Picard's as well.

"Professor... Excuse me, Lieutenant Andile," he said quietly, extending his hand to her.

She ignored the slip, reaching to take the hand in hers. "Captain Picard," she responded warmly.

It was Geordi's turn to feel a shiver run up his spine; Andile had pronounced the captain's name as he had heard others from the captain's native land say it, softening the 'r' to an 'h', and drawing out the syllables, turning the hard consonants into supple, silken susurrations.

It was almost erotic, he thought to himself - then shook off the idea. The captain was old enough to be his father - and Beej - well, she was old enough to be the Captain's mother - and the idea of either of them... and together...?

He shook his head, refusing to entertain the possibility that there was - or ever had been - anything between the two.

So why, he asked himself a moment later, were their hands still clasped? And why were they still staring at each other?

"Excuse me," he said at last, "but do you two know each other?"

They stared at each other a moment longer, then both began to speak at the same time.

"I'm sure the Lieutenant doesn't remember..." Picard began.

"We haven't actually met, Commander, but..." Andile started - then they both stopped, an awkward laugh rising from each of them as they each released the other's hand.

"I wouldn't call it a meeting, but the captain sat in on one of my warp physics classes his freshman year," Andile explained. "With Jay Tillerman, if I remember correctly."

"You do," Picard agreed, obviously impressed - and, Geordi thought, a little relieved. "Jay Tillerman was a senior when I was a freshman - and somehow, we ended up rooming together that first year," he explained to the others. "He invited me to sit in on the warp physics class with him one day so that I could see what I was in for in my second year," he explained to the others present.

"More likely he was trying to scare you into leaving," Andile interposed. "You were going to present him with a bit of competition in the years to come, sir - and it was going to be easier to scare you out before you became a threat to his dreams of being a captain. It was a tactic that worked with some of the others he brought in to my classes," she added, "but I doubt one professor, no matter how intimidating her reputation, would have put you off anything you wanted, Captain," she said quietly.

He bowed his head. "Indeed," he said mildly.

"He never did make captain, did he?" she added quietly. "Lieutenant commander, I think, then left for... the diplomatic corps?" she asked uncertainly.

Picard nodded, his eyes widening; did she follow all her students' careers so carefully? he asked himself.

A slight tinge of pink came to the woman's otherwise colorless face - then she stepped back, tugging her sleeves down over her wrists, kneading them briefly with the opposing hand. "You'll be wanting the report on the engines, I assume," she said, deftly changing the topic.

Brought back to the present, Picard nodded. "Indeed."

"A full report would take hours - but I've given Cmdr. Riker a detailed report on every aspect of the installation, along with my notes on our progress and status..."

Picard glanced at his first officer, then back at the woman. "All I received was a brief summary," he said flatly.

"Yes, sir," Will began to explain, but Andile cut him off.

"My apologies, sir," she quickly interjected. "When I file a report, I always include a brief synopsis as well. With the amount of work that's going on here, I didn't think Cmdr. Riker - or you," she quickly added, "would want to have to read a hundred page report every night, especially when ninety percent is just dry statistics. So I write summaries on each report; if you need to pull out specifics, it'll link into the main report at a touch. My error," she added. "I should have written out the details of the preparation in that cover page so you would have understood."

"The error, Lieutenant," Will interrupted, "was mine."

Picard glanced at Will, then back at Andile. "Whose ever error it was," he interrupted, cutting off the two, "the idea is a sound one. And you're quite right," he added, looking at Andile once again, reading several hundred pages of numbers and data every night can be overwhelming. Indeed, perhaps you could begin to teach some of the other officers about this technique..."

"Yes, sir," Will agreed.. "In fact, we have already begun to do so," he said evenly.

Picard gave a brief nod, approving the man's fast work - but then, Picard admitted to himself, Will was never one to turn down a good idea. "Excellent, Commander, Lieutenant. Now, about the engines...?"

Andile nodded. "Yes, sir. Would you prefer the specifics of the installation or an overview of the theory - or both?"

"I'd prefer both," he admitted, "but..."

"But you're the captain and you have a thousand things to do," she agreed. "The short version then." She drew a deep breath, let it out - then met his gaze.

"Cochrane's warp field physics allows us to go almost up to warp ten - but no further," she said.

There was a nod of agreement from the others present.

She looked at their serious faces - and grinned.

"This ship goes to eleven." 


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth TNG Part: 15?  
Rating: R (violence and language)  
Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes aboard to help oversee the implementation of her newest engine design.  
Archives: ASC certainly; anyone else, please ask.  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this.  
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis.  
Feedback is welcome.

Chapter 15

Picard gaped - then shook his head.

"That's not possible," he insisted. "According to the best warp physicists in the field, travel at or beyond warp ten is impossible."

Andile nodded. "True. Of course, according to the best minds of the nineteenth century on your Earth, travel above fifteen miles an hour in a train was impossible because the travelers wouldn't be able to breath when they were moving that fast. Breaking the sound barrier was impossible. Flight into space was impossible. Landing on the moon was impossible." She chortled merrily. "According to experts, the speed of light was the maximum speed possible - and they said that until the morning of April 7, 2063. Sir, the experts are always happy to let you know something can't be done, right up until the moment you do it.

"I, on the other hand, prefer simply to do the impossible, and let the experts argue about it later," she added with a smile. "It saves time. Here let me show you," she said, beginning to push the accumulated reports and padds of the console with a sweeping motion of her hand - then stopped suddenly, looking back at Geordi. "With your permission, sir," she added quickly.

Geordi nodded, and Andile finished the sweep, dumping the detritus on the floor.

Watching her, Picard found himself growing wary. Despite Deanna's insistence to the contrary, the engineer was not having an easy time making the transition from leader to follower; she was used to being in charge, used to guiding others - and having to ask permission - and worse, possibility not getting it - was going to be hard for her. And if it was difficult now, when there was no urgency to the question, what was she going to do when a decision had to be made instantly? Make it herself - or follow the appropriate chain of command? Picard wondered.

It was a legitimate question, he reminded himself - and one for which he didn't have an answer; after all, how does one train the leadership out of a person without crushing their spirit in the process?

So do I sit her down and spell out the new facts of life for her - a session that he suspected would be uncomfortable for them both - or do I just wait - and hope for the best? he wondered.

Neither, he decided, knowing both held risks he did not want to add to this already perilous mission - and knowing there was a better option. After all, Will had worked with her during the last few months, he reminded himself; if anyone knew how she would react to the change in roles, he would. Making a mental note to discuss the new engineer with his first officer before deciding on a course of action, he tuned his attention to the now bared console and the three dimensional image that hovered over the board.

"It's a matter of speed, sir," Andile said quietly, apparently unaware of his mental digression, her voice smoothly shifting from the even structured tone she had used with the lieutenant moments before - her teaching voice, Picard remembered - to something richer, deeper, more compelling - her lecture voice, its sound still ringing in Picard's memory, even after a half-century.

"In its most basic terms, speed is simply a comparison of distance to time; klicks per second, miles per minute, parsecs per year - an assignment of a term we choose for a description of travel from point A to point B," she touched the screen, causing two points to appear, then drew a line from one to the other, "in a given amount of time.

"For most of history," she continued, "when we have tried to increase our speed, we have done so by the most basic means - increasing the power to our propulsion systems: bigger engines, more efficient vehicles - but always linear travel - and always in two dimensions.

"And in two dimensions, we always would have the limitations that two dimensions impose: no matter how large or powerful your engines, at some point you'll hit Einstein's wall: you can't travel faster than the speed of light. Admittedly," Andile added with a smile, "the speed of light is pretty damned fast - but it's not fast enough. Not if you're going to explore the galaxy. So if we were to travel through space, we had to look at space in a different way - beyond the confines of two dimensional travel.

"Warp speed did that for us. By warping space, we added a third dimension; rather than traveling from point A through space to point B, we bend space, bring the two closer together, and travel that distance instead."

She touched a button on the console, and the image of a flat grid appeared beneath the two points - then changed again. A deep indentation appeared in the computer-generated grid, bringing the two points closer together.

"Having warped space between these points, we now have to travel only one third of a light year, for example, instead of one hundred light years. Technically, our real speed doesn't change - but the distance we have to travel does. By our old definition, we're moving faster than light," she said - then gave a grin. "Except we're not. We're simply changing one of our parameters - that is, our definition of distance.

"That," she said, "is the premise of warp physics."

She glanced at the board for a moment, as Riker leaned toward Geordi. "It sounds as though she rehearsed this," he said softly.

"She has," he whispered back. "It's part of her introductory speech. She used to teach warp physics at the Academy and every class, every semester, started with this speech," he said, adding, "I've got a copy of it - it's one of the classics. They say that after hearing the complete speech, half the class left, completely lost - and the other half became engineers."

"Which half were you?" Riker teased.

"Ah, Commander," Geordi sighed, "I wish I could tell you. Andile was before my time - and I'm afraid she's still far ahead of it as well."

"That's just sophistry, Lieutenant, I hear you saying," Andile continued, ignoring the two, looking straight at Picard. "True - but sophistry or not, we've still traveled a hundred light years and it's still only taken us a day. Obviously, that means we're traveling at FTL speeds," she conceded. "And we are - but we're not. It all depends on how you look at it."

"A valid point for a philosophic discussion, Lieutenant," Picard pointed out, "and one we can take up - at a later time," he added.

Andile nodded. "Yes, sir. I just wanted to explain that if we can't change our speed, we must change one of the parameters involved - distance.

"All well and good," she continued, "until we hit the limitation of warp speed. After all, you can only bend so much of space before space fights back. Just before we reach warp ten, the energy we expend in warping space exerts as much force against us as we channel into it from our engines; like that theoretical point in Einstein's equations when a ship approaching light speed becomes infinitely massive and therefore can't accelerate further, space becomes infinitely resistant - and we can't bend it further. It's our limit - as long as we think in three dimensions.

"But space isn't limited to three dimensions, as we know - and distance isn't the only parameter involved. As I said, speed is a ratio of distance - to time."

There was a moment of silence as the revelation sank into Picard's mind. "Then you intend to bend time?" he asked, more than a little awed by the concept.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she confirmed, then seeing the mildly dazed expression on his face, she smiled at him - at all of them - sympathetically. "I know, it's hard to visualize that manipulation of the fourth dimension; it's like trying to imagine three dimensions when you're a two dimensional creature. It's not something that you can readily perceive - and so it's almost impossible for your mind to grasp. And yet time is a dimension in which we all travel every moment of our life; we measure it, weigh it, use it to our convenience or our detriment as we use every other dimension - but somehow we perceive it as being alien, unmalleable to our use. But it isn't; it's just another dimension - and when we shake that notion that time is somehow different, somehow outside our ability to manipulate and control, then we can use it just as we've used space.

"But this is not time travel," she added, seeing the troubled look on Picard's face. "At least, not the way you're thinking of it. In fact, it's closer to quantum physics than to traditional warp theory.

"As you know, when an electron moves from one layer of a shell to the next, it does not travel through the intervening space, but rather makes a 'quantum leap', traveling from one point to the next without crossing the distance between."

"And you've discovered a way for this ship to do the same thing with time," Picard said quietly, his mind instantly grasping - and reeling - at the concept. "We're making quantum leaps - through points of time."

Andile's eyes widened, impressed by his quick grasp of the concept. "Yes, sir. And just like electrons, we require energy to make the leap from point to point - the greater the distance between points, the more energy consumed..."

"So there is a limit to our speed," Picard answered.

She nodded. "Of course. Even anti-matter reactions have a fixed maximum output - and that's our ultimate limiting factor. For the moment, however," she added, a blush of chagrin coming to her face, "we're not capable of exceeding the equivalent of warp eleven - and even that speed can be obtained only in limited applications."

"That's why the field tests took so long," Geordi cut-in. "Temporal-warp - that's Biji's name for it - has limitations similar to warp speed when we're in a star's gravity well. We had to leave the solar system before we could engage the drive; until that point we're reliant on traditional warp speed, just as we rely on impulse speeds to get us clear of a planet's gravity well."

Picard thought for a moment. "Given that limitation - and the limitation of warp eleven..."

"A temporary limitation," Andile insisted.

"Given those limitations," Picard continued, ignoring her protest, "it seems to me that all this effort hasn't given us a significant gain over traditional warp speed."

Andile studied him, then shook her head. "It would depend on how you look at it, Captain. If you look simply at the fact that we haven't gained any benefit in speed - right now - then you're right. This system means nothing."

"Then why all this work?" he pressed.

"For two reasons sir," she replied quietly. "The practical one - that temporal-warp doesn't cause the environmental damage to the nature of sub-space that traditional warp speed does - which means that Starfleet's restriction of a maximum speed of warp five is no longer a consideration. We can, once again, travel at the equivalent of warp ten - which puts us on an equal footing with the Romulans, Cardassians, and every other species in the quadrant." She looked at him knowingly. "Just because we're doing the right thing in not wanting to destroy space for future generations doesn't mean that our companions are equally protective of their environment - and to have to limit our speed except in times of dire emergency puts us one step behind them. That's something the Admiralty does not want to see happen.

"But more importantly, sir," she said, her voice dropping lower, growing soft, intensely passionate, "is what this discovery really means. It's not just about speed, it's not just about keeping up with the other races, it's about... discovery. Every thing we learn is a step into a new world, a new option that's given us, another chance to explore something we had never known before. Because every gain, sir, is a gain," she said emphatically. "The first experiments with internal combustion engines opened a new series of fields - not just in propulsion, but in exploration of the world's resources, in the development of stronger and better metals and plastics, of the effect of the engine on the environment - and the research necessary to combat those effects - not to mention the logarithmic effects of what that engine did for the economic and social structure of the time.

"Likewise, Cochrane's first experiments with warp speed barely gave him an edge over sub-light speeds - but once he broke that limit, he opened up a whole new field of physics - and broke the Earth away the concept that they were alone in the universe. A thousand minds began to work on the problems only his mind had contemplated before - and a million more to work on issues he had never even considered.

"This is no different," Andile insisted fervently. "Once we begin to utilize temporal warp, we're opening another field - and this time, we'll have the minds of a thousand planets to study and improve it. This is the first step - and it's a small one. But most first steps are," she added anxiously.

Picard studied her, taken aback by joy in her voice, the sheer passion, the hunger and need he heard there - so much like the own feelings that had driven him into Starfleet years before - and that still drove him every day.

And yet there was a nervousness in her voice as well, as though she somehow thought she needed his approval to proceed with her work on his ship.

She didn't, he reminded himself; she had received the blessings of Starfleet itself on this project - though, he added, why they were using his ship for these initial investigations, he wasn't certain. Other, smaller ships, staffed by teams of warp engineers, would have been a better choice, he thought to himself; there they could carefully investigate each response to controlled situations until they better understood the engines and their effects.

Then again, there was something to be said for real-world applications, he reminded himself; yes, for the moment, there would only be a slight gain for the ship in terms of speed - but here they would tested in more ways and by more people then they would in a year of controlled studies. If the Federation and Starfleet wanted these engines and their technology available for what may well be facing them in the too-near future, what better way than to put them in the field - now - and on the ship that might well have to be the first to use them?

Unless, of course, they didn't work, he reminded himself grimly. Field tests were one thing, but...

"They work," Andile said softly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"I said they work. My engines," she clarified.

He looked at her, perplexed: how did she know...?

Andile smiled at his expression. "I've seen that look before," she explained. "That NIMBY look."

"NIMBY?" Deanna asked.

"It means, 'Not In My Back Yard'," Andile explained. "The 'It's a good idea - but do it someplace else first' expression. I've seen it before," she repeated, looking back to Picard, "and I understand. You want these engines - after they've been tested. Somewhere else and by someone else.

"But my engines have been tested," she reminded him, "tried on half a dozen ships, then modified and tried on another half-dozen ships - and modified again, over and over, until they meet my standards. They've got over two years of time logged in deep space runs, sir; the only thing new here is the size," she insisted, then shook her heads. "By all the gods, sir, I wouldn't have allowed Starfleet to even contemplate installing these engines if I wasn't sure about them. Sir, this is my ship; she was mine long before she was built, long before you became her captain. I designed her with these engines in mind - but I would never risk her until I was sure they were ready."

Picard nodded, reluctantly. "I appreciate your confidence, Lieutenant..."

"But you don't share it," she finished for him, her disappointment obvious.

He opened his mouth to object - then stopped as he stared at her. "No," he said at last. "I don't."

Andile nodded, seemingly relieved by his honesty. "Fair enough," she replied. "Then I'll just have to prove to you that they can do what I say they can - and the only way that's going to happen is if I can get back to work," she added, raising her eyes at Geordi. "If I may?"

"Certainly. If you're certain you're all right," he added.

Andile stared at him, clearly confused - then raised her hand to the tiny pink spot on her forehead, all that now remained of the bruise. "I'd forgotten," she said with a laugh. "No, sir, I'm fine," she repeated, then pushed past him.

Geordi watched her until she was out of sight, then turned to the captain.

"The engines will do what she says they will," Geordi reassured Picard. "The test runs were exactly as Starfleet predicted."

Then why, Picard wondered to himself, is she so worried?

He thought for a moment, then looked at Geordi. "Commander," he said, his voice dropping low enough to where only the senior officers around him could hear, "just how well do you understand these engines?"

The engineer thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I understand the theory - a little. The engines themselves - even less. That was why we were given so many months to install them - and why they sent Biji to oversee that installation - so that we would have the time to begin to understand both. No one ever thought we'd be sent into the field in these circumstances," he admitted.

"Which means that we're totally reliant on her if something should go wrong - and that's a risk I'm not prepared to take," Picard concluded unhappily - though he had suspected the truth since he had learned of the nature of the engines.

He considered for a long moment, then looked at the Chief Engineer again. "Geordi, I want you and Data to begin gathering as much data as you can from the lieutenant about the theory and function of these engines from the lieutenant - and as quickly as possible. Should something go wrong, I don't want to have to rely on the knowledge and abilities of one person to get us out," he said firmly, then, with a final glance at the console, turned and left the room.

Geordi watched him for a second, then turned to Riker. "I don't understand," he admitted.

"No?" Will asked. "Then think about this: The captain has told us that the future of the Federation is at risk - and that this mission may be the only chance we have to save it. There are going to be those out there who would stop at nothing to see us fail - and what better way to do that than by having our engines fail - and no way for us to repair them?"

"But Biji knows..." Geordi began.

"But only she knows," Will reminded him. "If something were to happen to her.."

Geordi shook his head, confused. "Happen to her? I don't understand."

"Geordi," Deanna said quietly, "the fate of the Federation depends on our completing this mission - which is to deliver the delegates to the conference - and then back to the Council. If you wanted to see this mission fail, what easier way then by damaging the engines - and killing the one person who knows how to repair them?" 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"We've reached rendezvous coordinates, sir," the helmsman called out, her carefully modulated tones not quite able to completely conceal her nervousness.

Understandable, Picard thought, looking at the new ensign assigned to the bridge; being transferred in the middle of the night from the ships they had been assigned to for several months was disconcerting at the best of times; to discover they had been transferred to the flagship of the Federation - and to serve on the bridge, yet - could be enough to unnerve even the most seasoned officer.

But she was handling the pressure well enough, Picard reminded himself - for the moment, he added, reminding himself to have Will Riker review bridge protocol with her - in the guise of a get-acquainted chat, he added, something Will did far more easily then he ever could.

Or ever tried, he admitted; 'friendly' chats with the crew were not his strong point - but then again, neither was friendship. At least, not friendship by his definition. Acquaintanceship, yes - that casual bond, easily made and equally easily broken - that joined two faces together - but not two souls, the way true friendship did.

Which was probably just as well, Picard reminded himself; true friendships, as deep as meaningful as they were, were also painful. Of the friends he made during his years at the Academy, many had retired of late - but a great many more had died - and most of his relationships with the remaining few had crumbled with time, fading from the heart-sharing nearness they had once had to little more than a head nod as they passed in the halls of Starfleet Command.

But that was to be expected, he told himself; we all change with time - and those similarities that once drew us close are gone, each of us moving in our own directions, toward our own goals... or to those goals given to us, he added, glancing down at the padd Data had given him earlier.

"Any sign of a ship, Mr. Data?" he asked.

"No, sir," came the reply. "I am increasing the sensitivity of the long range scanners," he added, fingers flying across the board.

Picard glanced at the chronometer, feeling the anxiousness rising in him. He understood Starfleet's desire to send him a Security officer, even agreed with that idea - but every moment they sat here, waiting, put them that much further behind on their mission - and even the new engines his ship had been given wouldn't be able to redeem that time once it was lost.

Perhaps she could bend time even further, he mused to himself; bend it enough and we could arrive before we've left. Now that would be a truly remarkable piece of technology.

But one that didn't exist, he reminded himself harshly, pulling himself back to reality. "Try scanning on..."

Before he could complete his thought, however, the young ensign called out. "Sir! Sensors show a disruption on the port side!"

"Specify the type of disruption, Ensign," he asked, keeping his voice carefully controlled despite the tinge of panic in the woman's.

Data, hearing the same tones, leaned over from his board to glance at hers, then touched one of the controls. "Lock in the signal pattern; sensors will then attempt to search for the nature of the disruption," he explained.

She nodded. "I knew that," she said, more to herself than to him, hastily adding, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She stared over the board for a moment, then called out, "Sensors indicate a Klingon vessel decloaking, sir, A'brath class."

A'brath class? Picard thought. A two-man vessel, at best, intended for personal pleasure - or at least as much personal pleasure as the Klingons would allow themselves - but of the latest design, he added. There weren't many of the tiny ships - and what few there were, were limited to Klingon High Council members - a perquisite for their work, he reminded himself.

But what was a Klingon ship doing here - at the coordinates for picking up a Starfleet Security officer? Picard wondered.

"Hail them, Ensign," he began, but the woman interrupted him.

"They're hailing us, sir," she replied, startled. "It's... Sir, it's..."

"Chancellor Martok," Picard said, rising from his chair and stepping toward the viewscreen as the image of a Klingon face, fierce and determined, began to develop.

"Captain Picard," came the gruff reply.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Chancellor," Picard began, but the Klingon interrupted him.

"Bah!" he growled. "Such pleasantries are for politicians, not for two old warriors such as ourselves! There is no pleasure in our meeting - except on the field of battle!"

The new ensign gasped, astounded by the Klingon's vitriol.

"Then I invite you to come aboard," Picard replied, "and we shall see who is the victor today."

Martok glared at him - then broke into a grin. "You are right; he is _tlhIngan_," he said to someone outside the range of the viewscreen, driving a punch into the unknown victim's arm.

Looking forward again, he said, "I bring you your new Security officer," he said, "though why your Starfleet places such value on such _veQ_, I do not know."

Picard locked his eyes on the man before him. "We all follow our orders, Chancellor."

Martok grinned back. "Even a Klingon High Chancellor," he agreed. "Then take this piece of _veQ_, Captain - and do the best you can with him."

Picard nodded solemnly. "Our transporter room is standing by. As is our blood wine," he added.

Martok's grin widened. "Now I know he is right. You are Klingon at heart. But not today," he added, disappointedly. "The High Council believes I am with my _boQDu'_, not delivering a Starfleet Security officer to his new assignment," he added. "And if I do not return soon..."

Picard nodded, understanding. "Another time, then, Chancellor," he said.

Martok stared at him, growing serious at last. "Indeed. Would that your mission succeeds, Captain, and another time is granted to us both. _K'plach_!"

"_K'plach_!" Picard replied, standing still until the signal faded from the screen before turning away and reaching for his commbadge. "Transporter room three, prepare to receive one," he said.

There was a moment of silence, then, "We've got him, sir," came the voice.

Him, Picard thought, wondering... then dismissed the fleeting hope. Most of the members of Starfleet's Security team were males; that they had sent one to him, even by a Klingon ship, didn't necessarily mean anything. Then again...

"Tell him," he replied, "that I'll be there in a moment. Picard out," he added, the turned to the young woman seated before him.

"Ensign, set course oh-four five point three, mark eight; speed...?" He hesitated for a moment, then looked to Data. "Mr. Data, are these 'spiffy' engines of yours ready for a real test?" he asked.

Data turned back, ready to protest both the ownership and the adjective, then stopped as he saw Picard's eyes, realizing he was being teased about both.

But not about the engines themselves. "Yes, sir."

"Then course oh-four five, point three, mark eight," he repeated to the woman. "Temporal-warp... ten," he added.

There was a slight gasp from the woman as she turned to look at him - then hastily turned back, setting the course on her board. "Oh four five point three, mark eight," she repeated. "Temporal-warp ten... Course set, sir," she said, her voice cracking.

"Engage," Picard said, then locked his eyes on the viewscreen, waiting.

Waiting for what? he asked himself a moment later. For some shuddering lurch in the ship as it sped towards its new destination, the engines straining to push the mass over that theoretical - and soon to be forgotten limitation of space travel? For some massive change in the sound of the vessel as it accelerated to a speed never reached by humans before the advent of these new engines? For some new image to appear on the screens before him as time distorted the view of the stars.

Bah! he thought at himself, disgustedly. If there had been any such effects, it would have been reported in one of the dozens of reports he had read concerning the ship's field tests - and no one had.

But there should be, he added to himself. There should have been something more... grandiose, something more awe-inspiring, something that showed that breaking this 'unbreakable' barrier had been accomplished; a new sound to the engines perhaps, or a new image on the screen before them - but what he saw and heard was little different from the sounds and sights he had grown used to over the last fifty years.

Little different, he repeated to himself - but there were differences. The sound of the engines was deeper, lower, a little softer, a little smoother, as if some immense animal stood below his feet, purring... He smiled to himself at the image, realizing just how accurate it was; these new engines had a distinctly organic feel to them, as if they were more in tune with the universe than the previous engines had been, more an integral part of time and space, coaxing the dimensions to bend for their benefit willingly rather than forcing space to warp through the blunt application of power.

And the prismatic lines of the stars on the viewscreen, usually sharp and clear, seemed a little more indistinct than before, he noted to himself, their borders a little less defined, a little more opaque and diffused, as though the computer wasn't quite able to translate data the sensors were providing into an image for the viewscreen to project, trying to create a two-dimensional image of a three dimensional object...

...or more accurately from a four dimensional object, he added, staring hard at one of the passing streaks. If warp speed bends space - and stretches the light out into the elongated spectrums we see, then perhaps temporal-warp does the same thing with time, stretching out a moment into its components, he mused.

But what components does time have? he asked himself. When we warp time, will we discover a temporal spectrum that we can study and analyze as we have with light? Will we be able to pick that spectrum apart to use it for our own benefit - or detriment, he added - or will that information be denied us, just as this form of travel was for millennia, waiting for that genius who can grasp the concepts of the fourth dimension as merely another dimension we can utilize, as Lt. Andile has done for us with her temporal-warp?

Or are we limited to simply knowing - but truly knowing for the first time - that that fourth dimension is real? Real and substantial - but never to be ours? he wondered.

Or perhaps it is ours, he mused, a feeling of awe beginning to wash over him; not ours for the advancement of technology - but for the other lessons we can learn from it. And there were lessons we can learn; lessons more complex and more subtle than any engine could teach.

Studying the stars, Picard reminded himself, even at the dawn of mankind, had been an exploration into time; the light from a star took so long to reach the Earth that by the time it had, man was staring at an event that had happened, years or decades - or centuries or millennium before. We stared at the stars - and we saw their history, he reminded himself.

With the advent of warp travel, that changed; stars became the present; the here, the now. We no longer had to wait millennia to know what had happened on that star, so far distant, but we could travel to it, to view its life as it was happening.

But with this, he realized, both of those limitations have changed, he thought, studying the filmy brightness at the edge of each streak. Warping time gives us a chance to peer not only into a star's past and present - but perhaps into its future as well. For the first time, we're seeing its existence; proof that it exists beyond the moment to moment reality of the present.

This star existed a moment ago, he thought, studying the slight insubstantiality of the image streaking toward him; because the light that reaches us now, we know it existed then; the shimmering ghost image that lined the forward edge of the streak gave lie to its existence to come. For the first time on the history of man, we know it will also exist a moment from now - and sitting here, we can see both those moments.

And if we know that a star exists in the past, the present, and the future - then we can know - really know - that we do as well.

He stared at the screen in growing awe at the deeper, previously unsuspected ramifications of this discovery, then faded back to a sheer appreciation of the beauty of what lay before him.

You've changed warp physics, Lieutenant - and whether you know it or not, you're about to change a lot more. Philosophy, metaphysics, perhaps even religion... As people open themselves to more knowledge, they may begin, once again, to question those truths they've held dear to for so very long and...

"Captain?"

Jolted from his reverie by the sound of Data's voice, Picard turned to him, eyes raised in question.

"You stated you were going to meet the new Security officer?" he reminded the man.

It took a moment for the comment to register, then Picard nodded, agreeing. "Yes," he said softly, his thoughts still on the image - and the imaginings - he had just seen.

Data glanced at the screen as well.

"The use of warped time as a means of faster-than-light travel represents a massive change in our approach to temporal physics," the android observed.

Picard nodded, his voice still quiet with awe. "But it's more than that, Data; much more. Do you realize what this means? What changes on human existence - on the existences of all species - that this represents?"

Data nodded. "Yes, sir. A new form of beauty," he replied solemnly, staring at the screen.

Picard stared at the screen for a moment, then realizing what he had just heard, turned to the android. "Beauty?" he echoed.

"Yes, sir," he repeated, then looked back at Picard. "The lieutenant told me that every new discovery leads to even more discoveries around it - including those not so readily considered. In this case... beauty," he said softly - then glanced at Picard. "It is beautiful, is it not?" he asked, somewhat hesitantly.

Picard glanced at the milky images, then nodded. "It is, Data. I hadn't considered that," he admitted, then looked at Data with a faint expression of surprise. "And I must admit that wasn't an observation I would have expected from you," he added, a little chagrined.

Data cocked his head to one side, considering, then nodded. "I understand, Captain. Until recently, beauty was a concept I could not embrace on a personal level; I understood what the word meant, I could apply it to things and comprehend the usage by others - but the true meaning eluded me."

"And now?" Picard asked, uncertain whether to be amused or touched.

"I am beginning to understand," Data replied, looking at the ghostly streaks on the screen - but with a heart-felt certainty in his voice that seemed less born of the vision before them than of something else, something, Picard thought, quite different than mere stars.

But what, he admitted, he didn't know.

Turning to the milky forms once again, he stared a moment longer, then gave a sigh, reluctant to turn from the new-found images, but Data's reminder nagging at the back of his mind. "I had best go welcome our new officer aboard," he murmured, then looked at Data. "You have the bridge, Mr. Data," he said, then turned for the lift.

If my recall to the Enterprise had been on short notice, the transfer of the new officer's must have been even shorter, Picard decided as he entered the transporter room a few minutes later; there was no evidence of any bags or luggage, an indication that the man had been hauled directly from his last assignment to this one with no time to collect and pack any of his personal belongings to bring with him.

The absence reminded Picard of the urgency of their mission - and the desperation that Starfleet must have been feeling in their need to make sure the ship - and therefore the Federation - was well protected through the selection of the right person for the right job - even if it meant pulling that person away from their post with almost no notice.

And no time to prepare, he added, looking at the mud-stained hunting clothes of the man before him.

But, Picard added, he would have been welcome no matter what he wore - mud-stained hunting clothes or his more-familiar red and black uniform.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain," same the familiar low voice.

"Permission granted, Mr. Worf," Picard replied, smiling up at the Klingon who had been his head of Security, on and off, for the previous twelve years. "It's good to have you here - even under these circumstances," he added, growing grim.

Worf growled. "I do not even know what these circumstances, are, Captain," he admitted, stepping down from the transporter platform. "Chancellor Martok and I were hunting targ on Q'onos when the message reached him - what little of it there was," he added.

"Which was?" Picard pressed.

"That I was being reassigned from my position as Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire and reassigned to the Enterprise E on a priority mission. There were no details about the mission, only an order to report here with no further explanation," he explained.

"I thought Klingon warriors didn't require explanations," Picard teased - very gently.

"Warriors do not," Worf growled. "However, the Chancellor does," he explained - then hastily added, "Not that the Chancellor is not a warrior! He has proved himself time and again in battle..."

"But he is the Chancellor now," Picard continued, not to mention your adopted... well, father, he decided, for lack of a better word... and not about to let his ambassador - or his son - be taken away without a good reason behind it.

And there damned well should be, he added silently. With Worf as the Federation ambassador, the Klingons and Federation governments had worked out a stronger alliance in two years than any ambassadors had done in the previous twenty - and not because the two men had argued so strongly for the needs of their own people.

No, he thought to himself, the strength of this alliance had had far more to do with the two men themselves and their mutual understanding and respect for the ways of the others' people. Pulling Worf away now might grant the Enterprise some small tactical advantage - but at a potentially devastating cost. If something were to happen to Worf...

Picard shook his head.

If something were to happen to Worf, there would be no going back for the Federation and the Klingons; another ambassador could be sent, yes - but no one could replace Worf in the eyes of Martok.

It was a horrific gamble, Picard thought - and an ill-considered one as

well.

For despite his personal confidence in the Klingon, there was no avoiding the fact that it had been three years since Worf had served on the Enterprise E - and then it had been as tactical officer, not as head of Security. Neither had his work on DS9, he thought to himself; during the last few months of the war, Worf had done reconnaissance, espionage, intelligence - admittedly, all Security related work, he reminded himself - but all while he was in the field, rather than at the station itself. And that, he knew, was what he needed here and now - someone who could focus on the internal Security problems and potentials of a ship - and not a former ambassador whose latest efforts on a Sovereign class starship were almost five years out of date.

Welcome as Worf was aboard the ship, Picard knew Starfleet had to have had another, more qualified officer available to have filled the post on this critical mission.

And Starfleet must have known it as well, he knew. Why, then, insist on sending Worf? he wondered.

He shook his head at the thought, adding it to a growing list of other obstacles that had been handed to them. A new Security officer - who was far from fully qualified; new engines - with only one person who fully understood them; new computers - which weren't working with the old ones. Add to that a new crew, hastily assembled by raiding ever other ship in dock - and top it off with an old crew, pulled away from shore leaves long over-due.

He sighed, running over the list in his mind once again. Starfleet couldn't have made this mission more difficult if the had tried, he thought to himself.

But standing here, running over the lists of problems they were facing would do nothing to solve those problems, he thought to himself.

"Let me begin by giving you an overview of our mission," he said to the Klingon, gesturing him through the doors and into the hallway.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Four hours later, Picard sat at the conference room table, alone now, rubbing at the growing ache in his head.

It had taken the better part of that time to bring Worf up to speed on their mission and the events that had led up to it, Starfleet's intentions and the Federation's hopes - and the consequences for them all should this mission fail - and it would have continued for another four hours had Picard not seen the signs of growing fatigue in the Klingon's eyes as they talked - a fatigue he himself was beginning to feel.

Neither of us is going to be able to learn any more like this, he quickly told himself, dismissing the Klingon to his new quarters - along with a stack of personnel disks, ship's specifications, new weaponry, data on the new engines and new computers... in general, the same information that Worf had accumulated about the Enterprise once before, long ago - and over a period of years.

Picard sighed to himself as he sat in the empty room, staring at the table top, ignoring the passing visage of opalescent stars. How could Starfleet expect Worf - or anyone, short of an android - to relearn that amount of information in a matter of days, he wondered - and learn it well enough to implement it effectively? Perhaps Will had been correct after all, perhaps Data should have been the one to head Security on this mission...

He played with the idea for a moment, wondering if there would be a way to shift the android's responsibilities in order to head up Security... God knew Worf would understand the change, he told himself. Having seen the expression of incredulity in the man's eyes at the sheer amount of data he would have to learn - and take to heart - in the next few days, he knew that the Klingon was having as many doubts about his role in the mission as he was - doubts that neither of them were going to be able to set aside until Worf was able to prove himself - and that might not be until it was far too late, Picard admitted unhappily.

But asking Data to take on that obligation as well as his other duties? He considered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. Data could do it, yes - and Picard admitted he wouldn't hesitate to ask the android to take on that obligation even though it would virtually eliminate any free time the being had - a sacrifice he would not ask of any other person aboard his ship. But if I do that now, what happens when I do need an extra hour from him - and every hour of his day is already allocated to some department of the ship? Data was a remarkable being of remarkable skills, he reminded himself - but being remarkable was a far cry from being omnipresent.

No, he decided again, Data would stay with his current - and still too burdensome - obligations. And Mr. Worf was going to have to do the best he could.

I just hope it's enough, he added, rubbing at his rapidly mounting headache, knowing full well it was his body's way of reminding him that both food and sleep had been in short supply during the last few days - but like Worf, he reminded himself grimly, I have some learning of my own to complete. Personnel files, ship's systems... just getting back into the old habits after three months...

Three months! he realized, his mind reeling with the thoughts of what had gone on in his absence. Three months - and almost everything I knew about this ship and these people is no longer valid. Almost everything I knew has changed, he thought, beginning to empathize with Worf; how effective of a leader can I be when I know almost nothing about who or what I leading?

Yes, I have a lifetime of experience - but, he added honestly, that's not enough. Not now. Not in these circumstances. I am not the best captain for this mission, he admitted.

But that's honesty, he added silently - but to be equally honest, I can't say I'm disappointed. If the fate of the Federation is in jeopardy, then I'm glad that I'm involved. I wouldn't wanted to have spent the last days of my leave - and quite possibly the last days of the Federation - sitting in my father's vineyards, tending vines.

With a tired sigh, he pushed himself up from his chair, feeling the muscles of his neck and back protest at the movement.

With reason, he decided; for three weeks I've spent my days working in the fields, tending the vines... It wasn't arduous work, but it was physical labor - and his body had grown used to being used. But here, now... I've spent the better part of the last two days doing nothing more than sitting at some table, talking, for almost forty-eight hours - but I haven't _done_ a damned thing.

And I'm not about to either, he added, remembering the unfinished reports on his desk - and the stack of new personnel reports he wanted to review.

Well, a work-out could wait another day, he told himself as he made his way toward the lift doors; finish the reports, read the files - and maybe, if I'm lucky, catch a few hours sleep in my ready room.

Still, he was hard pressed to conceal a yawn as he made his way onto the bridge, settling into his chair with a tired exhalation.

Will smiled at him. "I believe I have the evening watch, sir," he reminded the man gently.

Picard nodded. "Indeed," he agreed, too tired for any witty repartee. "I'll be in my ready room, Number One. You have the bridge," he said rising to his feet tiredly.

But after only a few steps, he turned back, looking at Data, who was rising from his chair as his replacement slid into place. "Mr. Data, before you leave, I'd like an update on your work with Cmdr. LaForge and Lt. Andile."

To his surprise, however, the android hesitated, glancing at Riker - almost hopefully, Picard thought - then nodded, quickly striding to the Engineering station.

Data... hopeful? Picard thought, taken aback by the apparent - albeit momentary - emotion in the man's face - and then a second time by the realization that there was an expression at all.

What the...?

Picard glanced at Riker, then gestured for him to follow him to the side of the room.

"Explanation, Number One?" he asked as they reached the far side of the room.

"Explanation?" Will replied, feigning ignorance. "For what, sir?"

Picard gave him a frank look. "For Data's... reaction," he explained, uncertain what other word he could use to explain the unfamiliar reaction in the android.

Will glanced at Data, then back at Picard, somewhat hesitantly. "Data has a... prior commitment, sir," he finally said.

"A commitment," Picard echoed.

"Yes, sir," Will agreed. "At seventeen fifteen every evening."

"I see," Picard said blandly. "What kind of commitment?"

Will hesitated, reddening slightly, then answered. "He's... taking lessons, sir."

"Lessons?"

"Yes, sir. 'Human' lessons," he added.

Picard's eyes widened in curiosity. "_Human_ lessons?"

Will nodded. "Yes, sir. From Lt. Andile," he explained.

Picard stared at him for a moment. "Number One, Mr. Data has been studying humanity since before any of us met him; to begin to take 'lessons'..."

Will shook his head, smiling. "Not lessons in humanity, sir - but in the physical aspects of being human. Facial expressions. Body language..."

That was it, Picard suddenly realized. That was the difference he had seen in Data since his arrival - a difference that had been obvious - and yet subtle at the same time.

Glancing at the android, he confirmed the thought; though Data was working with his usual speed and efficiency, there was no doubt that his usually squared shoulders slumped slightly, his back curved a fraction of in inch more. He looked, Picard realized, depressed.

A brilliant affectation, Picard decided, impressed with his second officer's efforts - and, he admitted, with the teaching of his new lieutenant. To teach an android how to display emotions as though they were really his own... He hesitated.

But why shouldn't his feelings be his own? he asked himself. Why shouldn't Data be feeling depressed - even if it is a depression born from a computer chip rather than an organic source? he asked himself. He had been denied this evening's meeting with his friend - and the feeling of sadness, whatever its source, was as real for Data as it would have been for Picard or anyone else on the ship.

Crossing the bridge, Picard quickly came to the Engineering station, Will a step behind him. "Mr. Data," he said quietly, "the report can wait until the morning. Go," he added firmly.

Data turned to him, amazement on his face - and a protest on his lips. "But sir..."

"Cmdr. Riker explained your... 'lessons' to me - and far be it from me to be the one to hold you up in your pursuit of becoming human," he said gently.

Data studied him. "I appreciate your concern, Captain, but the lieutenant has made it clear that our duties must always have first priority over our studies."

Picard sighed, then nodded. "A noble sentiment, Data - and for the most part one I heartily endorse. But in this case... not necessary. It can wait until the morning. Go on," he added.

"But, sir..." Data began to protest.

Picard raised his hand, silencing the man. "Data, I respect the lieutenant's dedication - and yours - but ... If you are studying what it means to be human, you need to remember that humans must also have a degree of dedication to themselves; they don't live for duty - or they lose the very importance of why they're doing what they're doing. There's a place - indeed, a need, for a little selfishness, a little avarice, in each of our lives. If you're going to be truly human, you need to place yourself ahead of others, even ahead of the ship, at least once in a while. But that's a subject for another day," he added with a smile. "Now go, or you're going to be late for your date," he said.

Data hurried to the lift doors, leaving the two officers to watch him with bemused smiles on their faces - then Riker turned to Picard.

" 'Date', sir?" he asked.

The captain studied the first officer for a moment, then gave a short shrug as though conceding the point. "Date, appointment... whatever you'd prefer to call it, Number One," he agreed easily. "I'll be in my ready room," he said, then strode across the bridge to his private office.

Settling down at the desk, he reached for the first of the personnel files - and sighed at the name.

Dr. Gregory Matthews. Beverly's enigmatic new doctor, and potentially her - and therefore, his - newest problem.

Where better to start? he asked himself, sliding the disc into the slot.

But whatever had provoked Beverly's concern, he wasn't finding it. There were no overt signs that there was something amiss, either with his credentials or his experience, no red flags that called attention to a lapse in his abilities or skills. Indeed, Picard was hard pressed to find anything negative in the file at all - except for a lack of shipboard experience.

Which was understandable, Picard decided, looking at the man's grades and evaluations for his years at the Academy; he had completed each course at or near the top - and had graduated second in his class. No wonder Starfleet Medical had drafted him directly into their hallowed halls. With the number of wounded coming to them from the battle fields, they would have been desperate for every capable body they could find - and to find one who had excelled at both human and xeno-biology... No, Matthews assumption directly into Starfleet Medical was understandable - if, he added, rather unusual.

But unusual times require unusual methods, he reminded himself as he pulled the disk from the computer; life doesn't broadcast its intentions to us and let us prepare for them; it just hits us, slams us back on occasion - and lets us survive - or not - as best we can.

Setting aside the disk, he reached the next - then hesitated, set it aside, and leafed through the stack for another one.

Placing it in the machine, he tapped the control, then settled back as the file opened.

The soft chime of the door interrupted his reading.

Annoyed, he glared at the door - then forced himself to drop the expression. "Come," he said as blandly as possible.

Will stepped into the room, a little hesitantly - a clear sign, Picard knew, that this wasn't official ship's business.

Picard sighed to himself; he wasn't in a mood, he admitted, to discuss whatever had been troubling his first officer - but what a captain was in a mood for, and what his crew needed of him, were often two very disparate matters - and, Picard reminded himself, he knew which one took priority.

Still...

"What can I do for you, Number One?" he asked.

"It's about the lieutenant, sir," Will began, a little hesitantly.

Picard looked at him quizzically.

"Did you two really meet at the Academy?" he asked.

The captain nodded. "We did - if you want to call my observing one class a meeting," he amended.

"Then it really is her," Will said, shaking his head in disbelief. "When I saw the age listed in her file, I assumed the woman coming on board would be... ancient," he confessed. "But when she beamed over... I have to admit I thought Geordi was trying to pull another one of his gags, dressing up some kid in a Starfleet lieutenant's uniform. But she's the same woman?" he pressed, aching for confirmation.

Picard nodded. "I can't imagine two of them in one universe."

"But her age... Maybe there was a clerical error," he tried hopefully.

"No," Picard countered. "The lieutenant was a full professor at the Academy when I was there - which means she must have been about forty years old then."

"Which means she must be over ninety now!" Will exclaimed.

"At least," Picard agreed with a smile.

Will glanced backward at the door, as if the petite engineer were standing there, then looked back to Picard, shaking his head. "Unbelievable!'

"That would be an apt description for the lieutenant," the captain agreed. "One of the finest engineers to serve in Starfleet - and one of the finest teachers at the Academy," he added, wistfully.

"I understand," Will agreed. "Listening to her today in Engineering, hearing how she talked about the engines and about warp in general... I've listened to engineers talk before, sir, and I know they can be fascinated to the point of obsession over their own work - but there's something different about the lieutenant. Something more. She's..."

"Passionate," Picard offered.

"Electrifying," Will countered - then looked knowingly at Picard. "Sir, if I had had a teacher like that when I was at the Academy, I'd be in Engineering today," he admitted.

"And knowing me as you do," Picard concluded for him, "you're wondering why I'm not down there now?"

"Nothing personal," Will said quickly. "It's just... Well, I know the effect Dr. Galen's teachings had on you - you almost ended up studying archaeology instead of staying on in Starfleet. I just find it hard to believe that the lieutenant didn't have as strong an effect."

"She might have," he replied, a dark expression clouding his face, "if she'd been there. But she left the Academy at the end of that semester, just after I applied for her class. I wound up studying under her Harriman Vasilious," he added.

Vasilious, Will thought to himself; like Andile, another legend in physics - but of another type completely. Cold, dispassionate - brilliant, yes, but in everything else, the antithesis of what Andile was - and what a teacher could be.

Will sighed. Hearing her that morning, he could easily imagine the lectures the woman had given, full of the possibilities of what warp speed was - and what it meant for those who explored the field - and those who used it to explore. She was light and passion and energy and enthusiasm, he knew - a personification of the very subject she was teaching.

No wonder Picard had promptly enrolled in her class, Will thought to himself, wondering how the captain's life might have turned out had Andile stayed with her teaching - and how sad that she hadn't, he added, wondering how many other potential engineering geniuses had been lost because of her departure.

"It's hard to imagine Andile quitting her position," he admitted, the disapproval heavy in his voice.

"She didn't quit, Will; she resigned - to return to active duty," he added, as though that should be explanation enough.

Which it should have been, Will admitted to himself; God knew he could never have tolerated the routine of the Academy. Nonetheless, she had a duty to Starfleet - a duty to those students...

"Even so, sir..." he began.

"That was her prerogative, Number One - just as it was Dr. Crusher's prerogative to resign her post at Starfleet Medical," he reminded the man. "I presume you don't think any the less of her for making that choice," he said, a challenge in his tone.

A challenge Will did not want to accept. "No, sir," he agreed, "but the situations are hardly the same. Think of the number of students who didn't have the benefit of Lt. Andile's knowledge, her passion..."

"And look at the number who have benefited from her work on starship and engine design," Picard countered gruffly - then shook his head apologetically. "But I understand your feelings, Will; I always took it as a personal affront that she chose to leave when she did - just before I had the chance to study with her," he confessed, almost facetiously, a forced smile on his lips.

A little too forced, he realized quickly; he hurried on before Will could sense there was more truth than humor behind the expression. "But my loss has been Starfleet's gain; after serving aboard half a dozen ships, she joined the research and development team at Utopia Planitia - and then was assigned to head up that department. And this..." he said, gesturing at the ship around them, "has been one of the results. For whatever losses I personally may have endured, I think Starfleet, as a whole - and this crew in particular - has benefited."

"Yes, sir," Will started, the disapproval still heavy in his voice.

Picard stared at him, then rose from his desk, making his way to the windows that lined the wall behind him. Staring at the display of ethereal star-streaks that crossed it, he fell silent for a moment - then began to speak, his voice low.

"Will, we each have our choices to make - in Starfleet, in life - and first and foremost, we must remember that we will ultimately be the ones to bear the consequences of those choices. Yes, some students who might potentially have gone into engineering under the lieutenant's tutelage did not do so - but to ask her to accept the responsibility for the decisions they made for themselves is unreasonable," he told the younger man. "That was their choice.

"Just as leaving Utopia Planitia to head up the research facility at Sipantha was the lieutenant's choice," he added grimly.

Riker's argument, poised on his lips, was suddenly stilled. "Sipantha?" he finally said, his voice quieted by the realization. "She was at Sipantha? Oh, my God."

He stared at Picard, stricken, waiting - hoping - for some explanation, some denial of the what he suddenly knew to be the truth. Andile couldn't have been there, he thought to himself; she had to have been away from the post, or perhaps saved from that horror by some fluke, some freakish accident...

But no miraculous salvation was to be found in the hard expression on Picard's face.

"Starfleet's never made an official release of the cause of the explosion that destroyed the facility; they've kept it under wraps, claiming security precautions," Picard replied. "But the stories have been floating about the captain's meetings for the last two years: a new propulsion system gone wrong, a new weapon that failed in the testing, a piece of captured Dominion weaponry that was booby-trapped... all stories, Will, and all possible - but no one, outside the Admiralty and the lieutenant herself, knows what really happened there, what destroyed an entire facility - and killed all those people in the process.

"All we do know is that by the time the rescue ship reached Sipantha, the lieutenant was the only one they found alive... such as she was."

He fell silent for a moment, then looked at his first officer.

"They said she'd never survive long enough to reach a Starbase hospital." he said softly, his words heavy with pain, "and when she did, they said she'd never regain consciousness - until one day she did. Then they said she'd be a vegetable - until she began to communicate with them. Then they said she'd never be able leave total life support - until she began to breathe on her own. They said she'd never walk again, or to be able to see, or to talk, or to eat..."

"Reconstructive surgery," Will murmured quietly. "That's why she looks the way she does," he said, silently wondering to himself why the surgeons, having had her in hospital for so long hadn't done a better job rebuilding her face - then beginning to realize they had probably done the best they could. Which meant... Oh, God, he thought, a surge of nausea filling him as the truth settled in, repentance filling him for every uncharitable thought that had crossed his mind about the woman's appearance.

"That's why the engine installation was delayed," he said at last. "Not because the engines had technical problems..."

"But because Starfleet didn't think the inventor - the one person who fully understood the engines - was going to live long enough to oversee their installation," Picard concluded, then turned back to the window.

"I didn't know, sir," Will said quietly.

"No one knows," Picard replied, then turned to him. "And I suspect the lieutenant would like it kept that way," he added.

"Yes, sir," Will agreed solemnly - then glanced at the chronometer. "Sir, it's twenty-fifteen," he said quietly.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning nothing, sir - except that the lieutenant's evening talks usually go on until quarter of nine. If you wanted to, you could catch the last half hour..."

"Evening talks?" Picard repeated, perplexed.

"Her discussion groups," Will said - then smiled, reminding himself that the captain had yet to experience one of the sessions. "Every night that she's off, some of the crew meet in Ten Forward and Biji leads a discussion."

"About what?"

"Whatever someone wants to talk about," Will answered.

"Number One, matters of ship's business..." Picard began sternly.

"Aren't discussed," Will interrupted. "That's the only limitation Biji sets up. Anything else, though, is fair game. Art, history, politics, religion, xeno-biology... I'm told she has a real fascination for archaeology," he added with a knowing smile.

"Archaeology?" he repeated, his eyes brightening - then quickly dimming. "Perhaps another night, Will," he decided quietly. "I have these files to finish reading."

Will nodded. "Yes, sir - but if she's half as passionate about those topics as she was about warp physics..." he started.

"Another night, Will," Picard said firmly.

"Yes, sir," Will agreed, then turned for the door.

A moment later, Picard settled back in at the desk once more, opening a new personnel file - then closing it a moment later, knowing what he'd find. Someone new, bright, full of energy and a determination to change the universe... and too young to have any idea of what the universe had in store for them.

There was something to be said for age; something to be said for the depth that time and experience brought to a person, he thought, an image of Anij's face flickering through his mind.

And how it locks us into patterns, setting us in our ways, closing us off from the things we think we want, he added, until time or events forces us to learn again - or to give up.

A woman the lieutenant's age - and she had to relearn everything, Picard thought to himself. I'm not even seventy - and yet I told Beverly I was too old to try to learn again.

Hubris, he sighed to himself.

Pushing his chair back from the desk, he turned off the terminal and headed for the doors.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Last night, the corridors were empty because everyone was too new or too exhausted to be doing anything beyond working or sleeping, Picard mused as he entered the ship's lounge a few minutes later; tonight they're empty because everyone is here.

It was an exaggeration - but not by much, he added as he squeezed past the crowd gathered by the huge double doors, easing his way past a small clique of ensigns lining the bar, sidling past a group of chatting engineers. Most tried to move out of his way, allowing him free - or at least freer - passage to the main area of the lounge - but try as they might, there was little enough place for them to go. Everyone who was off duty seemed to have found their way here - and despite the growing hour, none seemed tempted to leave.

"Give it a minute," Beverly said, appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, at his side.

"Pardon?"

"I said give it a minute; they just finished up this evening's talk - and in a few minutes, the place will clear out," she explained.

"Then I've missed it," he murmured.

Beverly eyes raised in surprise. "You came down for the discussion?" she asked.

"You seem surprised, Doctor," he replied.

"I am, Captain," she admitted. "You've never been the social type..."

He looked back at her. "Indeed?"

"Indeed," she said firmly. "So why are you here - really?"

"Will said the talks were sometimes about archaeology..."

Beverly studied him for a moment, then shook her head. "This is me, Jean-Luc: Beverly Crusher - your friend. You know as much about archaeology as most of the experts in the quadrant; you didn't come down here to sit through a rehash of things you already knew. Now what's the real reason you're here?"

"Do I have to have a reason?" he asked innocently.

"Yes, you do."

"Then let's say I just wanted to see what was causing such a stir among my crew," he replied.

She raised an eye at him, realizing he was being honest with her - at least on the surface. But there was another, deeper reason he had come here tonight - and one he was not about to share with her.

"Well, since you're here - and since you've missed the discussion, you can join me for dinner," she said after a moment.

Picard opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him before he could make a sound. "Unless you've already eaten - which I know you haven't," she added knowingly.

He closed his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then sighed, frustrated at having been cornered - even though, he admitted to himself, he was hungry. He gave a begrudging nod.

"Good," she said with a self-satisfied smile. "Now, as soon as this place clears out, we should be able to find a table."

And it was clearing out, Picard realized; in ones and twos, people were finishing their drinks and heading for the doors, leaving only a few of the tables still occupied.

Including one at the center of the room, occupied by a lone figure.

Alone now, Beverly thought, following Picard's gaze - but he hadn't been that way for long. Two glasses sat at the table, one on front of him, still full, a second, empty, before a chair that had been pushed back as its occupant deserted it.

And seemingly for good, he added, taking a quick - but fruitless - look about the room for the diminutive woman.

"Is something wrong, Captain?" Beverly asked as she saw the lines in his brow deepen.

"No..." he started, then stopped. "Would you mind if dinner waited a few minutes?" he asked. "I'd like to talk with Data."

"Of course not," she said, following as he walked toward where the android was sitting.

Then promptly standing as he saw the two approaching him.

"Captain," he said quietly. "Doctor. Would you care to sit down?" he added, gesturing toward the chairs.

A very human touch, Picard thought - and very well practiced, he added,

noting no hesitation in the smooth motion.

"Thank you, Data," Beverly said, taking a place opposite the empty glass. "How was the discussion? I'm afraid I missed it."

"Very enlightening," he replied, "though some aspects of the psycho-social-sexual connotations of dance among humans still remain unclear to me," he added.

"Psycho-social-sexual connotations?" Picard repeated.

"Of dance?" Beverly added, suddenly interested. "Lt. Andile likes dance?"

"She is an avid devotee, Doctor," Data replied. "Both in practice - and in the other aspects of the art. Tonight's discussion focused on the tango. There is no mistaking the sexual aspect: the lower halves of the bodies pressing tightly against one another as the dancers cross the floor, moving in synchronicity, mimicking the act of sexual congress while the upper bodies tautly arch away from one another - an exaggerated caricature of the classic curvature of the back during orgasm..."

"Uh, yes," Picard interrupted hastily. "But the psycho-social connotations?" he pressed, anxious to change the subject.

Non-plussed, Data nodded. "Consider the position of the upper bodies once again. Both dancers, despite the intimate contact occurring from hip to foot, hold themselves rigidly, not looking at one another, barely touching - as though disdaining the intimate contact they are simultaneously experiencing. This bespeaks a certain denial or disapproval of the same sexual act they are performing, a terpsichorean restatement of the social politics of the time, when sexual contact was accepted, even welcomed, on a secretive level, yet was publicly disdained.

"The dualism of the body position also reflects the politics of that period in Earth history; social and political repression dictated to the people by the government, seemingly accepted, even duplicated, at the most visible level - yet rejected and rebelled against at the lower, more hidden levels of society. It is a contrapuntality that is seen in many levels of human dance - but not so in non-humans species. In the Ferengi, for example..."

"Excuse me, Data; you mean you spent this entire discussion just talking about dancing?" Picard said, dumbfounded.

"Yes, sir," Data replied. "It is a fascinating topic..."

"I agree," Beverly interjected enthusiastically. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"I can repeat the entire discussion if you would like, Doctor," Data offered. "It began when the lieutenant and I arrived following our dance practice. I said..."

"Excuse me, Data," Picard interrupted. "You and the lieutenant went dancing?" he said, finding himself feeling a little angry - and a little used. "Cmdr. Riker said she was giving you 'human' lessons - not dancing lessons!"

"'Human' lessons?" Beverly echoed, looking from one man to the other, confused.

"Lessons in what the lieutenant calls body language," Data explained. "The incorporation of slight physical movements and nuances to better convey my feelings and emotions to other humans. The lieutenant is an expert in reading these motions, and has been instructing me in their proper application."

"Data," Beverly protested, "body language is not simply a set of patterned actions that you implement as you think is appropriate - and as much as you study Andile's actions, you can't just mimic what she does and think that you've mastered the skill! You have to learn what's behind those actions - the culture in which you were raised, the societies in which you live - and most of all, the emotional responses that bring about that particular physical response. It's complex, Data - and it takes time. Time to understand what you're communicating - and time to learn how the other party is going to respond... "

Data said nothing, but his eyes narrowed and his brows moved closer together as he sat back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, his arms locked across his chest.

Beverly stared at him for a moment - then broke out laughing. "I take it all back, Data," she gasped a moment later.

Data nodded, instantly returning to his usual posture. "Indeed, Doctor. The lieutenant has been attempting to teach me both the application of the actions - and the situations where they will be used - along with a basic knowledge of the cultural interpretations of my motions, beginning with humans, since they are in the majority on the ship.

"That position, which the lieutenant calls, 'rejection of new ideas or arguments', is one of the more basic body positions. It can be modified through the use of mouth position - a slight pursing of the lips - to become 'potential rejection - potential acceptance, given sufficient cause' - what the lieutenant calls the 'you are going to have to work to convince me' position. Given a slightly different hand position, it becomes the 'I am open to being convinced' stance. Give a change in the flexion of the crossed leg, however..."

"I get the idea, Data," Picard said, amused - but not entirely mollified. "And you do this while you're dancing?"

The android shook his head, seemingly amazed at the idea. "No, sir. That would not be possible. We practice body language after the dance sessions and prior to the evening talk."

"And the dancing...?" Picard pressed.

Data stared back at him, perplexed. "Sir?"

"What does the dancing have to do with learning body language?" he asked.

Data thought for a moment. "None, sir. The lieutenant simply likes dancing."

"And you...?"

"Sir?"

"What do you get out of dancing?" Beverly said, explaining the question.

"I..." Data hesitated for another moment. "I enjoy dancing with her," he finally decided, a beatific contentment on his face. "Should there be a further reason to dance?" he added, worriedly, a moment later.

Beverly shook her head, smiling. "Data, I can think of no better way to spend an evening then doing something you both like - together."

Data stared at her for a moment, then a smile of pleased self-assurance same across his face.

"So do you two go back to dancing after these evening talks?" Picard asked.

"No," Data replied instantly. "The lieutenant allocated only four hours per evening to exercise and socialization; two for dance and my education, two for the evening talk. Then she returns to Engineering..." His voice trailed off - and for a moment, Picard thought he could see a touch of anxiety in the android's face.

"She returns to Engineering? To do what?" Picard interrupted, his voice lowering. "I thought the lieutenant's shift ends at seventeen hundred."

"Yes, sir," Data agreed. "But the lieutenant insists that she can not properly complete all her tasks during the assigned duty shift. Therefore, she utilizes a second duty period in order to complete those other tasks."

"Such as...?"

"Such as reviewing the work done those she is supervising in order to better direct their development, evaluating their efforts, charting the progress and planning the next cycle of development, making appropriate records in their personnel files," Data explained, a touch nervously. "On occasion, she also performs maintenance and other functions that she feels necessary. She says prefers the late night hours for these activities, as there are fewer people to 'get in her way', if I may quote her, during the middle of the night," he explained.

"You're saying she's working two shifts," Beverly said, her own voice dropping.

Data hesitated. "Yes, Doctor," he admitted. "When she feels it is necessary," he added.

"Which is how often?"

He hesitated again. "Quite frequently," he confessed.

Beverly rolled her eyes up. "Quite frequently. You mean she's working sixteen hours a day, almost every day," she said angrily.

"No," Data replied.

Beverly sighed, relieved.

"Some days she works three shifts," Data added softly, miserably.

Beverly's jaw dropped. "Three shifts? In one day?"

"I have attempted to explain to the lieutenant that such a routine could be injurious to her health and well-being," Data explained.

"Damned right it could be," Beverly agreed. "Working twenty-four hours a day..." She shook her head. "When does she sleep?" she pressed.

Watching the android, Picard felt a wave of awe wash over him; if Lt. Andile had taught him that, she was indeed a far more skillful trainer than any who had worked with Data before - for Picard could swear the man grew slightly pale at the question.

"The lieutenant... rarely sleeps," Data admitted reluctantly

"And rarely eats, I'll bet," Beverly assumed.

Data gave a short nod.

The physician shook her head as she looked at the captain. "What is it about engineers that makes them think they're above human frailties? That they don't need to eat or drink or take care of themselves... that the ship would fall apart if they weren't there every moment?" she sighed.

"In Lt. Andile's case, it's probably close to the truth," Picard offered. "She is the only one who is fully competent on these engines."

"Then why has no one bothered to make sure she's taking better care of herself?" she complained. "Well, it ends here and now. No more double shifts - and no triple shifts, either - and I want her down in Sickbay first thing tomorrow so I can make sure she hasn't already worked herself sick..." she began, then stopped as she felt a hand touch hers under the cover of the table. Surprised by the silent interruption, she turned to Picard who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, then turned back to the android.

"That may be premature, Doctor," he said quietly - but firmly. "Unless there's something specific in the lieutenant's behavior that you haven't mentioned," he added, looking back at Data.

The android shook his head.

Picard looked back at Beverly. "I suspect it's simply a matter of not having made the adjustment from life at Utopia Planitia back to life on board a ship, Doctor," he said.

Turning to Data, he added, "But it is an adjustment she needs to make. No one on board this ship should have to work two shifts as a matter of course; if that's what the lieutenant is doing, then she is are not allocating her time appropriately - and that is something that you and Mr. LaForge, as her superior officers, need to address," he reminded the android.

"As supervisor of the engine installation, however, there are going to be some tasks that the lieutenant must oversee - or complete for herself. And there will be times that this necessitates her working extra hours," he warned them both.

"Nonetheless, Captain..." Beverly began to protest.

"Nonetheless, Doctor," he countered immediately, "it is the responsibility of the lieutenant's superior officer to ensure that she does not work herself into a state of exhaustion. I trust that you will see to the prevention of such an outcome, Mr. Data?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes, sir," Data said, obviously relieved by the order. "I shall begin immediately," he added. "If I may be excused?"

Picard have a slight incline of his head. "Of course."

The android had barely left the room when Beverly turned on Picard. "You may be the captain of this ship, Jean-Luc, but I am her Chief Medical Officer - and I am not used to having my judgment - and my decisions - publicly countermanded, even by you!" she seethed under her breath, her voice too quiet for anyone but Picard too hear - but too angry for him to miss.

"As I am not used to being dressed down in public by one of my officers," he replied, his voice equally low. "Let's continue this discussion - in private," he said sharply.

Beverly glared at him, but pushed herself to her feet as he did, following him from the room, neither speaking until they reached the lift - and then only for Picard to give the order for his quarters.

A moment later, though, he spoke again. "Computer, halt lift," he said, then turned to face the ship's physician. "Dr. Crusher, as ship's physician, you have the responsibility to look after the physical and mental well-being of this crew - as individuals. But as captain, it is imperative that I make sure this company can function as a team - and sometimes that means identifying and respecting individual idiosyncrasies that can enhance the group's performance."

"Such as allowing someone to work herself into a state of exhaustion?" she seethed.

"You don't know that's happening..." he began.

"And you stopped me from finding out!" Beverly interrupted.

"I didn't stop you," he clarified, "I merely kept you from leaping to an unsupported conclusion."

Beverly exhaled noisily between gritted teeth. "All right," she agreed unhappily. "I have no proof that Lt. Andile's overworking. But if her position on this ship is as critical as you say, why are you taking that chance?"

"For a number of reasons," he informed her patiently, "not the least of which is as I said: Lt. Andile has been in a command position for a number of years. This means she, like any senior officer, has responsibilities and duties that often can not be performed during a regular, eight hour shift - as you well know, Doctor," he reminded her.

Beverly reddened, then nodded. "But she's not in a command position here," she reminded him.

"Not now - but she was until two days ago. As I said, she's going to have to make an adjustment - but not to a greater challenge, but to a lesser one; she's going to have to adjust to not having those same obligations - and that's not a transition that's easily made. It's hard to learn to take on additional obligations, Beverly - but it's ten times harder to learn how to give them up. I can think of no poorer way to do it than by ordering her to Sickbay and telling her she's overdoing it - unless you're certain she is.

"And to be honest, I have my doubts about that," he added. "After all, Bev, she's been working as the chief engine designer at Utopia Planitia for the last eight years - and under far more grueling circumstances than she's got here. If she didn't have some strong coping skills, she wouldn't have lasted that long."

Beverly contemplated the thought for a long moment - then nodded. "She's still going to have to report for a physical," she insisted. "After all, it is required of all new transferees."

"I understand - though I think you should review her medical file before you call her in," he cautioned her. "There are some things about her background that you may want to be aware of before you begin your examination."

She shook her head. "I wish I could - but I can't," she said.

He gave her a puzzled look. "Why not?"

"In all the rush to get everyone transferred aboard, the medical files weren't included with the personnel files," she complained. "By the time we discovered the oversight, we were out of the system and on subspace silence. So if you're aware of any information that I should know..." she reminded him.

Picard sighed, thinking. "Computer, resume," he finally said, then looked at Beverly once again. "I don't have the specifics of the lieutenant's condition, but I do know that she was severely injured in an explosion several years ago. The injuries were extensive; she was not expected to live," he said quietly.

Beverly's face paled in shock - then quickly regained her normal color. "All the more reason that I should check her out, make sure there's no long term therapy that she needs to continue, no medications..."

"Agreed - but go slowly," Picard said.

She looked at him in surprise. "This isn't like you, Jean-Luc," she said quietly. "You've never put the personal desires of a crewmember ahead of the needs of the ship..."

"And I am not doing so now," he countered. "But the lieutenant has been a member of Starfleet for more than eighty years; she's entitled to a degree of respect on our part."

"If you respect her so much, then why not let me bring her in and check her over?" Beverly pressed.

"I'm not stopping you from doing so, Doctor, I just... I just don't want you to scare her off," he conceded.

She looked at him questioningly.

"There was an accident in Engineering this morning... very minor," he hurriedly added at Beverly's suddenly concerned expression, "but I have never seen anyone less anxious to go to Sickbay than the lieutenant was. She was very subtle about it - but it was evident she did not want to go there. My guess is she's not fond of doctors - or medical institutions in general," he said gently.

Beverly sighed - then nodded slowly. "If her injuries were as severe as you say they were, you may be right," she agreed, beginning to understand his reasoning at last. "After a long illness, people tend to have one of two general responses to doctors; they become extremely interested - even obsessed - with their own health or with health care in general - or they avoid doctors and medical institutions like the plague. My guess is Andile fits in the second category," she concluded.

"My thought as well," he agreed.

"And that's the idiosyncrasy you were talking about," Beverly concluded. "Then I'll try to respect it... as far as possible... but," she began, then stopped, seeing the expression on Picard's face.

"That wasn't the idiosyncrasy I meant," he said.

"Then what?"

"Data," he said quietly.

"Data?" Beverly echoed. "What about him?"

Picard shook his head. "Bev, how many years has Data had emotions?"

"Six? Seven?" she guessed, only to see Picard shake his head.

"No," he said firmly. "He's had the chip that long, I'll agree, but emotions - real feelings - are something we've rarely seen from him. Usually what we see is his interpretation of emotions: the situation is amusing to those around him, so he emulates their actions: he smiles, or laughs - but there is no feeling behind it, no real sense of an emotion within him. It's an affectation, a cosmetic he wears so as to better fit in with humans - but only that - not something real, not something he feels deep within.

"Or, at least it was," Picard added knowingly.

Beverly stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's the fact that I've been gone so long," he said, "that the changes in Data seem so obvious."

"What changes?" she pressed, curious.

"The mannerisms, the facial expressions... the body language," he said. "They're no longer minor addendums to a personality, no longer the glaring additions to his persona that they were six months ago - they've become integrated parts of him - almost as natural as if he was human," he pointed out.

Beverly thought about the observation for several minutes as the lift came to a stop and she followed Picard into the corridor. "I admit I hadn't really noticed the change," she said, "but... "

"But that's the point," Picard agreed. "It's a change that you

shouldn't notice until someone points it out."

"But it's still an affectation," Beverly argued as they reached the door to his quarters. "It's just a lesson that he's been taught - the body language lessons that he's been taking with Lt. Andile - though admittedly, he's taken those lessons to heart," she conceded, thinking back over the android's actions and mannerisms throughout the day.

Picard smiled. "An interest choice of words, Doctor. Let me ask you, then: why?"

"Why?" she said, settling in at her place on the couch. "Because he wants to continue to learn how to be human!" she reminded him, surprised by the need to restate what they both knew so well.

"But he's been working on that since before we met him, Beverly," Picard reminded her. "For thirteen years, he's been struggling with expressions, emotions, human reasoning - and yet in the three months we're gone, he's managed to master them to the point that he actually is beginning to behave as a human!" he reminded her as he sat down beside her.

"So Andile's a better teacher than we are," Beverly said. "I don't see your point."

"My point, Beverly, is that Lt. Andile is not a better teacher than we are - my point is Data's a better student with her than he is with us. With her he's studying harder, practicing more... as you said, he's taking the lessons to heart. Specifically," he added with a knowing smile, "he's taking _her_ lessons to _his_ heart."

Beverly stared at him, perplexed - then let her jaw drop as the truth came crashing over her.

"Oh, my God."

Picard nodded, seeing the light in her eyes.

"Data is in love."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

"In love," Beverly echoed. "With Andile."

Picard nodded. "Indeed. Can I get you something to drink?" he added, seeing her stunned expression.

Beverly nodded without thinking, dazed by the revelation. "Yes," she finally said. "I think I need it."

He returned a moment later, two glasses of wine in hand.

Beverly took the glass but didn't drink from it, staring at Picard instead, the incredulity still evident on her face.

"I don't believe it," she finally said. "Data's an android..."

"With an emotion chip that allows him to experience every feeling we have," Picard reminded her.

"But it's still a chip!" she protested.

"Bev," he replied quietly, "does it matter whether the emotion is generated by bio-electrical and chemical reactions or positronic pathways? If they feel real to the individual, then they are real," he argued.

"But..." She thought for a moment, then shook her head once again, still unable to accept the reality of the android's feelings. "Maybe... Maybe it's not Data. Maybe it's us, seeing what we want to see," she insisted. "We've always wanted him to have human emotions; maybe we're seeing what we want in him!" she suggested.

"Then explain what happened," he countered.

"What happened - when?" she replied, confused.

"Just now, in Ten Forward, when we were talking to him," he answered.

Beverly looked at him, perplexed - then shook her head. "You mean what we were saying about Andile's working two shifts?"

Picard nodded.

"He was concerned," she replied blithely. "But that's not unusual in Data. He's her superior officer, and he was concerned about her overworking. He's been concerned about others as well, Jean-Luc," she reminded him.

"Agreed. But if he was concerned, why talk to us? Why not talk directly to Will about it? Will is in charge of the crew - and when Data's had concerns about officers in the past, he's always gone to Will about them," he replied. "Why change now?"

She frowned, knowing Picard was right - but still reluctant to concede the point - and everything it implied. "Maybe he didn't change. Maybe he intended to go to Will," she answered. "After all, it was obvious that he didn't intend to talk to us about it at all; it was a mistake, something he let slip..."

Picard stopped her with a shake of his head. "Beverly," he said softly, "Data is an android; he doesn't make mistakes like that. He didn't let it 'slip' that Lt. Andile's been working double shifts; it was deliberate, both in what he said, and the fact that he said it in front of the two people who would have seen to the instant end of that practice."

She pursed her lips, refusing to be persuaded. "Coincidence," she finally muttered.

"No. Not coincidence - though I'll agree that our timing was fortuitous," he conceded with a smile. "My guess is that he knew that taking it through the proper channels - through Will - would have taken time - and that Andile would have had even more time to protest his decision - time that Data did not want her to have. So when he saw a opportunity, he seized it; he let us know what was happening - in such a way that it would appear as coincidental - but also in such a way that he knew what our response would be."

"You're making him sound almost... devious, Jean-Luc," she protested.

"Not devious, Bev; concerned. Seriously... no, _passionately_ concerned," he amended, "about the lieutenant's welfare."

"Still..." she began.

"And consider what he did after we made the decision," he continued before she could voice another argument. "Rather than using his commbadge - the most efficient means of relaying that order - he goes to personally tell her about the change," Picard reminded her.

Beverly's eyes met Picard's, still wanting to believe he was wrong, that he had somehow misinterpreted what he had seen... but seeing the sincerity in his eyes - and, she realized, the satisfaction he was feeling for his friend, she gave in, accepting at last what he - Jean-Luc Picard, the ever-dispassionate, ever-aloof captain of the Enterprise - and no one else - had realized.

"He went to her - to soften the blow," she replied softly.

"That's one way to see it. Another would be that he wanted to be available to console her after what she is going to see as a personal affront," he replied. "I'll concede that what he feels isn't love as we expect it to be - but it's as close an approximation as I've ever seen."

Beverly stared at him for a long time, letting his words - and Data's actions - sink in. "Data," she finally murmured, "in love. My God!" she added, taking a further sip of her wine - then turning to Picard.

"And that's why you didn't want to discuss her medical condition with me in front of him," she said.

"Or any other potential problems there may be with her, including negative behavior," Picard agreed. "There's a point where his personal and professional obligations towards the lieutenant may well conflict - and until I know more about Data's abilities to distinguish between those two roles and his abilities to behave appropriately toward each one, I'm not going to confront him with those conflicts - yet."

"That makes sense," she agreed. "God knows one of the hardest things an officer has to learn is how to give commands - especially difficult ones - to people he cares for."

Picard shot her a pointed look, wondering if she was about to point out his own failures in that category - but she was still staring into space, her eyes focused on nothing, her thoughts locked on their friend.

At last, she looked up at him. "At least Data has one advantage over us; he can turn off his feelings if they get to be too much," Beverly pointed out.

"He can, yes - but I doubt he will," Picard replied as he settled in at the opposite end of the couch. "This evening, when I asked him to finish a report for me, it was clear that he was... unhappy, perhaps even a touch angry... at having to miss his evening with the lieutenant. The Data we've come to know would have identified his emotions as negative, turned off the chip and completed the report. Instead, he chose to keep the chip on - and to try to handle the feelings he was experiencing. And handled them fairly well," he added. "I don't know if that's Data's doing or the lieutenant's - but whichever one it was, it's working; the last thing I need is a second officer going through the trauma of adolescence," he added with a groan. "It was hard enough _being_ a teenager - I don't want to know what it's like being a parent of one," he admitted.

"It's hard," Beverly agreed empathetically. "But unlike teenagers, Data has the ability to draw on thirty years of experience and knowledge to help him deal with those feelings; teenagers have neither - and often they feel there is no one who can understand what they're experiencing. At least Data has us to help with that," she said.

"Or does he?" Picard rebutted. "After all, teenagers consciously know that they are not the first people to experience the trauma of developing emotions - but emotionally, they often feel they are alone. It's that self-imposed isolation that often leads to the troubles teenagers get into," he reminded her.

She smiled at him. "Are you speaking from experience, Captain?" she asked, teasingly.

He reddened. "Er... Let's just say that I'll admit to a few... youthful indiscretions, Doctor," he replied uncomfortably.

"Only a few?"

He didn't reply, but rather took a sip of the wine. "For the moment, I think we need to let Data know that he can talk to us if he feels the need," he said, hastily changing the subject. "Subtly, of course; I wouldn't want to embarrass him - if he can be embarrassed," he added, perplexed by the thought.

"Do you think that's necessary?" Beverly asked. "After all, he already knows he can talk to Andile..."

"Ah, but _would_ he talk to her? Especially about his feelings? Would you have talked to the first person you fell in love with about how you felt?" he pressed her.

It was her turn to blush. "Talk to him? About how I felt? Heavens, no!" Beverly exclaimed, horrified at the idea, even now, so many years later. "I couldn't even tell him _what_ I felt! He was everything to me - but the worst thing I could imagine was that he didn't feel the same about me!"

They both fell silent - then, moving as one, turned to meet the other's eyes.

Does that ever change? they both thought - then both, equally hastily, turned away.

Beverly took another sip of the wine. "So you think Data's afraid of being rejected?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Not afraid, exactly - but aware of the possibility. Data does have emotions, Bev - and he is aware that being hurt is being hurt, no matter whether that hurt is organic or inorganic in nature," he added quietly. "And perhaps it's just as well that he doesn't talk to the lieutenant," he added worriedly.

"Why?" she pressed.

Picard looked at her, hesitating - then nodded. There was a point where a captain had to keep his concerns about his officers to himself - and a point where he needed the input of others. And this, he told himself, was one of those times.

"Beverly, we don't know her. If Data confronts her about his feelings, I don't know what she would do," he said.

"I doubt she'd deliberately hurt him," Beverly replied slowly. "Deanna says that despite her reputation, she seems to be a very compassionate, caring person."

"Seems," Picard echoed. "But appearances can be deceiving, Bev."

She gave him a puzzled look. "Meaning what, Jean-Luc?"

"Meaning... After thirteen years of working with Will, Deanna, Worf, Data, and Geordi, I've come to know enough about them to trust them implicitly; I don't have to ask how they'd respond - I think I know. But Lt. Andile I know only by reputation - and while her reputation is remarkable, there are things in her record that just don't add up," he admitted, "And I'm not comfortable in trusting her yet - not with my ship, not with my crew..."

"And not with the emotions of your officers," Beverly concluded.

Picard nodded.

Beverly thought for a moment, sipped the wine, then looked at him again. "You said some things about her didn't add up. Things like...?"

"She's a lieutenant," he reminded her. "She's been in Starfleet for more years than I've been alive - but she's still a lieutenant. With her level of knowledge, her experience, her skills, why hasn't she been promoted?" he asked.

"I don't know," Beverly admitted. "Maybe she likes being a lieutenant," she said. "After all, there are considerably fewer responsibilities..."

"Fewer responsibilities than being the head of the Federation's engine design team?" he scoffed. "I can't think of many positions that have _greater_ responsibilities, Beverly! The lives of every single person who travels on one of our ships becomes her direct responsibility! No, that can't be it," he decided.

"Then what?" she pressed. "You suspect something, don't you?"

He hesitated, reluctant to reveal his thoughts - then sighed and nodded at her. "I do," he admitted. "I'm concerned that she may have been kept at her rank because of something else, some degree of irresponsibility in other areas. A lack of discipline, a lack of regard for senior officers, disobeying orders, insubordination... Half a hundred reasons she may not have been promoted - and none of which I'd like to see in someone who's shaping the behavior of one of my senior officers," he added. "Especially when he's so vulnerable."

Beverly stared at him, a look of surprise and pleasure crossing her face, then moved closer to him on the couch, her hand resting on his arm. "Especially when he's your friend," she said softly.

He opened his mouth to object, then closed it. "That too," he agreed. "But I learned long ago that fastest way to dissolve a friendship - or to damage the relationship between captain and crew - is to get involved in someone's personal affairs."

"I got involved in your personal affairs," she reminded him.

"And we nearly ended a twenty-year friendship," he reminded her.

"Nearly, Jean-Luc; nearly," she said. "But we didn't."

"Only because we had the experience, the gift of time as friends, to know how valuable that friendship is," he reminded her gently. "Data doesn't have that yet. Yes, he's known us for years - but the emotional involvement of friendship - the closeness, the emotional bond..."

"The love," Beverly offered.

Picard stared at her, rejecting the phrase instantly - then gave a short, almost embarrassed nod. "The love," he agreed, "that exists between friends hasn't developed there. Yes, Data has had an emotion chip - but he's only now beginning to have real emotions - and those emotions haven't begun to develop for us yet. The reality is they might not. I'll not doubt his loyalty to us, to his ship or to Starfleet - but I'll also not doubt the strength of this, his first real emotional tie. And if it comes down to having to choose between the two..." He sighed. "For the first time since I've come to know him, Beverly, I'm not sure I know what choice Data would make."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

"Hey, Beej," Geordi called across the Engineering bay, "I thought you were going to complete these personnel files last night!" he jokingly complained as he waved a padd at her, grinning, expecting to her some litany of other, more critical problems that had kept her from her usual efficiency.

Instead, she turned on him, a low growl, just barely audible, coming from between her gritted teeth - too audible, Geordi realized instantly, watching as two ensigns looked to her worriedly.

She must have seen them turn as well, for she instantly stopped the sound, turned to them with a reassuring smile on her face - then looked back at Geordi, rage filling her eyes

"I _intended_ to finish them, Commander," she said tersely as she strode to the center console, "but I was told _not_ to! I was told that they weren't important!" she growled.

Geordi looked at her, surprised by vitriol in her voice and by the sheer fury in her face. "Not important...?" he began. "Who told you that?"

"Cmdr. Data!" she seethed.

"Data? Data told you not to finish the evaluations?" he echoed, astonished - then shook his head, unable to accept the idea. "But why?"

"He said it wasn't critical; that it could wait for this morning! He said..." she began, then stopped, her voice choked off by the anger that surged through her. "He said I needed to rest. That the captain and Dr. Crusher - whoever he is - had ordered me - ordered _me_! - to work only one shift a day! One shift! By the gods! How do they expect me to get any work done?" she seethed.

Geordi sighed, shaking his head, understanding at last. "One, Dr. Crusher is the ship's Chief Medical Officer - and she's a she - and two..." He sighed again, then looked at her, an exasperated expression on his face. "Well, what did you expect, Beej?" he asked bluntly. "You knew this was inevitable. Cmdr. Riker couldn't stop you from putting in the hours you were doing when you were the consultant - but as soon as you became a member of this crew, you had to realize that you were going to have to start following the rules and regs that apply to all of us. The captain's always said that if you can't do your job in your assigned shift periods, then you're not doing your job right. As soon as he found out you were pulling double shifts every day..."

"Well, how the hell else am I supposed to do my work?" she seethed. "How I'm supposed to finish the engine installation completed _and_ update the personnel files and find out what's causing this bloody anomaly all in eight hours a day?"

"You're not," he said. "To do everything that you have to do is going to take more than one shift per day - but Beej, you have to admit a lot of what you do doesn't have to be done by you," he reminded her.

She glared at him.

"Like the replicator program," he continued gently. "That's the work for a computer tech - not for the premiere engine designer in Starfleet."

"But the upgrade was complicated!" she argued, "and I wasn't doing anything!"

"Biji, you're entitled to a certain amount of time for the sole purpose of not doing something. It's what we like to call 'having fun'," he reminded her, forcing a smile to his face, trying to make light of the situation.

But the woman was having no part of it. "That's not why I was transferred aboard, Commander!" she cried. "I was transferred here to get a job done!"

Geordi raised an eye. "No. You're here to be a member of this crew, Biji - and there's more to being on this ship than working yourself twenty-four hours a day!"

"But I like my work!"

He sighed. "Beej, there's a difference between liking your work - and being obsessed with it. And I think you're on the verge of crossing that line," he added, studying her.

She looked awful, he thought, her face drawn and pale... more drawn and paler, he quickly amended; on her best days, Andile never looked completely healthy. And today... He shook his head.

She hadn't slept, he decided, wondering if she had deliberately deprived herself of rest to spite her new restrictions - or if she had just been too furious to be able to sleep. Whichever, she looked like hell, he thought. Long wisps of her jet black hair, normally caught in the tight braid at the back of her head now hung in sweaty strings around her face, her mouth, set in an unfamiliar frown, drew harsh lines across her face, and her eyes... Her eyes were the worst, Geordi thought. Usually they were so bright, so alive that they could lighten even the heaviest load, reassure the most fearful cadet - but today, that light was gone, lost in the hurt, the sheer insult, that had been done to her.

Done with the best of intentions, Geordi reminded himself - but done nonetheless.

"Well, I'd look a hell of a lot better if I didn't know that I've got twice as much work to do today because I couldn't finish it last night!" she snapped at him. "So now I've got the personnel files to complete, I need to review the diagnostics from yesterday, the sensor diagnostics aren't finished - and I still don't know where that fucking anomaly is coming from!" she seethed.

Geordi stared at her for a moment, then after a quick glance around the room, grabbed Andile's arm and led her toward his office.

There, out of earshot and out of sight of the others, he loosed his grip. "Lieutenant," he said firmly, almost coldly, "you are a member of the crew of the Enterprise now. There is a standard of behavior that is required here, a standard you may not have asked of your people - but one that will be complied with - if you are to remain a member of this crew.

"You will not use language of that kind; not while you're on duty, not while you're in uniform and you will _never_ use it, on or off the ship, while you're functioning in a capacity of an officer of the Enterprise. It demeans you - and it demeans the rest of us."

Andile gawked at him, stunned - and hurt. "I understand, Commander," she said after a moment, her voice brittle with pain. "I apologize, and I will, of course, comply. May I return to my duties, sir?" she added.

Geordi sighed again; he had hurt her, he knew - hurt her by criticizing her behavior - and more importantly, by criticizing her leadership style. Undoubtedly it was an effective style when she was at Utopia, where behavior and language were far more casual - but this, he reminded himself, wasn't Utopia - and Captain Picard was not Admiral Valonsk. The captain would never stand for that type of language from one of his crew - and certainly not from one of his officers.

And he reminded himself, it was a hurt that was inevitable, as were the other hurts she would suffer in the coming days and weeks as she made the adjustment back from being in command to being commanded once again, just as the hurt she had suffered at being subject to the limitations that Beverly Crusher - or any CMO - could impose on a member of the crew. This was going to be a difficult transition for Andile to make, he knew - and all the harder since she had offered herself unto that position.

But allowing her to continue as she had been... He shook his head, knowing the remonstration was better coming from him than from the captain. At least he could put a gentler edge on it, he reminded himself.

"Sorry. I guess I'm beginning to sound like my mother," he sighed at last.

Andile gave him a glance, her anger pushed back by curiosity - for the moment.

"She was a Starfleet captain, too, and she didn't approve profanity any more than the captain does," Geordi explained. "Every time I'd say something, she'd say, 'Don't swear, Geordi. It sounds like hell.'"

It took a moment for the words to sink in and force up a tiny smile from the woman - but at last it did, to Geordi's infinite relief. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I'm just not used to having anybody around who can hear me," she added. "Either I was on my own - or the noise was so overwhelming you couldn't hear."

"I understand," Geordi replied, "but one thing that you can't escape here is having people - lots of them - around you, and almost every one of them is going to be hanging on your every word. You're Andile, the Federation's premiere engine designer - and they're going to take everything you say - _everything_," he emphasized, "as gospel. You're the best there is, Biji - and if that's the way you do something, then..." He shrugged, letting the words - but not the thought - trail off.

Andile stared at him, the truth of his words hitting home. "I understand, Commander," she said at last.

"Commander?" he scoffed lightly. "Yesterday it was 'Geordi', Beej," he reminded her.

"Yesterday, I was an independent consultant," she countered. "Today, I'm..."

"You're still the consultant - and you're still my friend," he said. "The only thing that's changed is that now you have to answer to me. So if you can't get your work done in one shift, it becomes my job to make sure you have the help you need. So let's take a look at what you had planned for the day..." he added, reaching for her padd.

"The anomaly," he mused as he looked over the readout, "the evaluations, the diagnostics... Let's try this: you designed the engines, so your focus should be on those diagnostics," he said firmly.

"Should be - but the anomaly..." Andile protested.

"Is well within Starfleet tolerances," he reminded her.

"That's not good enough, sir. It shouldn't be there at all - and the fact that it is..."

Geordi sighed. "Beej, it's a glitch, probably nothing more..."

"But it may be something more," she countered, "and as the consultant, I'm telling you that those circuits need to be checked!"

"All right; it may be something more and the circuits should be checked - but that's going to take days to check the whole ship. That's not something that _you_ should spend your time on."

"But it's important," Andile insisted.

"Okay, so it's important - but it's still a waste of your abilities. So let's use it as a training exercise for a couple of ensigns who need to learn more about ship's functions; show them what to do and how to do it - and you can have them report their findings back to you. That way you'll know it's being done, I'll know the diagnostics are being reviewed by the expert, and the ensigns will learn more about the ship in the next few days then they ever thought they could learn - and we'll all be happy. Okay?" he asked.

"What about the sensors diagnostics?" she pressed. "I need to get them started..."

"No," he said firmly, "you don't."

"But..."

"They need to be done, yes - but Biji, you don't have to be the one to do them!" he reminded her. "There are, after all, over fourteen hundred people on this ship!"

"None of whom are trained in the technique!" she pointed out. "Geordi, these are new engines - and when I installed them, it meant that everything everyone knew about the ship and tossed it out the window! If I'd had the year I was supposed to have with you and your people..."

"I know," he sighed, nodding slowly. "But you didn't get it." He thought for a moment. "Can't Data do it? He's read all the protocols..."

"But I've never signed him off on the procedure," she pointed out. "Reading it's one thing, doing it quite another. And, by the book, you can't train a procedure until you're signed off on it. Since I wrote it, however..."

"You can do it," he replied - unhappily. In fact, he reminded himself, she was the only one who could; somehow, he thought, she had managed to not only make herself essential - but to make her abusive hours essential as well.

She grinned, almost triumphantly.

But only for a moment. "Fine," Geordi continued. "Then I'll assemble a team and you can start training them on the procedure..."

"But the engine diagnostics..." Andile began to protest.

"Data and I are both qualified to do those," he reminded her. "And I'll have someone do your personnel updates while you train Cho and Dulfer on the circuit checks," he added; I'll not have the captain saying we didn't do everything possible to keep your work load where it should be.

Andile gaped at him - then shut her mouth; there was nothing she could say.

Geordi nodded, taking her silence for grudging acquiescence, then gazed across the Engineering bay to where two young men were huddled over a console. "Cho! Dulfer! Over here. On the double!" he called to them.

The two young men, both so fresh-faced and enthusiastic that their recent emergence from the Academy was unmistakable, hurried over to the office door.

"Yes, sir!" the shorter one replied instantly.

Geordi held back a smile at the overly-eager young man, remembering his own first days aboard a starship, wondering if he had been so obviously eager. Probably not, he admitted - but then his first assignment hadn't been to the flagship of the Federation, he reminded himself.

That ship had been far older than the Enterprise E, he thought to himself - older, in fact, than the Enterprise D had been before she had crashed - and in worse shape than after, he thought with a smile. They had hovered on the brink of one engineering disaster after another, trying to patch together a half dozen malfunctioning systems, hoping they would hold together long enough to allow them to limp back to port - until another system failed, forcing them to piece together some makeshift repair from the bits and pieces of equipment they could salvage - and to string together the knowledge that had been poured into their brains over the previous four years.

Somehow, though, they'd managed to get back to a starbase - exhausted, spent - and with a better working knowledge of how a ship - and her crew - really functioned than any course in Starfleet could ever teach them.

And now, he thought, looking at the two men before him, their faces shining with anticipation, I'm about to grant you that same exhausting and filthy gift. This, he thought, is where engineering really starts - in the bowels of the ship, covered in dirt, dust and grease - though if Andile found anything but a trace of those substances in her accessways and Jeffries tubes, she would have a fit, Geordi reminded himself.

"Ensign Cho, Ensign Dulfer, the lieutenant here needs your assistance on a very important project. We're looking for a minor short in one of the circuits..."

"Which circuit, sir?" Dulfer, the shorter of the two men replied.

Andile laughed, a soft sweet sound that Geordi knew could either charm the young man - or turn to a caustic rebuke if needed.

Blessedly, it was the former - this time. "Ensign, if we knew which circuit it was, we wouldn't need you to help us find it," she said sweetly. "What we do know is that the fault is extremely minor - almost negligible, less than point zero zero three percent of the line consumption for the warp generators..."

"That's within tolerances," Cho pointed out.

Andile nodded approvingly. "Yes, it is. Interesting word, tolerance. It means the amount of variance allowed from a standard of accuracy. It means we can be perfectly on the money, the way we're supposed to be - but it's okay if we're not. After all, it doesn't really matter if the ship is working perfectly, does it? We can allow a certain level of... imperfection in our systems, can't we? A little slip in the computer systems. And a little slip in the replicators, and in weapons, and in defense, and in the shields..." she said easily as she walked, slowly guiding them from Geordi's doorway toward one of the entrances to the Jeffries tubes and the narrow accessways that paralleled those shafts. "After all, it doesn't matter if we don't do our jobs quite right, does it?" she said silkily. "I mean, good enough is, well, good enough - isn't it?"

"No, ma'am - I mean yes, ma'am, I mean..." one of them was responding nervously as Geordi turned away, knowing that within a few minutes, Andile would have them as attuned to her desire for perfection as she was. Give them a month with her, and they'd be as stuck on the concept as she was, he added - for better or worse.

Mostly for better, he decided after thinking about it for a moment; certainly, Andile's dedication to perfectionism was causing her some personal problems - but the ship was certainly benefiting, he decided as he looked over the warp engine readouts. Efficiency levels were up, engine performance was up...

"Hello, Geordi. What is... up?"

Startled, Geordi turned - then smiled at his friend. " 'What's up?' " he repeated with a grin. "Another new phrase, Data?" he asked.

Data nodded. "Indeed; when the lieutenant realized I was attempted to emulate her more free utilization of slang, she began to educate me in earnest - and with a mind toward avoiding potentially offensive phrases," he agreed. "But without fully understanding the etymology of the idiom, they can be confusing at times - for both of us. It is sometimes difficult for the lieutenant to determine the origination for the phrase, as English is not her native language, and the foundation of a remark is unknown to her."

"I would imagine so," Geordi mused, then glanced at Data in surprise. "I didn't know this wasn't Andile's primary language," he said, almost accusingly, then relented. "Then again, she does have that accent."

"The lieutenant has informed me she speaks over forty languages fluently, and almost one hundred in a more limited fashion," Data replied.

"Ah," Geordi answered. "So _that's_ what she does in all her spare time."

Data pursed his lips, frowning. "I believe you are mistaken, Geordi; the lieutenant rarely has 'spare time' as you call it..." He stopped, then looked at his friend uncertainly. "Ah! That was a joke!" he said after a moment.

"Yes, it was," Geordi replied, "and you recognized it," he added approvingly. "Data, I'm impressed. Biji must be a heck of a good teacher if she's managed to get you to be able to identify a joke!"

"She is an exceptional tutor," Data replied.

The certainty in the android's voice forced Geordi to study his friend once again - and brought another sigh to his lips. "Data, have you told her how you feel?" he said after a moment, quickly growing serious.

"Daily," the android responded instantly. "The lieutenant requires that I verbally state my emotional and physical status to her on a regular basis so that she can help me understand the feelings."

"I meant," Geordi interrupted, holding up both hands to stop the explanation, "have you told her how you feel - about her?"

Data hesitated, thinking, then gave a single shake of his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because..." He hesitated once more, then continued, "Because I do not know _how_ I feel," he admitted.

Geordi looked at him, a touch of scorn in his expression. That, he thought, was a hackneyed answer - one he heard - and had made - too often. People always knew how they felt; they just didn't want to admit it, for fear of seeming weak, or foolish or sentimental...

But Data didn't have those fears, he reminded himself; to him, the feelings were just that: feelings, pure and simple, far too new to him to have an emotional sub-context of their own. Data would have no problems in admitting to his emotions, because the only response his friends had ever given him was to congratulate him for discovering the experience.

In some ways, it must easier for Data than it was for us, Geordi thought, and yet... And yet, here he was, in every aspect but his emotional development a mature adult - and only now coming to learn the weakness emotions bring us, weaknesses we've experienced every day since birth. In its way, he realized, it must be somewhat terrifying to find oneself suddenly vulnerable, not from the outside, but from what fills us within.

If, he added, Data has learned what terror is.

And if he hasn't, how do we teach it to him? he asked himself, beginning to comprehend the enormity of Data's new task - and the enormity of the efforts Andile had been making on his behalf.

No wonder he wasn't sure how he felt about her, Geordi mused; I know my emotions - and I'm not sure how I feel about her.

"But you do feel something for her," Geordi said at last.

Data nodded.

"Can you describe it?"

"She..." Data stopped then started again. "When we..." He stopped again. "Her..." he tried once more, then looked at Geordi, a forlorn expression on his face. "No," he said at last. "I cannot."

Geordi sighed. "But you like being with her?"

Data nodded again.

"Why?"

Data thought again. "When we are together, it is as though my sensory receptors have been augmented, though I am fully aware they have not. But I find myself more aware, if this is possible, of the things around me..."

"Such as..."

"The color and texture of her uniform, the configuration of her hair, the scent of her body..."

"Data, it's called perfume," Geordi pointed out.

"No," the android replied certainly. "The lieutenant does not wear perfume. The scent is that of her body, combined with the aroma of the equipment with which she has been working, the scent of those around her..."

Geordi raised a hand, stopping his friend before he received an analysis of Andile's body chemistry. "What else?" he asked.

"I note in greater detail the things we are discussing; in dance, I can recall the precise position of her feet..."

"Data, you have a positronic brain; you can memorize anything you want..."

Data looked at his friend helplessly. "But this is... different," he said, both certainty and bewilderment coloring his tone.

"I'm sure it is," Geordi agreed.

"Then you understand what I am experiencing," Data said with a sigh of relief.

"Of course," Geordi said, quickly adding, "or more accurately, I would understand it if it was happening to me - but that may or may not be the same thing that's happening to you," he started to explain - then the event he had just seen registered on his mind.

Data had _sighed_, he realized in astonishment - sighed, and did so so naturally, so normally - so _humanly_ - that he, Geordi LaForge, Data's closest and best friend, hadn't even noticed it.

Geordi glanced across the room at the woman who still talking with the two ensigns, shaking his head in disbelief - and in awe. Thirteen years, he thought; thirteen years we've been trying to help Data learn even the most basic of emotions and mannerisms - and in three months, you've got him sighing, grinning, shrugging - all those little things that are so basic we never even think about them - except when they're missing. A few more months, he thought...

A few more months and the only thing that's going to make Data stand apart from the rest of us is his skin color.

"Look, Data," Geordi said, "if I were you, I'd think I was interested in her. Romantically interested," he quickly clarified.

"Romantically interested? You mean as in being in love?"

Geordi shook his head. "Not love, Data," he replied with a soft laugh. "At least, not yet."

"Then being in love is a matter of time?" he asked, curious. "How much time? I have known the lieutenant for ninety-three days, seven hours, and sixteen minutes; how must time should elapse before I begin to be 'in love' with her?"

"It's not like that, Data," Geordi replied. "It's not always a matter of time. You can fall in love with someone the first time you meet them - or never at all. You've known Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi for years - but you're not 'in love' with them - are you?" he hurriedly added, panic flaring.

Data considered the idea for a moment, then gave a single shake of his head. "I do not know - but I am certain that what I feel for the lieutenant is different than what I feel for the Doctor and the Counselor."

Geordi considered the answer for a moment, then gave a nod. "Okay, then here's what you do. Ask Biji out..."

"Out? Out where? Outside the ship? An extravehicular activity?"

"Not that far out," Geordi replied with a grin. "Just out - on a date. Someplace away from work, someplace that the two of you can be alone..."

"But we are alone, every evening, for dancing and for practicing human expressions and..." Data began to protest.

"That's not what I mean, Data. You need to take some time for the both of you to get to know each other..."

"I am already familiar with her personnel file; Lt. Andile entered the Academy in..."

"Then what's her favorite color?" Geordi interrupted.

Data stared at him.

"Her favorite flower?"

The android considered for a moment, then shook his head.

"What hobbies does she have? Did she ever have a pet? What's her favorite book, her favorite author?" Geordi pressed. "Data, you know about Lt. Andile - but you don't know about Biji at all. That's what dates are for, Geordi - for two people to get to know each other better - and to decide if they want to move forward in a relationship," he explained.

Dates were also for other, more intimate purposes, Geordi reminded himself - but that, he added, wasn't going to enter into this equation. Data might well have the emotions required for a romantic relationship - but he would never have the physical desires, the needs and hungers that entered into true human romances.

Then again, would Andile have those desires? Geordi asked himself as he glanced across the room at the gaunt woman still tutoring the two ensigns. Unlikely, he thought; between her age and her appearance, she had to have given up any thought of a physical romance long ago, he decided.

So who better for Data to date? he asked himself - and who better for Andile?

"So go ask her," he pressed, delighted with his decision.

Data stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

As the android stepped away, however, a sudden, panicky thought filled Geordi's mind: What if she says 'no'? What if she laughs at him? What if...

I should have prepared Data for this, he told himself; I should have let him know that his invitation might not be accepted, that Andile might not be interested in a relationship other than the one they already have - and I should have warned her, he added; I should have let her know just how new Data's emotions are, how vulnerable his feelings might be...

Damn! he swore to himself. I should have just kept my mouth shut!

But it was far too late for such recriminations, he knew; Data was already at her side - and already talking to her.

Geordi braced himself for the look of indignation or insult that he suspected might come, and began preparing a list of ways to counsel his friend over the rebuff.

But to his surprise - and, he admitted, to his astonishment - Andile merely raised her eyes in surprise, thought for a moment, then gave a brief nod and gave a brief reply before turning back to the ensigns.

She accepted! Geordi thought, delighted - then disbelieving. "She accepted?" he asked a moment later as Data returned to the console.

"She was amenable to the concept," the android said blandly, no trace of excitement in his voice. "She said that I was to notify her of the time and place and she would meet me there..."

"No," Geordi quickly interrupted. "A date has certain...rules," he said, "and the first is that you pick her up at her door. With flowers. And candy," he added.

Data gave an uncertain frown. "The lieutenant does not eat candy," he said.

"Then flowers for sure. And you should take her out for dinner..."

"She does not enjoy dining with people," Data replied.

"Then take her dancing," Geordi suggested.

"We already go dancing every evening," he reminded the engineer, then gave him a puzzled look. "Does that mean we have been dating?" he added hopefully.

Geordi sighed and shook his head. "No. Dancing in order to work up a sweat isn't the same thing as dancing on a date. If you want to dance on a date, you'll have to find a nice holodeck program, some soft music..." He stopped as he saw Data's doubt-ridden expression. "Okay, so no dancing. How about... " He thought for a moment, then shook his head, unable to think of something romantic that didn't involve dancing, food or... or anything that didn't involve around the romantic aspect of a date.

Which was, Geordi admitted to himself, the crux of the problem. Data's version of a date and Andile's were not going to be the same thing. In fact, they weren't even going to be close - though exactly how far apart they would be, he didn't have a clue.

And neither did Data, he reminded himself. In fact, in many ways, it wasn't dissimilar from what Data had said - they were trying to communicate, but each had started with a different - and completely foreign - native language, and Geordi wasn't sure that barrier was one they were going to be able to overcome.

"Okay, let's start out with something easy, not too romantic..."

"Are dates not supposed to be romantic?" Data asked puzzled.

"Yes, in time - but you need to start slow. Humans start dating when they're fairly young - and usually the dates are quite casual, rather than passionate," Geordi said.

"But I am not young," Data reminded him. "I came on line in..."

"In this, Data, you're an infant," Geordi interrupted. "So let's start out slow, okay?" he said, then guided the android to a terminal, ran his fingers over the board, then gestured to where the available programs were being displayed. "These are nice, easy-going scenarios - something just right for a first - and very casual - date. Pick out something you'll both like - and even if it's a lousy date, you'll both have a good time," he suggested.

A moment later, as the listing scrolled past, Data suddenly pointed at one. "That one," he said firmly.

"That? You're joking, right?" Geordi scoffed - then hesitated. "You are joking, aren't you, Data?"

Abashed, Data looked at his friend. "Is that not an acceptable motif for a first date?" he asked, hurt.

"Uh, well..." Geordi hesitated, thought - then shrugged., "Sure. I guess. Why not? It's a little athletic for my taste in dates, but... Have you ever done that before?" he asked.

"No," Data admitted.

"Has Biji?"

"I have not asked - but not to the best of my knowledge," he admitted.

"Then why...?"

"Because it will be a new experience for us both," he said firmly. "A level playing field," he added, proud of the new phrase.

Geordi raised a dubious eye as he called up the requested program. Oh, this may be a new experience for you both, Data, he agreed - but when it comes to emotions, you could have Mt. Everest on your side, and it still wouldn't be a level field if Biji's on the other side. Still...

"Okay, you're all set," he said a moment later, the program and the request for the holodeck time having been transferred to the ship's computers. "You're set for six tonight, holodeck three. Now don't forget to tell her when - and that you'll pick her up - and what to wear," he added.

Data frowned at the recitation. "Dating appears to be a complex procedure, Geordi," he said worriedly.

Geordi laughed. "Data, you don't know the half of it!" he chuckled, thinking of the misadventures of his adolescence: the anxiety, the nervousness, the uncertainty - all the trepidations that only youth could bring - and all the joy and elation that came with them as well.

He smiled at his friend, relieved that the man would never have experience those feelings - then found himself growing sober at the same realization.

I suppose I should envy you, Data - but I don't. Somehow, I feel sorry for you. You'll never know the pain of a broken heart, Geordi thought sadly - but you're never going to know the thrill of a first love, either.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

"You wanted a risk analysis of this mission, sir, and a list of recommendations on how to maximize safety throughout the mission," Worf said as he looked up at Picard from the long conference table, lined with the faces he had known for so many years. "My analysis is this: you have a ship equipped with a new engine design that has not been fully tested, whose implementation was hurried, and whose installation was filled with unproven, untested short cuts. You have a computer system that is still not fully functional - and that relies on an unproven interface between two apparently incompatible systems. Your weapons systems haven't been tested since the new systems have been installed, your defense systems are equally unproven - and you have eleven hundred new crewmen aboard. Those are your risks. My recommendation? Return to Earth; request Starfleet Command reassign this mission to a ship that is prepared to undertake it," he growled.

Picard raised an eye at the terse assessment - then lowered it again. Worf's remarks were brutal - and brutally accurate. This ship should not be on this mission, he knew - and every minute they continued made Picard feel more and more uncomfortable, as though they were heading toward a certain and unavoidable disaster.

Starfleet had known it as well, he reminded himself - and yet despite using the same arguments that Worf had just given him, they had still been firm in their decision that she would go. No, Picard thought; not that she would go - but that she _must_ go. Their determination, their single-mindedness in that decision had been unalterable - a nothing, short of the destruction or incapacitation of the vessel would have changed it.

Single-mindedness.

The phrase stuck in Picard's thoughts, playing on his mind for a long moment, taunting him; there was something about that idea...

He shook his head to clear it, then looked back at the Klingon. "Unfortunately, Mr. Worf, that is not an option," he said firmly. "Given that we are going to carry on with this mission, what recommendations do you have?"

Worf growled, not at Picard, but at the fools at Starfleet Command who had given the absurd order.

"Without defenses we are helpless; our first concern must be to determine our shield and other defense status," Worf said firmly.

"We can't do that until we've confirmed that the sensors are functioning at full capacity; until we do that, any test results are worthless," Geordi interrupted.

"I thought the sensor confirmations were to be completed by this time," Picard replied grimly.

Geordi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The confirmation was finished, but Lt. Andile's analysis is still pending," he admitted.

Picard glanced at the chronometer; it was still early, but the analysis would last well into the second duty shift. "Mr. LaForge, please inform our new lieutenant that if she is unable to complete an assignment of this nature on time, she should request assistance..."

Geordi grimaced. "She did, sir," he said; a slight exaggeration, he admitted, but not far from the truth.

"Then what's the delay?"

"Sir, this mission was dumped on us so unexpectedly that we have not had the opportunity to train anyone in the procedure. The new sensor confirmations are completely different from the old ones - and since two-thirds of my engineering crew is new to the ship, that meant giving them a basic orientation first. That took time, sir - and more time yet to perform the work because it was their first time. Because of that, we have to check their results against the test parameters to make sure that the results are giving us valid data. Until that's done, Lt. Andile can't begin the analysis. It's going to take time, sir," he informed them bluntly.

"We don't have time, Mr. LaForge," Picard growled.

"Well, we're going to have to find it," he replied, "because even Biji isn't willing to risk using these results until they've been checked."

Picard sighed, then nodded, understanding the man's point. "How long?"

Data, having instantly run the calculation in his head, started to answer, but Geordi spoke first. "We won't have the final confirmation until twenty-two hundred hours, at least," he replied.

Data glanced at his friend, a puzzled look on his face.

Picard sighed, disappointed in the turn of luck - and in himself. I shouldn't have given Data permission to restrict her hours without checking her work status first, he grumbled to himself; after three months of working double and triple shifts, one more day wouldn't have hurt her...

But one more day for the sensors would have justified one more day for the engines - and another day for the computers - and soon enough, granting her permission to work double shifts would have become the norm again, rather than the exception, he reminded himself - and I would have begun treating her as I find myself treating Data all too often - as a machine that can and does function twenty-four hours a day.

No; we can afford one extra day for the sensors, he told himself.

"Understood," he said at last. "We'll begin diagnostics and validation of the ship's defenses and weapons systems at twenty-two hundred hours," he said, turning back to face Worf. "What's the status of your investigation of the crew files?"

"I have been able to complete the review of one hundred and twelve crew members..." he began.

Picard raised an eye at the man, surprised by the length of time the project was taking the normally efficient officer.

Worf saw the expression, and hurried to explain. "Sir, in order to properly review the files, I must look not only for the overt signs of contact with a foreign agency, but also for anomalies, missing periods of time, incongruities in stated intentions and completed actions - but also review the files for later explanations of those discrepancies. Unfortunately, there is no way to have the computer search for such anomalies. This is something that must be done manually; it can not be completed at a faster pace without risking what may be a critical oversight. Even the slightest omission may be key in finding out if there is a traitor aboard," he reminded Picard.

The captain sighed, then nodded, agreeing with the man. It was going to take time, he admitted - but time was one thing they did not have.

"I'm in a similar strait, Captain," Beverly added. "Without medical files, I have no health history on anyone aboard, except the four hundred people who weren't transferred off. For everyone else, it means not only a routine check-up, but a complete medical history as well."

"Doctor, that may be unnecessary. Most of these transferees are going to be leaving the ship as soon as we return to Earth," Picard reminded her.

"And in the interim I should let someone with a history of Johennson's encephalitis or Baron's hepatitis infect the rest of crew because I failed to follow up on their routine inoculations?" she asked sharply.

Picard bowed his head, conceding the physician's point. "Agreed. Is there anything we can do to help you?" he added.

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not. It's the same as Worf was saying - this is simply going to take time."

Picard sighed unhappily, then looked to his first officer. "Will?" he said.

Riker's head jerked back from his study of the passing lights outside the observation lounge window to Picard, but it took his eyes a moment longer to focus on the man there, his mind obviously far away from the ship or her present crisis. "Sir?" he finally asked.

"Any input?" Picard pressed gently.

Will considered for a moment, then shook his head. "No, sir," he said quietly.

Picard studied the man for a moment, troubled by his first officer's distraction, then nodded. "All right," he said. "I want your report on the sensor check as soon as it's completed, Mr. LaForge, and your report on the defenses and weapons as soon as you're through, Mr. Worf. As for the rest of you, keep on talking with your staff. I don't want to be dependent on Mr. Worf's investigation to learn that we have a potential problem on this ship."

Not that I need Worf to learn we have a problem, he added as he watched the officers file from the room; we do. Several of them, he had added, as he watched the pre-occupied first officer leave, followed by the equally distracted second officer and the disheartened counselor. Not to mention a design engineer with a few problems of her own, he added glancing at the padd Will had given him, detailing Geordi's encounter with the woman that morning.

With a sigh, he lowered his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to push back the first vestiges of the on-coming headache - only to be startled by the soft thrum of a tricorder.

"I thought I dismissed you," he muttered at the ship's physician

standing behind his chair.

Beverly smiled automatically, used to his protests, her eyes locked on the tricorder as she passed her medical scanner across the back of his neck.

"You dismissed the meeting," she corrected. "You can't dismiss me quite so easily," she reminded him. "You know, Lt. Andile isn't the only member of this crew who should be working only one shift a day," she added as she slowly made her way around him, the scanner slowly passing over his head.

He straightened, then glanced up at her, a frown on his face. "This is my ship, Doctor; unlike the lieutenant, I have the ultimate responsibility for what happens aboard her..."

"Including the responsibility of making sure that you're healthy enough to handle that responsibility," she countered as she stopped in front of him and placed the scanner back in its holder. "You've just returned - quite prematurely - from your leave, Captain. A leave that was neither satisfying nor relaxing. Because of that, your body hasn't recovered from the strain of the previous few years - and now it's rebelling against these new stresses. No wonder you have a headache," she said.

"Who said I have a headache?" her growled tersely.

Beverly gave him a frank stare. "Jean-Luc, the day I can't read the signs of a headache on your face, I'll resign my post as your CMO," she said quietly. "Your lips get thin, your face gets pale, your eyes narrow... you've got a headache," she proclaimed, then made her way to the back of the chair - and to his astonishment, pressed her fingertips against the outer corners of his eyes and began to trace small circles there.

He started to protest, but the words died in his throat, replaced by a soft out rush of air as she increased the pressure, slowly moving her fingers to his temples, feeling the tightness in his head and face begin to fade. With an unrestrained sigh, he let his head sink back onto the back on the chair, letting her slowly move from his temples to forehead.

"Speaking as your physician, you need to rest, Captain," she said after a moment.

"But speaking as my friend..." he began.

"Speaking as your friend, you need to rest... Jean-Luc," she replied.

He opened his eyes, smiled up at her, then closed them again, luxuriating in the momentary ease of her gentle ministrations.

"I wish I could," he answered after a moment, "but coming back so suddenly to this situation... There's so much happening, and so quickly... There are times I feel that I can't even think straight - let alone think like a captain - and Will's no help," he added, opening his eyes once again. "You know I won't pry into the personal affairs of one of my crew," he said, "but..."

But there was a questioning - and hopeful - look in his eyes.

"If you're asking me if I know what's bothering him," Beverly replied, "I don't. More importantly, Deanna doesn't either," she added.

"Ah," Picard said quietly, closing his eyes once again, relieved.

Then it wasn't something between the two of them, he thought gratefully; if it had, he would have been obliged to step in, to become involved...

Beverly's fingers pushed a little more firmly as she felt his muscles tighten once more. "You're supposed to try to relax, Captain," she said pointedly.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, letting his relief at being able to distance himself from a potential personal problem between his two officers wash over him once again.

So it wasn't Will's romantic escapades that were distracting him from his duties, he repeated. But if it's not that, then what?

The loss of his captainship, temporary as it had been? he wondered. No, he thought, refusing to believe the idea; Will had seemed cheerful enough when he had come back aboard; his welcome as genuine as any he had ever given the captain...

But a welcome to an old friend was not the same thing as welcoming back the man who was to usurp his promotion, Picard reminded himself. Will had earned this posting, he knew - as he had earned the multiple offers for ships of his own.

Offers he had turned down, time and again, his eyes - and his heart - set on one goal, and one goal only: becoming the master of the Enterprise.

They needed to talk about that, Picard thought; they needed to sit down and have an honest and frank discussion of Will's aspirations for his future in Starfleet - and what he was going to have to do to achieve those goals.

Picard sighed, unhappy with himself once again. It was a talk they had had before - but not in a long time, he admitted - too long. He owed Will more than that, both as his captain - and as his friend.

But it was going to have to wait, he knew; wait until this crisis was over.

In the meantime, however, there were fourteen hundred other people depending on him.

He pushed himself up from the chair, only to hear Beverly's voice, sharp with concern, ask, "And where do you think you're going?"

He turned to confront her. "I need to meet with..."

"The only thing you need to meet with is your bed, Captain," she said

firmly. "You haven't had a full night's rest since before you came back. You need sleep; real sleep - not a catnap in your ready room. Eight hours, at least," she added.

"That's not possible, Doctor," Picard interrupted. "Worf's going to begin the weapons and shields tests in seven hours and..."

"And what? You're going to help them?" she asked sarcastically. "When was the last time you actually performed a field test, Jean-Luc?"

He glared back at her. "Even if I'm not participating, Doctor, I do need to be available should a command decision regarding the system be required."

"Then you also need to be well-rested so you can make those decisions," she snapped back.

He met her gaze for a long moment. "Five hours," he replied.

"Seven," she countered.

He gaze her a final glare, then sighed, giving in. "Six and a half," he finally agreed.

"Six."

He raised an eye in surprise.

"Sleep is only half of what you need, Captain. You also need to eat. If I can't get you to have a full night's rest, at least I can make sure you eat a proper meal. I'll meet you at Ten Forward at twenty-one hundred," she informed him.

"Doctor, I am perfectly capable of feeding myself..." he began to protest.

"Jean-Luc," she said, stopping him before he could make the protest she knew was coming, "being capable of running a replicator is one thing; actually taking the time to sit down and eat that meal is something else, something that you've not bothered to do since you were recalled to Starfleet. Keep going as you are, and your ability to function as captain is going to be compromised."

He glared at her again, but she continued.

"And it's not just physical exhaustion, Jean-Luc, though your body is showing unmistakable signs of stress. This leave took a greater toll of you than you realize - and a lot of the decisions you came to during that time are taking their toll as well. You need time to recover physically and emotionally from what happened. I can help you with the physical aspects - get enough sleep, eat good meals..." She let her voice trail off, then looked at him hesitantly, "but you also need someone you can talk with," she added, "about everything that's happened - and about how you feel," she said quietly.

He studied her, guarded suspicion in his eyes. "I assume you're offering yourself," he said at last.

"For now, for as much as I can help you," she replied with a smile - then let herself grow serious. "But what you began to discover about yourself when you got back to LaBarre, Jean-Luc, that's going to take more than a few friendly chats over dinner to work through..."

"I don't need Counseling," he said firmly, ending the discussion.

"Fine," she agreed, knowing when to give in - for the moment. "Then we'll settle for dinner."

For now, she added silently.

"Until then..." She reached for him, gently inserting her hand in the crook of his arm, "I'll walk you to your quarters," she continued firmly.

"Doctor, you may believe my ability to serve as an officer is compromised, but I assure you I am fully able to find my own quarters," he insisted.

"As am I," she agreed. "You'll find them - and you'll find some work to you need to finish - and seven hours from now, we'll be having this same conversation. Except it will be in Sickbay, and it will end with my sedating you," she said firmly. "But as you said, you are the captain - and you are the one who makes the final decisions around here. So what shall it be, my dear captain?"

He glared at her one last time, then with a sigh, wrapped his hand over hers, leading her from the conference lounge into the hall - and toward his quarters.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

"I give up, Data!" Geordi seethed as the two left the conference room. "I do everything I can to make sure you're free to go out on your date - and you do everything you can to try to make sure you have to work! I mean, I can understand being nervous, but..."

"I am not nervous, Geordi," Data replied evenly.

"Oh? Then why are you trying to get out of your date with Biji?" Geordi pressed.

"I am not 'trying to get out' of it. But my primary duty must be to the ship," he reminded his friend. "My personal relationships must become second to that duty - and I know Andile would understand that decision. Understand - and approve," he added.

"Yeah, she'd understand, all right," Geordi sighed. "She'd understand that the ship is more important to you than she is."

Data stopped, a worried frown on his face. "But..." he started, somewhat uncertainly. "The lieutenant has often stated that an officer's primary devotion must be to his ship," he insisted. "She would agree that I should be working with you on the translation program, and then assisting Worf on the weapons tests..."

"While she sits in her room, doing nothing - and sitting there because you were the one who told Dr. Crusher she was working double shifts," Geordi reminded him.

"But that was for her benefit," Data argued. "Her work patterns were

causing her health to deteriorate..."

"Data, I'm not arguing that!" Geordi snapped back, then forced himself to calm down, reminding himself that Data still didn't fully understand the emotions of the people around him. "What I trying to explain is that if you want to put an end to any potential relationship you might have with Beej, this is exactly how you'd do it," he said as calmly as possible.

Data stared at him, bewildered. "But..."

"Think about what's she been through in the last few days, Data," Geordi said. "She took a huge demotion to join us on this mission. That meant giving up a leadership role at the finest research facility in the quadrant, giving up the privileges she's earned there, with no guarantee that she'd get them back when she returns. Now, instead of being the one whom everyone looked up to, she's answering to officers half her age - and with a tenth her experience! That has to be hard, Data, but she'll live with it because it's necessary. That doesn't mean she had to like it!

"But then you got the captain and the doctor to reduce her hours!" he said with a shake of his head. "Data, she needed those double shifts; she needed those extra hours to set her apart from the rest of the crew - even if that difference was only in her mind's eye. Even if that difference was wearing her out. She needed that difference, Data - but by doing what you did, you made her no different than anyone else on the ship!"

"But she is not," Data protested mildly. "After all, that is one of the goals of the Federation: to establish equality for all sentient beings..."

Geordi smiled tiredly at his friend. "Data, people don't want equality. Oh, sure, on a political level, we do - but not on a personal level! On a personal level, everyone - at least every human - is different - and we want to be recognized for those differences! They may be small, they may be minor - but they set us apart from one another - and we want to be recognized for them." He gave a little laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe that's why you're having a hard time trying to be human, Data - because you're trying to be like everyone else - while we're all trying _not_ to be.

"Biji's difference is her dedication; she prides herself on her dedication to her engines, to her position, to her work," he said, "and the easiest way to demonstrate that dedication is by working an obscene number of hours - without protest or comment!"

"And I have deprived her of that," Data realized, stricken.

"You did more than that, Data; you insulted her," Geordi corrected him. "You told her she was good enough to work eight hour shift - like almost everyone else on the ship - but not good enough to work the double shifts and triple shifts that come with a senior officer's role."

"She _is_ only a lieutenant, Geordi," Data reminded him.

"Yeah, but until three days ago, she was a lieutenant who had command of over three hundred people at the Federation's chief shipyard and all the privileges - and more importantly to Biji - all the obligations that go with that post. Biji may not have a senior officer's rank, but there's no doubt in my mind - or in hers - that that is exactly what she is," Geordi replied. "You ignored that, Data; you reduced her to being no different than any other lieutenant on this ship - and to her, that was an insult. If I was Biji, I would have told you to take a flying leap when you asked me out - but for whatever reason, she didn't."

He shook his head, still amazed by the memory. "Maybe fate was smiling on you, Data; maybe she's just the forgiving type. But whatever the reason, I wouldn't risk it twice; you stand her up for your date tonight - and I doubt she'd give you the time of day," he said firmly. "And I wouldn't blame her," he added.

Data thought for a moment. "Then I had best fulfill our plans for the evening," he said. "I would not wish for the lieutenant to feel I had insulted her twice," he added.

"Yeah," Geordi agreed, then hurriedly added, "but don't tell her that's why you're doing this; I don't think Beej is the type who'd appreciate a pity date," he cautioned his friend.

" 'Pity date'?" Data echoed curiously.

Geordi smiled. "Yeah, you know... " he began, then shook his head. "No, of course; you wouldn't know. Data, a 'pity date' is when you ask someone out because no one else will and you feel sorry for them. Like asking the smartest girl in the class or the ugliest one... No offense intended," he quickly added, realizing that Andile had probably been both of those.

"No offense was taken, Geordi," Data replied, then affixed his friend with a probing look. "Why do intelligent women and unattractive ones not get asked out?" he pressed, curious.

Geordi smiled at his friend, finding himself refreshed once again by the android's surprising naiveté. "Because human males - especially teen-agers - are appallingly shallow. We're interested in what's on the surface only. Is she cute? Does she have a nice figure? Then we'll ask her out. If not, we don't. We're only interested in what's obvious; beyond that..."

"Then intelligent girls are inherently unattractive?" Data pressed; was there some factor in the intelligence level that was expressed in surface features of human children? he wondered.

"Not necessarily," Geordi admitted with a smile. "The problem is they're intimidating."

"Intimidating?" Data replied, fascinated. "How so? Wouldn't an intelligent individual be a more stimulating partner than a less intelligent one?"

"When you're an adult, yes - but when you're a teenager?" Geordi shook his head at the idea. "When we're in our teens, Data, we're just beginning to develop a self-image - and it doesn't take much for that image to be damaged. You don't want to admit that someone's a more stimulating partner than you, more talented than you, more handsome than you - or smarter than you. Of course, invariably someone is - but you're not ready to deal with that fact yet. At least not consciously. So you focus on girls who won't compete with you in those areas," he admitted.

"Then my asking the lieutenant out infers that I believe she is less intelligent than I am?" Data asked, appalled that he might have unwittingly offended Andile again.

"Data, she _is_ less intelligent than you are," Geordi replied. "Everyone on the ship - and possibly in the galaxy - is less intelligent than you are," he added with a smile. "But no, I don't think Beej was offended; most people lose their teenage insecurities with time. You get comfortable with who you are - and going out with someone who's smarter, or taller, or more talented, or more whatever, is less important."

"And physical appearance becomes less important as well?" Data pressed.

Geordi hesitated. "Less important," he admitted, "but it's still important."

Data heard the reluctance in his friend's voice; stopping, he turned to study the man's obvious discomfiture. "And Andile is not considered attractive," he said finally.

Geordi hesitated for a moment, anxious not to hurt his friend - but unwilling to lie to him either. "No," he replied at last, trying to make the truth as gentle as possible. "Not by human standards."

"Then, for once, I am grateful that I am not human," Data replied, "for I believe the lieutenant to be the most beautiful woman I have ever known."

Geordi gawked at his friend - then began to smile.

"I take it then that dinner's off?" Deanna asked Will softly as they walked down the hall from the conference room.

He glanced at her, a puzzled expression on his face. "Dinner?" he said.

"Dinner," she said firmly. "The meal one eats at night. The one after lunch," she added.

He glared at her, almost angrily. "I know what dinner is, Counselor. I just didn't remember we were had made plans for tonight."

Deanna sighed. "We didn't," she said. "In fact, we haven't made plans for almost a week," she reminded him. For anything, she added silently.

"Then why did you ask?" he asked, puzzled.

"Because I wanted you to say something. Because I wanted to hear your voice, Will. Because you haven't said one word to me - outside of work - since you received our orders about this mission. Because you've grown cold and distant - and because I'm worried about you," she admitted quietly.

The worry in her voice tugged at his heart - against his will - forcing him to stop in the middle of the hall and turn toward her.

"Talk to me, Will," she said softly.

She was worried, he knew, staring into her eyes, seeing the concern - and the love she felt for him - deep within them.

Or was it the love for who I once was - and could have been? he asked himself.

"Will?" Deanna whispered, stunned as she watched his eyes turn steely cold.

"I'm sorry, Deanna, but I really don't have time - for dinner or for this," he said firmly, starting to turn away again - only to be stopped by her sudden grasp on his arm.

"Will, I don't know what's bothering you - but I know something is," she informed him. "And I know you're trying to shield me from it. But you don't have to. Will, we've been friends... lovers... for years; you know you can talk to me about anything..."

He hesitated, tempted, aching, needing to talk to someone - no, to her... then shook his head. "Not about this," he whispered softly. "I can't."

"Will, you have to," she said, her voice suddenly growing firm. "Whatever it is, it's affecting you - and as ship's Counselor..."

"As ship's Counselor, you can order me into Counseling - but only if you can prove to the captain's satisfaction that my performance is being affected - by whatever you think I'm feeling," he retorted angrily. "That means proving two things to the captain - neither of which you have any evidence for - and I don't think you can do that... Counselor," he added, pulling away.

"Perhaps not," she admitted, "but I never thought I would have to even

consider it, Will."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked furiously.

"It means you've always put the needs of the crew and the ship ahead of yourself," she replied, "It means you've sought help when you need it - even when a part of you doesn't want to admit to needing help. There's no shame in asking for help, Will," she said pleadingly, "You know that. In fact, I've always thought of it as one of your strengths - that you can ask for help when you need it! God knows there are times I wish the captain would ask..."

Her voice trailed off as she felt a surge of rage wash over them both, then watched as he suddenly spun away, hurrying down the hallway as quickly as his decorum would permit.

Stunned by the depths of his rage, Deanna watched him, the echoes of his words playing through her mind.

His words... and his feelings.

Echoes of desperation, loneliness and terrible failure roiling through her mind, she watched the deserted hall, staring after him until even the echo of his footsteps had faded away.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

"No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

Feeling herself pitching forwards, Andile spun her arms, overcorrecting wildly, sending her body careening in a new direction - and feeling her feet suddenly sliding out from under her as she began to lurch backwards.

She tried to correct the over-correction - but it was too late. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth, bracing herself against the inevitable - and too familiar - impact...

... only to feel someone grab her at the waist, then lift her upright, holding her aloft - and safe - until the moment of panic passed and she could get her feet beneath her once again.

With a sigh of relief, she opened her eyes and stared into the pale golden face of her savior. "Thanks," she said. "I think I've spent more time on my butt than on my feet tonight," she admitted, rubbing the offended area - then smiled. "Where in the name of the gods did you come up with the idea of ice-skating?"

"I had assumed that it was a natural corollary," Data replied, holding her securely as she tugged her winter jacket back into place. "Ice skating is a form of dancing - and you are a skilled dancer..."

"So you thought I could skate," she concluded. "Logical enough," she agreed, seeing the concern on his face, "except when you're dancing, you learn to use all the muscles of your feet to help adjust your balance. Here, every little change I make in my feet sends me this way or that - and the next thing I know, I'm on my butt."

"Perhaps if you were to allow me to assist you," Data suggested, not for the first time that evening.

And not for the first time that night, she was about to refuse - but it was becoming obvious - _painfully_ obvious - that she was not about to master ice-skating as easily as the android had. Nonetheless...

Andile opened her mouth to protest the idea - then closed it. Data was obviously as skilled a skater as she was a dancer - and he had been willing enough to allow her to teach him in those first few weeks; her pride could permit her that same allowance. "All right," she said at last.

Moving to her left, Data kept his right arm firmly wrapped around her waist, then took her left hand in his, and gently began to guide her back toward the center of the ice-covered pond.

"Do not attempt to propel yourself at this time," he advised her. "I will provide the impetus; you will focus on maintaining your balance."

"That's easy for you to say," she informed him. "You've done this before."

"In actuality, I have not. I thought it would be a more enjoyable experience if we were to do something together that neither of us has done before," he informed her.

"You've... never skated before?" she gaped, astounded. "But you're so good at it!"

"It is not difficult," he replied. "A simple matter of understanding the basic physical principles underlying the process, then calculating the vectors involved and adjusting my balance accordingly," he informed her.

"Lucky you," she murmured back enviously. "For me, balance isn't a conscious action; it's something that's learned over a period of time until it becomes second nature. If you think about it too much, you... Nooo!"

He tightened his grasp around her waist as she begin to pitch forward once more, drawing her more tightly to his side as she fought to regain her balance.

"Thanks," she gasped. "But Data?"

"Yes?"

"Next time, when someone compliments you on how well you do something, don't tell them that it's 'not difficult'- especially right after telling them you've never done it before. It sounds like you're bragging," she advised.

"That was not my intention," he insisted, "but I would prefer not to lie."

"Then don't. Just say, 'Beginner's luck'," she suggested.

"Beginner's luck," he repeated, then nodded. "Thank you. But I should apologize, Lieutenant; I had thought that with your abilities, skating would be a new, but relatively familiar, activity. I had not intended to select an pastime that would be so difficult," he said contritely.

"I should be the one to apologize, Data," she replied. "You were nice enough to think up a new way to spend the evening - and all I've done is bitch... complain about it. I'm sorry," she added. "Actually, this holoprogram is very nice. It's of Earth, right?" she asked.

"A place called Vermont, in the northeastern region of the North American continent," he informed her, "noted as a climatic model for winter sporting."

"Hmmm," Andile mused, looking around the small pond. "I'm not sure what type of sports you can do here... Too small for hockey or speed skating... Damn, I'm doing it again, aren't I? Finding fault with everything. I'm sorry," she apologized again.

"I understand," Data replied.

"You do?" she replied, surprised.

"Indeed."

"Then explain it to me," she said imperatively. We may be skating instead of dancing - but that's no reason not to continue your lessons, she thought.

He nodded but said nothing, repositioning her against his body instead, guiding her into a slow, graceful circle around the perimeter of the pond.

"You are angry with me," he said at last.

She looked at him, startled by his assessment - then ashamed at its accuracy. "Yes," she whispered.

"You are angry with me for informing the captain and the doctor of your predilection toward double shifts and other excessive, self-imposed working conditions," he explained. "You are angry that I have taken away these self-abuses and have caused you to conform to a work schedule more like that of other crewmembers. You are angry that this interference has prevented you from completing your work in the manner and style to which you have become accustomed - and you are angry because you feel impotent to act against these affronts. You are angry because you feel I have demeaned you."

"Data..." she began.

"And you are quite correct to feel this way," he continued.

"What?" she gawked, turning to look at him.

Which, she realized a second later, she should not have done. Without thinking, she had turned in _front_ of Data - and even with the superb control the android possessed over his body, he could not change the laws of physics. A moment later, the two were falling, Data's far greater mass adding to Andile's, the momentum of the two sending them both careening across the ice-covered pond until they came to a stop in one of the snowy drifts that surrounded the pond.

For a moment, the android lay still, carefully checking his internal circuitry for any malfunctions or damage that may have resulted - then quickly sat up.

"Lieutenant?" he called out. "Lt. Andile?" he added a moment later, increasing the volume of his tone when she didn't respond.

Worried that the accident had left her unconscious and buried in the drift somewhere, he quickly adjusted his visual receptors, focusing on the infra-red frequencies, searching for the heat signature of her body - only to her a faint chuckled emanating from just beside him.

"Lieutenant?" he repeated, quickly turning to his side, carefully pushing away handfuls of the light and fluffy flakes until he uncovered her face, pink-cheeked, teary-eyed - and laughing.

"Lieutenant? Are you uninjured?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said, a tear running down her cheek as he helped her to sit up.

"But..." He reached to her face and touched the drop. "You are crying," he protested.

"I'm laughing," she corrected. "That was the funniest damn thing I've seen in years..."

"Our fall?" Data asked, surprised.

"The expression on your face," she explained. "All of a sudden, every control you had over yourself failed - and for the slightest moment, you looked... well, panicked. I never thought of you as panicking, Data - and I never thought I would have a reason to teach you that expression. And now I see I don't have to," she added, then began laughing again, even as she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she continued. "I don't mean to laugh at you... but that was priceless." She chuckled again, then wiped the tears from her face, sobering as she did so. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

"I am not. I am gratified that you enjoyed it," he replied.

Andile looked at the android, her eyes narrowing suspiciously for a moment - then widening as she realized he was being serious - and honest. He was pleased that she enjoyed the moment - even at the price it had exacted from him.

If there was a price, Andile reminded herself. Certainly there wasn't a physical price, since Data had no nerves for the transmission of pain. And emotionally... Emotionally, though, she wasn't as sure. Certainly Data had a sense of pride; after three months of working side by side with the being, there was no doubt in her mind that at least some degree of his desire for doing a job as well and as completely as possible was born, not out of a program that someone had installed in him, but rather out of some inner, personal desire for self-satisfaction. But whether that pride extended to his personal being, she didn't know yet - and if it did, had it grown to the point where it could be burst by the inadvertent laughter that followed such a fall.

Perhaps, she admitted - but whether Data would reveal that hurt to her or anyone else, she couldn't guess.

"I did enjoy it," she conceded. "Which isn't very nice of me," she added. "It's one thing to laugh with people - quite another to laugh at them. It can be very painful."

"Is that why you do not laugh?" he asked.

Andile's eyes widened in surprise.

"I laugh," she protested. "I laugh all the time!"

Data studied her for a moment, then shook his head. "I beg to differ, Lieutenant. You do not laugh. You make the sounds of laughter - a laugh, a chuckle, a chortle - at the appropriate moments, but in retrospect, having just observed you now, I realize that on those previous occasions, you have not exhibited those same physical characteristics of laughter. Do you not find those events when other people laugh funny?" he asked.

"Oh, and I thought I was a good student of human body language," she said, seemingly impressed by the observation.

"You are," he agreed. "You are also expert in avoiding a topic," he added.

She studied him suspiciously, then sighed, giving in. "You're right. I am avoiding the topic." She hesitated, thinking for a moment, then nodded. "I guess I laugh because everyone's laughing - but..." She shrugged. "To laugh, to really laugh, you need to feel at ease with the people you're with. I'm not at ease with any one - so I don't laugh. But at the same time, not laughing is rude, so..."

"So you make the pretense of laughing so that you might better conform with the group," Data said.

Andile nodded, a little sadly.

"Then I am doubly complimented; first in being able to evoke a laugh from you - and second in knowing that you felt enough at ease to express it with me," he replied, inclining his head slightly toward her - and earning a smile in return.

"But let's not try that again," she said. "I don't want you breaking something just so I can get my jollies."

"Jollies?"

"A moment of enjoyment," she explained.

"Agreed," Data said, rising from the snow, then offering her a hand.

She accepted it, but her rise from the drift was slower then his and accompanied by a groan. "Next time," she muttered to herself, "I'm wearing a pillow."

"You _are_ injured," Data insisted, the concern in his voice audible.

"No," Andile replied. "Just a little sore. One too many landings on my butt," she explained.

"Would you like to go to Sickbay?"

"Data, it's nothing serious; just a bruise. And you don't go to Sickbay when you bruise your butt," she informed him.

"Ah," he said, understanding, then hesitated, considering. "But it is causing you discomfort," he insisted.

Andile started to object, then stopped. "Yeah," she admitted, chagrined.

"In that case..." He hesitated, then looked a her, a tentative, almost anxious look in his eye. "In that case... Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?" he finally offered.

Andile's eye's popped open in astonishment as her mouth dropped. "Now where in the name of the gods did _that_ come from?" she asked.

"Was my remark inappropriate?" he asked, immediately distressed by her response.

"Uh..." Andile hesitated for a moment, uncertain of how to reply. "Not inappropriate, per se, but not what I'd expect from you. Where did you learn it?" she pressed, curious - and suspicious.

"Lt. Hargrove," Data replied.

Andile considered for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't know a Lt. Hargrove."

"He was reassigned after the mission to the Ba'ku homeworld. But I overheard him speaking to his daughter once," the android explained.

"His... daughter?" Andile asked gingerly, not certain she wanted to hear the story.

"Yes. She had injured her finger while playing in the schoolroom, and he offered to 'kiss it and make it better'," Data explained. "She accepted, and seemed to benefit from the treatment. I thought it might benefit you as well," he added. "Would you like me to administer such a treatment?"

Andile let out the breath she didn't know she was holding. "Thanks - but no thanks, Data," relieved by the innocence of the remark - both Data's and that of the absent Lt. Hargrove. "And let me suggest that you don't offer to help anyone else in that manner," she added.

Data studied her, perplexed, "But..."

"It's a therapy used for children - only," she hurriedly explained - an explanation that seemed to satisfy him - for the moment. I'm going to have explain it in detail, she reminded herself - and explain all the implications of offering to kiss someone's... but that would have to be another day, she added - then smiled to herself.

"You're right," she said as they began to walk out of the drift, back to the ice.

"About...?"

"I was angry."

"I am aware of that fact - and I believe I understand it. I... insulted you. I thought I was acting in your behalf, as both your superior officer and as your... friend... but I am beginning to understand that my actions actually harmed you, rather than served you. That was not my intention, Lieutenant," he said quietly.

"I know, Data... But I was hurt. Hurt enough that I was about ready to tell you to take your invitation to go out this evening and stick it..." She let the statement trail off.

"But you did not," he replied. "May I ask why not?"

"Because I have to work with you - and that's hard to do when you're nursing a grudge," she said.

"Oh," he replied. "I... understand," he added softly.

Surprised by the hurt in his voice, Andile turned to him. "Data?" she said softly. "Is something wrong?" she pressed.

Stupid question, she chided herself instantly; of course there was something wrong! The fact that I can't read his body language doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to read face - or hear his pain.

Or listen to what I'm hearing, she reminded herself angrily. Damn it, I'm andile! When did anyone say I could stop paying attention?

"And because I enjoy our evenings together," she said quietly, reaching for his hand. "Though I don't think skating will replace our usual routine of dancing," she added, a playful smile on her lips.

But the little grin did nothing to evoke a similar reaction from him; instead, he studied her expressionlessly, his head cocked to one side as he pondered.

"Data? What's wrong?" she pressed.

He studied her a moment longer, then straightened his head. "You do not trust me," he said at last.

"What?"

"You do not trust me, Lieutenant," he repeated.

"But... Of course I trust you! How can you say I don't?" she gasped.

"Because... you do not," he said simply. "Every time our conversations lead to a moment when I might gain a greater insight about you, you either change the topic or you introduce a witticism in an attempt to 'defuse' the emotional charge in the environment."

"Do I now?" she replied thoughtfully. "I wonder why that is?" She pursed her lips, looking up at the snow covered pines that stood back from the pond, thinking. "I wonder... Something in my childhood, perhaps..."

"Such as you are attempting to do now," he interrupted. "Be advised, Lieutenant, that now that I am cognizant of your efforts, I shall not permit you to continue them."

Andile's face wrinkled in a frown, then she shook her head. "Data, has it ever occurred to you that it's not a matter of trust? Maybe I simply don't think I'm interesting enough to talk about," she suggested. "Or maybe I'm just shy," she added with a grin.

He looked at her skeptically.

Andile sighed. "Or maybe there are just some parts of my life that I'm just not willing to share with others," she continued. "Maybe I've done things I'm not proud of..."

"That, Lieutenant, is one of the risks we all must encounter during our lives; if we dare to succeed greatly, we must dare to fail greatly."

She stared at him, silenced by his words. "And I have failed," Andile whispered finally, more to herself than to him. "In so many things."

"As have I," Data agreed.

"I don't believe that, Data," she said with a shake of her head. "How could you have failed in anything?"

"I have failed in many things," he admitted, "But I have made you laugh this evening, so I must count that as one of my successes," he informed her, rising to his feet, pulling her up beside him. "Perhaps someday you will trust me enough to express your other emotions as well," he added.

"Oh, Data, you have no idea what you're asking for..." she murmured warningly.

"I would like the opportunity to find out," he replied, the sincerity rich in his voice.

Awed, touched by his openness, Andile's stared into his golden eyes - then gave him a devilish grin. "Then here's a taste of what makes me happy," she said, planting her hand in the middle of his chest, and pushing - hard.

The unexpected shove, combined with the unfamiliarity of the skates, sent the android tumbling back into the snow - and a moment later, Andile collapsed into the drift beside him.

Thinking she had been injured, he started to rise, then found himself stunned into motionlessness as she began swinging her arms and legs through the fluffy snow, displacing it in great arcs over her head and beside her legs, a brilliant smile on her face the entire time.

Seeing him, she called out, "Come on! Lie back, and do like I'm doing!"

Data stared at her for a moment, then complied, lying back in the snow, awkwardly trying to duplicate the motions the woman was making, his legs and arms flailing about, sending as much snow into the air as to the sides.

Laughing as the flakes drifted over them both, Andile continued for a moment, then sat up, reaching for Data's hand to pull him up as well. "Carefully," she cautioned him as he struggled to follow her, "you don't want to spoil it."

"Spoil what?" Data asked as he stood.

"That," Andile replied, pointing at the spots where they had both been lying.

Data turned, then saw the imprint where their bodies had been.

"Angels," Andile whispered. "Snow angels."

It took Data a moment to relate the impressions to the spiritual forms Andile referred to, then he turned to her - and stopped, taken aback by the look of pure joy on her face. "Would you prefer that I left you alone, Lieutenant?" he asked at last.

Startled, Andile turned from the snowy prints to look at him. "Alone? No! Of course not! Why should you leave me alone?" she asked, astounded.

"I thought the formation of the images might be a part of one of your religious ceremonies," he replied. "I did not wish to interfere with your devotions..."

He stopped as Andile began to laugh - another deep, rich, whole-hearted laugh. "By the gods, no! Snow angels - part of the Ascension!" she chortled. "As if the gods would permit such delicacy in their pantheon!"

"But... the expression on your face..." he began. "You were so... enrapt."

"I was remembering," she replied between dying chuckles. "It's been a long time since I made snow angels; I was just remembering the last time - and the people I was with," she added, sobering. "We spent all afternoon making them ... Between the angels and the snowmen, we must have made a hundred of them. Maybe a thousand. A whole frozen population on that hillside..." She looked up at the android, a beatific smile on her face. "It was a wonderful day, that day, Data - and the snow people and my friends are both long gone - but I think this evening will make a wonderful memory to replace that one. Even if there are only two snow angels," she added.

"We could continue to make them," he suggested.

"Maybe you could," she replied, "but not only is my butt black and blue - but it's frozen, too. I didn't dress for playing in the snow, only on the ice," she informed him.

"Then perhaps I should escort you back to your quarters..." he suggested.

"What? And miss the evening talk tonight?" she said, seemingly shocked.

Data gawked at her, apparently equally startled - then quickly recovered. "Of course not. I shall escort you there..."

"Thanks. We should be going, though; I'm frozen through and I'd like to thaw a bit before we start," she said, then called into the air, "Arch!"

The doorway to the hall with its concomitant control panel appeared in the midst of a stand of bushy pines; awkwardly making her way through the drift on her skates, Andile ran her fingers over the board, discontinuing the scene, turning the room back to its more familiar black and yellow grid - and revealing the boots they both had shed at the beginning of the evening.

A few minutes later, they were in the corridor again, the skates slung over their shoulders, the few traces of snow and ice crystals melting onto their thermal jackets in the ambient warmth of the hallway.

The relative warmth, Andile amended; despite his high body temperature, Data was suddenly positively cool toward her.

I've done something, she thought, offended him in some way - but what...?

Andile puzzled over the problem. Usually she could just read the body language of the people she was with - but Data didn't have body language except for what she had taught him. And that wasn't near enough to give her the answer she was looking for.

Lost, she risked a guess. "I saved the program, by the way. I didn't want the angels lost..."

"My memory capacity is sufficient to retain a record of the evening's events," he said evenly.

Flatly.

Coldly.

Unemotionally, she realized, rejecting everything that I've taught him about emotions and expression.

He's mad, she realized, then added, stunned at the realization, he's mad - at me!

"Data..." she began again, but stopped as he turned the corner that led to the massive wooden doors of Ten Forward and gestured for her to enter.

She started to object, then fell silent; the entry doors of one of the busiest places on the ship was not the site for a private discussion. Wordlessly, she followed his motion, entering the lounge, their silent coolness lost in the noisy exuberance of the dozens of people in the room.

But only dozens, she realized; it was still early. Most of the others wouldn't even arrive for another fifteen minutes - and after that it would be a good half hour before they'd be ready to talk. That meant she had forty-five minutes to talk with Data; forty-five minutes to figure out what had suddenly irked the normally even-tempered android.

She started for their usual table - then suddenly changed her mind. If - and it was a big if, she admitted - _if_ Data wanted to talk, it wasn't going to be at the center of attention of a roomful of people, she realized. If he was going to talk to her, it was going to be in private.

But privacy was a rare commodity in Ten Forward, she thought; at best they might get a relative level of peace at one of the table situated by the huge windows. Usually claimed by those less interested in the public discussion of the night and more interested in a private discussion with their partner, the tables had become accepted as 'off-limits' except for the more romantic souls aboard ship - and the waitstaff.

Spying an open table, Andile quickly headed for it, anxious to resolve the android's problem before the discussion began. Not that she wanted to rush their discussion, she thought; she was more than willing to give him as much time as he needed and wanted. After all, he had been nice enough to take her out skating...

The realization suddenly sank in.

He took me _out_.

Oh, gods.

Oh, gods!

He took me out!

Horrified at her own obtuseness, Andile slumped into her chair, her skates falling heavily to the floor as she buried her head in her hands.

"Lieutenant?" Data said worriedly a moment later as he slid into chair beside her. "Is something wrong?"

Pulling her hands from her misery-covered face, she looked at him, heart-sick. "Data, tonight... This was supposed to be a date, wasn't it?" she asked miserably.

He stared at her, astounded by the question. "I thought that was understood..."

"It was not!" she exploded, then instantly lowered her voice as half a dozen heads turned to look at her - to look at them both, she realized. Flashing a calming smile at them all, she turned back to the android seated beside her. "It was _not_ understood!" she hissed. "At least it was not understood by me! Data, you didn't say anything about a _date_!"

Data stared at her, astounded. "But... I inquired if you would accompany me this evening to go ice-skating," he replied.

"Yes - but I thought you just meant as something different from our regular dancing!" she protested. "I thought... I thought... Data, we go dancing every night, then we work on your expressions and your body language, then we come here! I didn't know this was something different! You should have told me!" she protested, forcing down her voice as it began to rise once more. "A date!" she muttered, dropping her head into her hands, shaking it slowly. "A date. By the gods..."

"I am sorry, Lieutenant; it was not my intention to offend you," he said solemnly.

Hearing the hurt in his voice, Andile looked up. "Oh, my dear Data; you haven't offended me. What you did was... sweet. But... I wish you had explained," she said at last.

"Ah," he said quietly - then looked at her, his expression solemn. "But if I had, you would not have accepted, would you?" he replied.

Andile thought for a long minute, then slowly shook her head. "No. I don't think I would have. It's nothing personal - or rather, it is personal - but not about you. You're a very nice person - in fact, I think you're one of the nicest people I've ever met. But I don't date. I haven't in years." More years than I care to think about - and certainly more years than I'm going to tell you about, she added.

"Because of your appearance?" he asked.

Andile gawked, stunned by the android's forthrightness - then forced the emotion back. It wasn't brazenness that provoked the question, she realized, but rather quite the opposite; in his innocence, Data was only looking for the truth.

"No, not really - though I'll admit it's kept the issue from coming up," she added with a forced smile. "But it's more a matter of what we were talking about before: trust," she finally admitted.

"You do not trust the people who ask you out," Data concluded.

"No, dear - I don't trust myself. I've cared for people before, Data - cared for them deeply. But in the end, I've always ended up hurting them - and I'm tired of that. I'm tired of knowing I've caused the people I love pain..."

"So you have stopped loving," he concluded.

Andile stared at him for a long time, surprised by his sagacity - and strangely touched by his gentle understanding. She nodded solemnly.

"If I was a Counselor, I would advise you that that is an extreme over-reaction, designed to punish yourself as severely as it punishes those around you," he advised.

"The gods' blessing, though, you're not a Counselor," she replied, a strained smile coming to her lips.

"Nonetheless..."

"Nonetheless," she interjected, "no one has been injured because I have chosen _not_ to date them, Data."

"That is not true," he countered. "You have been, through your self-imposed loneliness - and now, so have I," he added.

Andile stared at him - then smiled. "You _do_ have a lovely sense of humor, dear - and for that alone, I'm tempted to change my ways," she began, then, seeing the look of hope rising in his eyes, quickly added, "Tempted - but only that. Data, you are a nice person - too nice for me to risk hurting you."

"I believe the odds are acceptable..." he began.

"Not for me," she insisted vehemently. "You don't understand, Data; I've _hurt_ people! Hurt them so badly..." she began, then turned away, choking on the memories that welled up in her.

Data reached for her arm, turning her body toward him, but she refused to turn her head, angrily keeping it facing the window where no one, including Data, could see her face.

Worried, he released her arm, pushed back his chair and rose from the table.

He's going! she thought, angry and hurt all at once - then forced the self-pity from her mind. Good! I don't want him here! I don't him to see this! I don't want...

"Lieutenant?" came his soft voice from in front of her, a strangely firm, but familiarly warm hand resting on her shoulder.

Andile opened her eyes, stared at the android who had come around the table to crouch before her, then closed them again, shaking her head angrily. "Please go away!" she whispered through clenched teeth.

"I can not," he insisted. "You are upset."

"I'll be fine! Just... just leave me alone," she begged.

"Is something wrong, Commander?" a voice asked from behind them.

Data looked up to see one of the staff who tended the bar eyeing the worriedly.

"Indeed," Data said.

_No! Don't say anything!_ Andile screamed silently, begging the android not to shame her in front of the server.

"The Lieutenant and I have been ice-skating and she is quite chilled," Data continued smoothly. "Could you bring her a cup of tea?" he asked.

The woman stared at the two uncertainly; she had seen them in Ten Forward often enough - but she'd never seen the lieutenant looking upset before - nor had she ever seen Cmdr. Data looking so worried.

But then again, she had never seen either one of them out of uniform as they both were tonight. Glancing at the skates dripping on the floor and the winter jackets that had been slung over the backs of the chairs, she began to understand.

And to commiserate with the shivering woman; the program they had been using might have been only a hologram, but the effect of the snow and the cold was real enough - and the lieutenant was far too thin to be able to fight off the chill: no wonder she was shivering so hard!

A cup of tea would do her a world of good, the server thought to herself; reassured, she quickly left to fill the order.

Andile raised her head once more, looking questioningly into the android's golden eyes.

"She is gone," he assured her.

Andile sighed, relieved. "Thank you. I... I don't like letting people see me upset."

"I understand; it is one of the impositions of command," he agreed, "the self-imposed distance between commanders and crew."

"You understand," she said, hearing his words, "but you don't approve," she added.

"It is not my place to approve or disapprove - but it is ironic, in that while you struggle to distance yourself, I am struggling to grow closer to those around me," he remarked.

"In time, though, you'll find yourself growing too close," she cautioned.

"Perhaps - though it may be preferable to growing too distant," he replied.

"And you think that's what I've done?" she asked, straightening.

His hand still resting on her shoulder, he eased himself onto the ledge that bordered the wall. "I believe that in your attempts to prevent yourself from harming those around you, as inadvertent as that harm may have been, you have allowed yourself to be harmed as well. That is not an acceptable method of protecting those you care for, Lieutenant. As your superior officer and as your friend, I cannot permit you to continue doing that," he insisted.

Andile gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "And just how do you propose to stop it?" she asked.

"I propose this: Accept another date with me," he said.

Andile gawked for a moment - then broke out laughing once more. "How is that going to help me?" she asked between chortles.

"Andile," he replied seriously, "you are afraid of becoming attached, because you are concerned that you will hurt that person. But I can not be hurt."

"But you have emotions..." she began to protest.

"I do not," he countered immediately. "You must remember that though I give the appearance of emotions, they are, in fact, simply the product of a positronic chip. Should an emotion become too distressing, I can turn off the feeling..."

"But once you've felt something, you can't forget that feeling!" she said.

"But I can," he insisted. "I can delete anything from my neural net that causes discomfort; if you were to somehow cause me emotional harm, I could erase that memory," he reminded her.

She stared at him, the temptation clear in her eyes - and the refusal clear in her face. "I know you _could_ do that, Data - but I also know you wouldn't. Any emotion is still too near to you, still too dear, that you would never willingly sacrifice it - even if it was a painful feeling. I can't allow that to happen - not for me."

Data pursed his lips, considering. "Then," he said after a moment's pause, "let me propose this: I will give you the option of deciding if an emotional situation between us results in a condition that you feel merits erasure; if you decide that it does, I shall delete the file. In this way, you may prevent any hurt that you believe you have caused from harming me."

Andile studied his eyes for a moment, searching a trace of deceit or duplicity in his expression - then gave it up. He was an android, she reminded herself, impossible for her to read.

But he was an android - and therefore he would abide by the terms of his agreement. Wouldn't he?

Wouldn't he?

"Do you promise?" she whispered.

"I promise. I will not allow you to cause me any emotional harm," he said.

Andile ran what he had said over in her mind slowly, replaying his words, searching them out carefully for any trick - but finding nothing, allowed herself a nod. "All right. I agree - on one condition," she added.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting - and curious.

"That we continue your lessons," she said. "If you're going to start have romantic affairs, Data, you need to know what to do."

"Agreed," he said.

"Good."

The two fell silent as the waitress reappeared, a glass of tea on her tray. "There you are, lieutenant," she said cheerfully. "Hope that warms you up. By the way, everyone wants to know what the topic is for tonight," she added.

"I.." Andile began but Data interrupted her.

"I am afraid the lieutenant will not be available for tonight's discussion," he said quickly. "Her presence is required for another project."

The woman frowned disappointedly, then forced a smile to her lips, understanding, knowing everyone else in the room would understand as well. This was the lieutenant: duty before pleasure, she thought to herself. She nodded, then left the two alone once more.

"It is?" Andile asked as soon as she was out of earshot, surprised.

"It is," Data said firmly. "The analysis of the sensor confirmation findings needs to be performed. As I will be busy with the test of the ship's defenses and weapons systems, you are the remaining individual who is qualified to perform this function."

"But last night you told me..."

"Last night I informed you that your routine of working two shifts per day was unacceptable. It continues to be so. However, there will be times that, as an officer your presence is required in activities that exceed the limitations of shifts. The analysis tonight is one of those activities; this project requires your expertise."

"Data, I could kiss you for this!" she said joyously, but instead of reaching for him, she grabbed the cup of tea instead. Taking a hurried gulp, she asked, "Now, when this test supposed to start?"

"In twenty-five point seven three minutes," he replied.

"Well then, let's get going. I'm not about to go on duty out of uniform!"

By the time they had reached the corridor outside the lounge, however, her exuberance had faded, replaced by a sober solemnity.

"Data," she said slowing her pace as they moved toward the lift, "what I said back there - about the kiss... It was inappropriate. I'm sorry."

"Why?" he asked, curiously.

"Why what?" she said. "Why am I sorry?"

"No," he objected. "Why was the remark inappropriate?"

"Because..." Andile began, then hesitated, and began again. "It infers a level of relationship between us that doesn't exist; that we have a physical relationship - and that I would give you certain... favors in exchange for what I want, like added work assignments. Now," she added with a blush, "_I_ realize that you wouldn't misunderstand me, but someone else who overheard us might - and it wouldn't look good for either of us if anyone thought that was happening - which, thank goodness, they don't!" she said, relieved.

"Why do they not?" he asked, curious.

"Why?" she said, staring at him, confused. "Because you're an android," she said. "You don't... I mean... Well, when it comes to kissing and all that..." She gestured vaguely at him, her face rapidly turning crimson. "I mean... By the gods, Data; you're an android!" she finally exclaimed.

"If you mean to imply that I do not seek sexual favors, you are correct. I do not have hormones that influence me toward inappropriate behaviors for reasons of physical gratification," he informed her.

Andile sighed, nodding approvingly at his explanation.

"I am, however, fully functional, should the necessity arise," he added.

Dumb-struck, Andile blazed red. "You... are?" she managed weakly.

"Indeed."

"Oh."

They stared at each other for a moment, then turned, continuing down the hall in mutual silence until they reached the lift doors.

For a moment, they stood, still in silence, waiting, then Andile turned to him once again.

"Why?"

"Why... what?" he replied.

"Why are you 'fully functional'?"

Data thought for a minute. "I must admit to a degree of uncertainty in that regard. My creator, Dr. Noonian Soongh, was killed before he could explain his rationale in creating me with the abilities that I have, but I suspect that it was his intentions to endow me with as many human capabilities as possible, so that I might better understand and emulate humans."

"But sex is an act of procreation!"

Data stared at her, surprised by her seeming naiveté. "That may be the physiologic purpose of sexual congress, Lieutenant," he replied, "but that is rarely the sole purpose behind the act. Rather, humans seem to be less interested in the procreative outcome than in the physical release - along with the emotional and psychological consequences that accompany the act," he replied.

"And you understand those consequences?" she asked him.

"To a degree. I have derived some level of understanding from overhearing my fellow officers and from my readings, but on a personal basis, I do not know," Data admitted. "I do not even understand the emotional aspect of even the most basic aspects of a relationship, such as holding hands," he added, almost sadly.

Andile looked down at the hand beside hers, then reached for it, slowly interweaving her small, delicate fingers between his larger ones. "You don't have to understand the emotional aspect, Data; understanding isn't necessary. All that is necessary is to know whether or not you like it," she added, squeezing his hand gently, then looking up at him. "Do you?"

He studied her hand in his for a moment - then closed his fingers gently. "Yes," he replied softly. "It feels... nice?" he said - albeit with a touch of uncertainty. He looked to her for confirmation.

"It feels very nice, Data," she assured him - then hurriedly broke the contact as the lift doors opened, spilling out a group of crewmen bound for Ten Forward, separating the two, pushing them back into the hall as they moved to pass them.

By the time the group had passed them, though, the lift doors had closed again. Andile sighed, then shrugged. "Oh, well, we'll get the next one," she said - then tentatively reached her hand out to him once more.

He accepted it, carefully weaving his fingers between his, then gave them a gently squeeze, feeling the warmth and softness of her fingers between his. He studied the meld of the two hands, then raised his eyes to hers, murmuring, "This _is_ nice."

Andile smiled, then looked up at him. "You know, Data," she said softly, wistfully, "Kissing is nice, too..."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

"Geordi, do you have the analysis of the sensor diagnostics?" Data asked as he stood at the central console of the Engineering bay early the next morning.

The Chief Engineer glanced over the padds spread in front of him, found the one, then handed it to his friend.

"What are you looking for?" he asked curiously as the android downloaded the information into the computer.

"I am not sure," the android admitted. "During the weapons check last night, there were several periods when the computers failed to record the data that was being collected. The cause of that failure has not yet been determined, but in the interim, I am looking for any possible connections to other system errors..." he began.

"You think there might be something to this anomaly of Biji's?" Geordi said, suspecting why Data had asked for that specific report. "Finding a correlation would go a long way in convincing the captain that there really is a problem in the engines - and that it's not just some bit of over-concern on her part."

Data frowned at his friend. "That correlation would be significant, but I am most concerned with the omissions themselves. A cross-check of all recent diagnostics may point out other similar failures that would indicate an overall systems problem."

"Yeah, right," Geordi murmured with a grin as he turned to his own work.

For a few minutes there was silence between the two - then Data looked up again, fixing his friend with a troubled look. "Geordi, do you believe I have deliberately begun this cross-check using the lieutenant's report in order to support her contentions about the anomaly?" he asked.

"Well, it sure would help her..." Geordi began, then stopped as he looked up at his friend and saw the worried expression there. "Oh, I see," he said, realizing. "No, I don't think that's what you did, Data. Knowing you, you probably went for the oldest report first," he said. "That it was Biji's was pure coincidence," he added, hoping that would be enough to put Data's mind at ease.

"But others might not see it in that manner," Data replied.

Geordi sighed, then nodded. "No, they might not," he agreed, reluctantly. "That's one of the risks that comes with having a social life on a ship, Data; people will wonder what motivates you to do what you do. Why you give one person permission to do one thing, while denying it to another..."

"But I have never..." Data began to protest, only to be stopped by Geordi's upraised hand.

"I meant figuratively, Data, not literally," he said with a smile. But the grin quickly faded as he thought over his friend's dilemma. "But in this case, someone might wonder why you took Biji's report first. After all, her anomaly has nothing to do with missing data - and the variance she reported is within tolerances. It could look like you just were using an existing problem to try to help her out," he agreed.

Data contemplated the possibility. "That was not my reasoning in selecting the lieutenant's report for the first cross-check..."

"Data, I know it, you know, I'm sure the captain will know it," Geordi assured him, "but just keep it in mind when you're making other decisions. When you're having a relationship with someone on board, you have got to go above and beyond to keep any hint of favoritism out of your work," he advised him.

Data considered, then nodded. "I shall do so in making future decisions," he agreed.

Geordi smiled. "I take it then that your date was a success?"

"It was... nice," Data agreed.

"Nice?" Geordi said with a frown. "That's it? Nice?"

Data thought, quickly reviewing the evening, the word and Andile's use of it - then nodded once, briefly. "Yes," he agreed. "Nice."

Geordi sighed disappointedly - then gave a shrug. Damned by praise faint, he thought sadly. But then what did I expect? Fireworks? Explosions? After all, Data's emotions, genuine as they might be, were being generated by an electronic chip - a far cry from the hormonally-driven nature of most humans feelings. He was not going to ever experience the passion of real emotional - or physical - love, Geordi thought to himself. And Andile... well, given her age and her appearance, he suspected she had long ago given up any hopes of either as well.

No, knowing Biji and Data, 'nice' was probably the most he could hope for - and, he admitted to himself, the most they could hope for as well.

And maybe it was just as well that it hadn't worked out, he admitted; the thought of spending the next few weeks, listening to the android rehash each and every detail of his evenings with Andile was a little more than he was prepared for, even in the name of friendship.

He clapped the android's shoulder sympathetically. "Well, I'm sorry it didn't work out, Data - but don't give up hope. There are a lot of fish in the sea," he assured him as he turned back to his own work.

Data stared at him, startled. "But..." he began, then stopped. Clearly, he realized, he had misspoken, somehow leaving his friend with the impression that the date had been less successful than intended.

But had he not said that the date was 'nice'? he wondered to himself. Did that not mean he had had a pleasant experience?

Or did it? he wondered as he turned back to his work.

That was one of the problems of emotions, he reminded himself , that by their very nature they were a personal experience - so how could one communicate their experience to someone else? After all, he had informed Geordi that evening was nice - but clearly Geordi had interpreted this to mean the date was not a success.

But Andile had said holding hands was 'nice' - which meant the incredible warmth that had filled him as he held her hand must have been one example of the word. And she had said kissing was 'nice' as well - thus the exquisite softness of her lips as they pressed against his must have been another physical example of that word. So if those were both 'nice', then how could Geordi think the date had been a failure? he wondered.

Were his dates more than 'nice'? Data wondered, astounded at the possibility.

It was something he would have to discuss with Andile, he decided... perhaps on their next date, he added, pleased by the thought.

His reverie - and Geordi's silent commiseration - were broken as a soft voice came up from behind the two.

"Morning, Commander," it trilled softly. "Morning, Commander," it repeated.

Geordi turned to his new assistant, a smile plastered on his face, ready to greet whatever mood Andile was in that morning - though after Data's assessment of their evening, he suspected he was going to need more than a smile to deal with her today.

To his surprise, however, she seemed utterly at ease despite the shared misadventure. Smiling at the two - equally, Geordi thought to himself, giving neither one preference - she reached between them, sorted through the padds looking for one, then set the others back as she walked away.

Sighing with relief, Geordi set out after her; at least this is one battle that not going to be fought in my Engineering bay, he thought to himself.

But it wasn't a worry he should have ever considered, he reminded himself as he drew up to her. Biji was far too much the professional to let her personal life interfere with her job.

Mostly because she didn't have one, he added, a wave of sadness for his two friends coming over him - then realized Andile was staring at him, a puzzled look on her face.

"Problems, Commander?" she asked.

"A ship full of them," he replied instantly, checking his concern instantly; if she wasn't going to drag the date into this, neither would he. "You ran the sensor analysis last night," he said, pointing to the padd she was carrying.

Andile nodded, studying the man's face carefully as she did so.

"What did you find?"

"Drop-outs in a system that, by every standard known, should be working perfectly," she said grimly, "and worse, what looks to be a completely dead sensor," she added, though there was an unmistakable tinge of doubt in her tone.

"Dead?" Geordi repeated, surprised.

"That how it reads - but all the sensors were replaced at McKinley - and they were all checked out by Maintenance before they were beamed up," she protested. "How we could have a deader before we're even a week out of dock is beyond me. More likely, someone made an error in running the diagnostic," she concluded with an unhappy sigh.

Geordi empathized; he had watched her train the technicians, emphasizing time and again the need for care and precision in doing the work, not just because they would be doing it for the first time, but because of the significance of even the slightest oversight - such as the appearance of a dead sensor when all other indications were that it should be working perfectly.

But that was the problem in trying to train a crew to do procedures while they were on a mission - and then having to leave them on their own to perform it, he reminded himself. Yes, his people knew their responsibilities, he reminded himself - but it would have been a lot better for all of them if Andile had been allowed to stay on and oversee them the first time. Still, he sighed, he would have thought that they wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake so soon after Andile had finished her instructions.

Which is why Starfleet didn't usually send such inexperienced crews on vital missions, he reminded himself, wondering once again what Starfleet could have been thinking of when they gave them the assignment. But ours is not to reason why...

"Ours is but to do or die," Andile concluded.

"Pardon?" Geordi said.

She smiled. "That's the last line, isn't it? To the poem you were saying? 'Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die.' It's an Earther poem, right?" she added.

Taken aback, Geordi nodded. Was I saying it aloud? he wondered - then realized he must have been. How else could she have heard him? He gave a self-deprecatory laugh. Maybe I should stop worrying about Biji overworking and start worrying about how much rest _I'm_ getting, he thought, if I'm talking to myself these days.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Back to the sensors... Is there any chance it's not a deader?"

Her eyes widened as she perused the idea. "I suppose... It could be a short in the unit itself; there's no reports of any other failures on this circuit, so there's no way to know for sure without crawling up there..." The grimace on her face told him exactly what she thought about that idea; the sensor was one of the most remote in the ship, and even getting to it would take the better part of an hour, "...but I checked the records and shows it checked out fine in the installation." Seeing the warning expression coming to his face, she quickly added. "I know, I know, I was supposed to go off duty as soon as the analysis was done - but following through on any discrepancies is part of the analysis - and I had Cmdr. Data's permission to do it," she added defensively.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Geordi protested gently.

Andile smiled; it was a lie, and they both knew it - but as much as he appreciated the need for following the order, he also understood the needs of an engineer's heart: the job had to be done. "Other than a short, a half a dozen possibilities come to mind - but they're all pretty remote, Geordi," she said, a frown forming on her face. "They're also all pretty bad. If we're looking at any of those..." She shook her head.

"I know," he agreed unhappily. "Draw up a list of the possible causes, Beej, and their remedies; we need to let the captain know what we're up against and how we're going to fix it," he added.

Andile nodded. "Give me half an hour," she said.

Without thinking, Geordi was about to halve that time - then stopped himself. If Biji said it was going to take half an hour, that's what it was going to take. He smiled, agreeing with her private policy of scrupulous honesty - but making a mental note to tell her about the tactics of an earlier Enterprise engineer he had once met.

She would disapprove, of course - but not without a laugh at the man's machinations. And heaven knew Biji could use a laugh as much as any of them, Geordi thought. Probably more, he added to himself; being the chief designer of the ship as well as her engines meant that she, more than any other person present, knew just how bad this situation could be.

"Half an hour," he repeated.

"Twenty-eight minutes," she countered, reaching across the board - then gave a soft groan.

"Your hip?" he asked worriedly.

Without looking up from the board, Andile shook her head, embarrassed, a blush giving her chalky skin a momentary hint of color. "My... butt," she admitted, rubbing the affected portion of her backside with one hand, then allowed herself a second's pause to glance back at Data. "I assume you heard about last night?" she asked.

"Yeah..." he began to commiserate.

"I spent more time sitting on the ice than skating on it. Where is the name of the gods did he come up with the idea of ice skating?" she asked - then turned back to her work.

Geordi sighed, "I told him it wasn't a good idea," he said apologetically, "but sometimes, when Data gets an idea in his head, there's no shaking it. Still... I'm sorry it didn't work out, Biji. I hoped you two might hit it off," he said - then quickly added, "Let me know as soon as you have that report done."

Too startled to argue, she nodded. "Of course, sir," she replied, watching as he walked to his officer - then glanced at Data.

_Didn't work out?_ she wondered, studying the android, then looked back at her own work. _It didn't work out?_ she repeated.

Where in the name of all the gods did Geordi get that idea? she wondered. Unless... Unless that was what Data told him.

But he had said he had enjoyed himself, she protested to herself; he said he had a nice time! she added emphatically.

Unless, of course, he was simply saying that to be polite - which he was, she reminded herself - almost to a fault. He wouldn't have told her he was having a terrible time, even if he was; he was far too polite to risk hurting her feelings, even if he was miserable.

And, it must have been pretty awful for him she thought, a sickening feeling beginning to fill her stomach. I did make a mess of everything; gods, I didn't even know it was a date, until after I had bitched about everything! And that hand-holding and that kissing... he was just trying to be polite, rather than telling me outright he wasn't enjoying himself! Oh, of course he told Geordi it didn't work out! she wailed silently, realizing that the android knew that Geordi would come talk to her in his stead. He didn't have the heart to tell me himself!

A wave of nausea began to build in the woman - and then was instantly crushed.

_You are andile!_ she hissed at her self silently. _You will behave as andile!_

With a visible jerk, the woman straightened then turned her thoughts back to the padds before her.

"Have you had an opportunity to review the weapons check from last night, Lieutenant?" a voice came from her side a few minutes later; a familiar voice, one, she realized that she was becoming fond of hearing.

Too fond, she chided herself harshly; _you are andile!_

"Yes, sir - but only to look at it," she said, relieved that Data had chosen to keep the conversation focused on their work, rather than the disastrous night before. "I noted some deviations in the power levels that from first glance may compare with the sensor drop-outs," she said reaching for the padd, "but it was just a scan. I think they're related, but it's going to take some time for me to review it in depth..." she began.

"That will not be necessary," Data interrupted, taking the padd from her hand.

Stunned by the abrupt dismissal, Andile choked back her feelings, whispering, "Of course not, sir," she said - then hurriedly turned back to Geordi's report.

Data stared at her, sensing that he had somehow hurt the woman's feelings - again, and still without understanding how he had done so - any more than he understood why she was apparently so unhappy. Unless...

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir?" Andile answered, refusing to look up from the board.

"I was wondering..." He hesitated. "At our next discussion, might we investigate the personal interpretation of various emotional states?" he asked.

Next discussion? she thought. Oh, our next lesson on body language, she decided, a small wave of relief coming over her; at least he wasn't so repulsed that he wanted to do away with those as well!

"Of course, sir," she replied, evenly, refusing to let a trace of her feelings show - then realizing that he was clearly showing one of his own: worry. "Is there any specific aspect you want to discuss?"

Data gave her a troubled look. "How do humans - or any species - compare personal feelings without a baseline of commonly held experiences to establish specific parameters?"

Andile sighed. "That's a real problem, sir - and one for which I have no easy answers. Personal feelings are that - personal. How each of us feels when we experience something is unique in the correct sense of the word - and there is no way of properly communicating those feelings from one person to the next. Even the names we give those emotions are little more than a guide to the feeling; when I feel a certain way, I might say I'm happy, whereas you might call the same emotion gleeful," she said, then seeing the look of disappointment in his face, added, "Why do you ask?"

"Because I am concerned that when I use a word to describe a feeling or emotion, I may not be conveying the most commonly accepted use of that word. For example, when Geordi asked how our first date went, I informed him it was 'nice'. From reasons I do not understand, Geordi has interpreted that to mean that I did not have a pleasurable time with you last evening, and, based on the expression you are currently displaying, I must assume you have used the word in a similarly negative application. Did you not enjoy last night?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir!" she said instantly - then confused, tried again. "I mean... I enjoyed last night. And... you?" she added reluctantly. "Did you... like last night?"

"Indeed," Data agreed.

"You... did?" Andile asked, a glimmer of hope, unexpected and unfamiliar, flickering in her soul; a glimmer she quickly quashed. _Remember what you are!_ she screamed at herself.

"I believe I informed you of that," Data replied, surprised by her uncertainty. Perhaps he had failed to tell her, he thought, quickly replaying the previous night's events in his mind... No, he told himself, I clearly stated how much I was enjoying myself on four separate occasions.

"Well, yes, you did, but... I thought you were lying," she admitted. "To spare my feelings," she added. "After all, I wasn't being very nice - and I couldn't imagine you were really enjoying yourself... "

The android frowned. "I would not lie to you, Andile."

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "It's just..."

"That you do not trust me yet," he reminded her.

She reddened - then slowly nodded her head. "No. You're right. I don't trust you; I don't trust anyone. Not completely," she added, then repeated, "I'm sorry."

"Your apology is not required; I am cognizant that trust rarely given freely, but rather is earned over a period of time and mutually shared experiences," he informed her. "Logically, then, via the continuation of said experiences, I shall, in time, come to earn that trust."

Andile started to smile her agreement.

"I shall greatly regret, therefore, the discontinuation our evening lessons," he finished.

Andile felt the bottom of her stomach fall away. Forcing the smile to stay on her face, she choked back her rising nausea. "As shall I," she managed to whisper. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I really need to work on this report."

"I understand," Data replied.

Andile smiled weakly, then started to turn back to the console.

"At what time shall I pick you up?" he added.

"Wha... I beg your pardon?" she gasped.

"At what time shall I..." Data began, then stopped, seeing the astonished expression on her face. "My apologies, Lieutenant. Despite our experience of yesterday evening, I am still quite unfamiliar with the rituals of dating; am I to make a second, formal approach for this date as well?" he asked her.

"_This_ date...?"

He studied her, surprised by her reaction. "You did agree to a second date with me," he reminded her.

"Yes, but you just said that we had to cancel your lessons..."

"Regrettable, but necessary," he agreed. "As your superior officer, it is my responsibility to ensure that you do not over-work yourself both on and off duty. The time needed for us to practice dancing, study human mannerisms and continue to date exceeds the amount of free time available to you," he explained. "I believe deleting the lessons from our routine would be the most logical choice."

"But they're important!" Andile began to protest. "Look, let's eighty-six the dancing; I can live without it."

He looked at her sternly. "But you have remarked on multiple occasions that you enjoy dancing," he said - then added, "And I enjoy dancing with you. It is... nice."

"It is," she agreed softly, a small smiled coming to her lips. "But... I don't want you to give up your lessons - not for me."

He was about to argue with her - but something in her eyes made him stop. "Then a compromise," he suggested at last. "Some evenings we will dance, some evenings we will talk. We will have sufficient time for both activities," he said, then lowered his voice. "We will have time - for everything."

His voice wasn't passionate, Andile reminded herself; he didn't yet have passions. But it was sweet and soft - and for a moment, she felt the stirring of something that she thought had died in her soul long before.

"I'd... I'd really like that," she whispered.

He studied her a moment longer - then the soft gentleness faded into the curt politesse of professionalism. "Then I shall meet you at your quarters at seventeen hundred hours..." he said bluntly.

"Seventeen-thirty," she countered. "I'd like to wash up and put on a

clean uniform first."

The android nodded, accepting the change. "Seventeen-thirty," he agreed - then added, "I am looking forward to it... Andile," he said - then turned and walked from the room.

Andile, she repeated to herself, hearing the echo of his voice calling her name - and caught herself smiling.

That means nothing, she chided herself instantly. He's called you by your name a hundred times, she reminded herself harshly... Only it hadn't sounded like that, she added, wistfully, the echo still playing in her mind. This time, it was... different.

And it's going to sound different when Geordi calls it next time if you don't have this report done by the time he goes to that meeting, she chided herself harshly, turning her attentions to the padds before her, her eyes darting from one to the other, noting figures as she rapidly entered information into the computer.

Or tried to - but her hands were shaking so badly, she found herself unable to make any entries.

Andile frowned impatiently, grabbed her wrist to began to massage it. _This_ is not the time, she told herself sternly, waiting for the trembling to ease - but even as wrapped her hand around her wrist she felt something different, something unfamiliar.

Her pulse, she realized, was racing.

What the...? she wondered, troubled by the unfamiliar reaction. Something's wrong! Something's wrong with me! she thought, finding herself filling with an unfamiliar panic.

She glanced at the door through which Data had left, wondering if she should call him back - only to feel a surge in her pulse once again.

She gawked at the offending limb.

No! she thought, Don't be stupid! she told herself sternly. He's just... a fellow crewmember. A co-worker. A friend.

_He should be nothing!_ a voice deep inside her screamed back. _You have no right! You are..._

I know! I know! she shouted back silently, burying her head in her hands - then slowly raised it again, turning her attention - and _all_ her thoughts - back to her work.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

An hour later, Geordi was standing before the display panel on the conference room wall, looking back at the gathering - but directing his comments to Picard, who had swung his chair around to face the Chief Engineer. "That, sir, is the situation as we see it: best case scenario is that we've got a short in one of the sensors - which is why we're getting the drop-outs in the readings. It might even be the cause of Lt. Andile's anomaly."

"And the worse case?" Picard asked.

"The worst case is that we have a major computer fault that's preventing the computer from recording data. If it is a fault..."

"It isn't," Sandra James insisted firmly. "We ran the system before we installed it - and it checked out perfectly!"

"You ran the system in its entirety?" Data questioned. "And you did not encounter the interface problem?" he asked incredulously.

She stared at the android, taken aback by the question. "Well, of course we didn't run it in its entirety!" she replied after a moment. "That would have been impossible!" she insisted - then hurriedly added, "But we did test the key elements from both the iso-linear circuits and the bio-neural units..."

"And they worked," Geordi completed the sentence for her. "The problem," he sighed, "is that those key elements account for less than ten per cent of the total number of circuits."

"Which means that the balance of the circuits have not been tested - at least," Geordi added, "not _in situ_."

"Which would indicate that the interface problem is not one of a component failure..." Data began.

Sandra James smiled triumphantly.

"...but rather of a system failure," he concluded.

Her smile faded.

Picard looked at her questioningly.

"It worked, sir," she said weakly. "The prototype worked perfectly, Captain. Every test, every check, every computational series we ran was flawless..."

"Did you test the prototype in its entirety?" he asked her quietly.

"Of course, sir," she answered, instantly understanding what he was suggesting. "It was subjected to every test we could perform," she said, "and it was our intention to do the same thing with this computer before we brought it aboard - but we weren't given a chance!" she said.

Picard looked at her sympathetically, beginning to understand that the bravado she had shown earlier was little more than a cover for the uncertainty that filled her; her prototype had functioned as designed - but once in the field she began to encounter problems she had never foreseen - and was at a loss on how to handle.

It had happened before, he reminded himself - and on this ship. And, he added, it would most likely happen again. That was the drawback to living with the cutting edge of technology: the edge cut both ways.

He sighed, then transfixed the woman with a questioning look. "And the diagnostics?" he asked.

"Inconclusive," Sandra admitted. "We're seeing cycle fluctuations, just like Cmdr. LaForge was describing in the sensors - but whether the computer is causing the problem or is simply reflecting a problem from elsewhere in the ship, I don't know."

The captain nodded, then sat back, thinking, then looked at the Chief Engineer. "Recommendations?"

Geordi gave a slight shrug. "Without understanding what's causing this, it's a hit or miss proposition. Lt. Andile doesn't believe the problem is coming from the computers..."

"... but if it is and the situation escalates..." Picard countered.

"... then we're dead in the water," Geordi answered.

"Or just dead," Worf added.

The others looked at him grimly.

"Normally, I'd suggest replacing the sensor," Geordi said. "We do have replacements on hand - but based on the fact that the sensors were just replaced - and tested - at Utopia, I think it would be a waste of time - at least until we rule out some of the other possibilities."

"Such as..."

"Run independent diagnostics on the bio-neural and iso-linear components of the computer. If it is something in the meld of the two systems - like a defective component," he hurriedly added at Sandra's sudden frown, "then it should show in the independent checks."

"The commander has already run a diagnostic," Picard reminded the man.

"A complete diagnostic," Data countered, "on the combined systems. However, in these circumstances, a unified system diagnostic may be ineffective. If a flaw does exist in the components of one system, for example the bio-neural pathway, the isolinear system may not be able to recognize it as a flaw, but rather label it as one of the normal, hence acceptable, variables that will occur when processing data between two incompatible systems," he explained. "The computer would not realize it was a malfunction."

"Independent diagnostics will point out a failure in the components of the individual systems," Geordi reminded him.

"But if it's in the interface between the systems, independent diagnostics might not point it out either," Picard reminded them.

"Agreed, sir - but at least it will allow us to rule out component failure," the engineer reminded him.

Picard thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Independent diagnostics will require dismantling the interface - and that means time. What other possibilities can we eliminate at the same time?"

"Lt. Andile believes the problem still stems from the anomaly she detected in the engines," Geordi said.

Worf grunted disapprovingly. "A zero point zero three power variance is _not_ an anomaly," he growled.

"It is to the lieutenant," Data reminded him, "to the extent that she has been training a team to conduct line checks on the individual power conduits throughout the ship."

Will gave a low whistle. "Now _that's_ going to take time," he said. "There are thousands of power lines in this ship..."

"Seven thousand, four hundred and sixteen of the type involved," Data agreed. "But if the anomaly is related to the other problems..."

"But even if the anomaly is related to the problems, would a power variance in those conduits be sufficient to cause the other problems we're seeing?" Picard interrupted.

Data looked at him, ready to answer the question - then stopped, shook his head, and said, "No."

Picard nodded. "Then performing those line checks would be a waste of time."

"Sir, might I point out that while the anomaly may not be the cause of the problems, its presence may be due to the same causative factor?" Data tried. "Tracing the affected line might help to identify that agent."

Picard looked at the android, surprised - but trying not to show his reaction - by the hope and desperation in the android's voice.

Data wanted the engineer's ideas vindicated, Picard realized, unrealistic as they might be; he wanted her to be right - and he was ready to argue her case before him in that hope.

Was that passion? Naiveté? Picard wondered - or was it simply faith in the abilities and knowledge of a fellow crewmember?

Whichever it was, it was not logic, Picard reminded himself - and right

now, he need a cold and logical assessment of the situation.

"It may be, Data," he agreed, "but we do not have the time to perform the manual conduit checks necessary to find out. And before we jump to a worst-case scenario, let's start with the obvious."

"The sensor," Geordi murmured.

Picard nodded. "Have Lt. Andile discontinue the power conduit checks and have her begin a complete assessment on the sensor involved," Picard continued. "Have her check the optic line for transmission degradation, the power supply conduit... even the cable sheathing."

"It could have been damaged on installation," Worf agreed.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Geordi interrupted, "but Biji's the one who signed off on that sensor installation. She would no more sign off on a botched installation than... than you would," he said.

"Nonetheless, Commander," Worf growled, "mistakes can be made."

"Not by Biji," Geordi snapped. "Not on her engines. Not on her ship."

The Klingon glowered at the human.

"Gentlemen," Picard interrupted, "even if the installation was textbook, the sensor could have been damaged after installation," he reminded them both. "It would be prudent for us to check the sensor - and its complete installation assembly - prior to beginning a more elaborate check of the conduits - or before contemplating an assessment of the individual components of the computer," he added.

There was a moment of silence as the enormity of _that_ task settled over the others.

"In the meantime," Worf said a moment later, "I would recommend that we reconfigure the existing sensors to cover the gap in the meantime."

Geordi smiled, somewhat triumphantly. "The lieutenant's already done that," he informed the Klingon, handing him a padd with the information.

Worf glared at the padd, studying the numbers. "This indicates there is a four percent reduction in sensitivity in sectors forty-one, forty-two and forty-four," he grumbled.

"It's the best she could by reconfiguring the existing sensors, Worf," Geordi replied, annoyed at the determination to find fault with the new engineer. "They weren't designed to cover such a large area," he added, "and Beej did a hell of a job to make them cover the area as well as she did."

The Klingon frowned, then growled his grudging acceptance of that fact of the matter - but clearly, not Geordi's praise for the worker.

Picard studied the man, sensing, at last, the Klingon's seeming dislike for the new transferee.

It surprised him - not that it should have, he decided after a moment. After all, Klingons did not make friends easily, Picard reminded himself, and in the best of circumstances, they were suspicious of everyone and everything they did not personally know, and certainly Worf's recent years back in the service of his homeworld would have gone far to reaffirm those cultural biases... but still, Picard thought, I have never seen him take such an instant dislike to someone before - especially to someone he hasn't met.

Why? he wondered. Because the lieutenant had overseen the installation of the sensor - and its subsequent failure had left the ship vulnerable? It had - but only briefly. The failure had been detected, and a solution - albeit only a stopgap one - had been found.

Because, then, of the drop in sensitivity? Again, Picard found the idea hard to fathom. If Geordi was correct, there was a decrease in the sensitivity in that one small area - but a four percent decrease was actually quite remarkable, considering the extra range the remaining sensors would have to cover; making the calculation in his head, he had thought that the reduction would be significantly higher. No, Worf's disapproval couldn't have been for that reason, unless...

Unless he resented the lieutenant's usurpation of his responsibilities, Picard thought. After all, Worf was the head of Security; identification of the sensor loss should have been his responsibility. The fact that someone else had made the discovery, and the fact that someone else determined the effect of that loss and given the orders needed to compensate for its absence...

...would have never bothered the man who had served on his ship a few years before, he realized grimly. Security was foremost to that man; having someone have the foresight to make a necessary change for the sake of the ship's safety would have earned his compliments rather than his distrust.

But that had been years ago, he reminded himself - before the war. We were all different people then.

But were we _that_ different? he wondered. Had Worf's tour on Deep Space Nine - and then back in the Klingon Empire - changed him that much?

With a soft sigh for the years lost between them, he turned his attention back to the others, who were debating the feasibility of replacing the sensor.

"Let's hold off on that until we get the result of Lt. Andile's assessment of the sensor," Picard said. "If that's inconclusive, then we'll proceed with the exchange," he said, his voice slowing as another thought came to him.

He considered it for a moment - then looked at the faces gathered about the table.

"I was thinking... Cmdr. James."

She looked up expectantly.

"You said that most of the programs were able to be successfully installed."

She nodded. "Replicators, library, holoprograms..." she began to list.

"But not all," he interrupted.

"No, sir," she agreed.

He thought for another moment, then asked, "Have you performed a meta-analysis on the programs that have and have not been able to be installed to determine what difference there is in the two?"

She gawked at him. "Uh..."

"It occurred to me that there may be a reason some of the programs will function - and others will not," he continued. "If we were to analyze those programs, we might be able to identify a distinguishing factor that will permit - or refuse - a program to run. That factor, if there is one, may direct us toward the cause of the other problems we're encountering," he said. "And if nothing else, it should indicate how to alter the other programs so that they can be installed."

Geordi's eyes widened in admiration at the ingenious suggestion - then instantly narrowed. "The only problem, Captain, is that a meta-analysis of that nature requires the computer - and if we're performing a diagnostic, we can't run the program."

"I can, of course, reprogram myself to perform such a function..." Data began.

"Unnecessary," Picard interrupted. "If I remember correctly, Lt. Andile presented a paper three years ago on the performance of just such an analysis - without computers," he added.

Sandra James' jaw dropped. "But... that's impossible!" she said.

Geordi grinned. "Sandra, stay on this ship long enough - and you'll discover the impossible is what we do best. I'll go talk with Beej and find out what she did..." he said, rising from the table - only to be stopped short by Worf's sharp bark.

"Captain! I must object!" he said stridently.

Picard turned to the man. "To...?"

"To Lt. Andile's involvement in this process. Sir," he said pleadingly, "she has not yet been received her Security clearance!"

Geordi's jaw dropped. "Worf, Beej designed the ship! She's been over every inch of her, supervised the installation of every panel, every conduit - if there's something about this ship that she doesn't know, then it's not worth knowing! Exactly how much more secure does she need to be?" he protested.

"Computer Security clearance is not the same as Security clearance for Engineering," Worf reminded the engineer. "A meta-analysis of the programs would allow her access to almost every area of the ship's computers - including classified storage areas!"

"Meaning what?" Geordi pressed. "Worf, if she wanted to do something to the ship, she doesn't have to access the computers - she could do it right in front of us! And since she's the only one who's completely familiar with the engines, there's not a damned thing any of us could do to stop her - even if we realized what she was doing!"

Worf glared back - but Picard rose, raising his hands between the two. "Your points are both well taken - but in this case..."

They both looked at him expectantly.

"... I must agree with Mr. Worf."

Geordi stared at the man, astounded at the decision.

"Perform your investigation, Mr. Worf," he advised the man, "but do so with all due haste. In the meantime, have the lieutenant proceed with the sensor analysis. Mr. Data, I'd like you to begin reprogramming yourself for the meta-analysis of the programs; advise me when you're ready to begin. Commander James..."

"I'll begin the independent diagnostics," she said.

He nodded his approval, watching as they rose from the table, filing toward the doors to the conference room.

"Number One," Picard called quietly as the last figure reached the door.

The tall, somber human turned slowly. "Sir?"

"Comments? Recommendations?"

Will thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, sir," he said, turning to the door once again.

"Will," Picard called out again.

He turned again, no trace of annoyance in his expression - but no trace of curiosity either. "Sir?"

"You've worked with Lt. Andile for the last three months. I would like your opinion of her - as a Security risk - as well as an officer," he said.

Will thought for a few minutes, then shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm qualified to voice that opinion," he said at last. "Perhaps you should talk to Counselor Troi," he added. "If I may?" He gestured to the door once again.

Picard studied the man worriedly, then gave a short nod, granting him permission.

I will, he agreed silently - but who do I talk to about you? he wondered.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

"I like her."

Picard raised a surprised eye at the woman who sat beside him on the couch in his ready room.

He had understood Deanna Troi's disclaimer that she had never professionally evaluated Lt. Andile's psychological status and that all their interactions had been casual - but even so, when he had asked for her opinion of the engineer, he had hoped for something more precise, more quantifiable, more... intellectual.

Giving a sigh, he rose from the couch, then slowly walked toward the windows that flanked the ready room.

He's disappointed, Deanna realized at once, sensing the man's emotions - and understanding their cause. He had hoped I might be able to provide the definitive answers he needs about Lt. Andile - but Andile was a woman who defied any answers, let alone definitive ones, Deanna thought to herself.

Rising from the couch, she mentally prepared an apology, expecting to be dismissed from the ready room - only to find the man turning from the windows to face her.

"Why?"

"Captain?" Deanna asked, bewildered.

"You said you liked her, Counselor; I want to know why," he explained.

Deanna looked at him, puzzled.

He gestured for the woman to sit down again, then found a place for himself beside her.

"Counselor, it's imperative for the continuation of this mission that I determine whether or not I can trust the lieutenant. I know that you haven't performed an evaluation on the lieutenant - and I know equally that you won't attempt to make any judgments without that evaluation.

"But you can evaluate your own emotions, your empathic impressions of her," he continued. "You like her - and I need to know why," he said.

"Captain..." she started reluctantly.

"Deanna," he interrupted, his voice growing gentle, "I've known you for enough years to know that you are an excellent judge of character. The people you care for are people of good character, of good judgment; if you care for the lieutenant, then I can assume that she shows some of those same qualities. But that assumption, on its own isn't enough; I need something more substantive, more tangible..."

"I understand, sir," she said, then closed her eyes, thinking. After a moment, she opened them again, and shook her head at the man, obviously disappointed in herself. "Honestly, sir, there's no one thing that makes the lieutenant 'likeable'. In fact, if you asked a dozen people to describe her, what you'd hear would be a list of her faults - all suggesting that she is not a likeable person. She's vulgar, blunt - sometimes brutally so - brilliant to the point that she scares people, didactic, detached..."

"Strange," Picard interrupted. "Her personnel files give her high marks for her interactions with the other members of her staff. You make it sound as if she's completely the opposite," he pointed out.

"In another person, I would agree with that assessment," Deanna conceded. "But Biji has one trait that makes every other shortcoming fade in contrast," she informed him.

"Which is?" Picard pressed.

Deanna smiled serenely, almost dreamily, her thoughts drifting away from the ready room, to a time and place that stood out so clearly in her memory. "She cares," she answered, her voice quiet, gentle, calm. "Passionately, fervently... Every person she talks to matters to her. You can see it in the way she listens when someone talks to her. She listens, Captain, really listens." Deanna raised her eyes to meet Picard's. "Sir," she continued softly, "in those moments when you're talking and she's listening, you are the only thing in the world; for those moments, sir, you are the center of the universe."

She gave a long sigh, feeling once again the intense sensation of the woman's dark brown eyes boring into hers, listening as she described... Deanna laughed to herself, remembering: she had been describing the hot fudge sundae - and Andile had sat there, watching her listening to her, making her feel as though that sundae had been the most important thing in the universe.

No, she realized, it wasn't the sundae that was important - it was me.

I _mattered_.

The full depth of that moment struck at her again; drawing a deep breath, she looked at the man, unable to completely overcome the intensity of the feeling, still fresh and strong, even after two weeks. "I have never felt as enriched," she said quietly, "as appreciated, as I did in those few minutes that Biji and I spent talking. It didn't matter that she told me things I didn't want to hear; I knew she wasn't doing it from malice or cruelty - but because she knew the answers I was after were important to me - and helping me to find those answers was, for those few minutes, important to her.

"Captain, in those few minutes, I mattered," she said.

Picard studied her, then reached for her hand reassuringly. "Counselor you have always mattered..."

"No, sir, you don't understand. In those few minutes, I mattered to _her_!" Deanna insisted.

Startled, he gave the empath a searching look - and was relieved as the impassioned expression in her face faded away and was replaced by an embarrassed smile.

"I'm sorry, sir..." she began to apologize.

"No need, Counselor," he cut her off. "I... understand," he replied quietly.

It was Deanna's turn to study him for a moment - then she reached out, laying an understanding hand on his arm.

"She was like that at the Academy, wasn't she?" she asked quietly.

For a moment, Picard was silent, as he hadn't heard the question - but she could sense the turbulent emotions roiling within him - including one she hadn't suspected.

"She was like that - and that's why you wanted to study with her," she repeated. "She made you feel as if you were the only student in the world - and everything she was teaching, she was teaching to you," she said.

Picard looked at her blankly, his thoughts fifty years away from the starship in which they now sat.

"She made you feel as if you mattered," Deanna continued, "and then... she turned you down. That's why you're worried," she said. "Because no matter what her personnel files say, no matter what her crewmates and superiors have written, no matter what else she has done in Starfleet, you know she is capable of betrayal..."

"Counselor," he interrupted sharply. "The lieutenant never betrayed me. I was merely an applicant for her class - I had no right to expect that I should be accepted - and in retrospect, I certainly didn't have the academic standing to merit even an evaluation, let alone a position in that class!" he insisted.

Insisted a little too stridently, Deanna decided, opening herself to his emotions. "In retrospect - no. But that's not what you felt - then, was it?" she asked gently. "You thought - as we all think - that you were special, somehow out-of-the-ordinary - and that Andile should have recognized that characteristic in you - and accepted you into her class - and failing to do so - it was a form of betrayal, sir."

Picard rose from the couch, his back to Deanna - but she the rise of color on the back of his neck, betraying the truth they both knew. "Don't be ridiculous," he managed after a moment, turning to face her once again. "She was a full professor at the Academy - she had every right to choose only the best students for her classes..."

"I'm not being ridiculous, sir," Deanna interrupted. "I'm only stating what I feel from you. And that is how you felt - then ... and now," she pressed him gently. "As much as you may try to rationalize it, that is how you feel."

"Felt - perhaps," he conceded, grudgingly. "Back then - when I was a student. But not now," he insisted. Now I'm a ship's captain, with a critical mission on my hands..."

"And the need to know whether or not you can trust someone who once betrayed that trust," she said.

He glared at her - but it was the truth, they both knew.

After a moment, he sighed, turned, and headed for the replicator. "Tea," he ordered. "Earl Grey, hot."

He didn't really want the tea, Deanna knew, even as he ordered it; what he wanted was a moment away from her, a moment to collect his thoughts, a moment to settle his emotions down; the tea was just an excuse to move away from her.

And an obvious one, she thought as he set the glass down, untouched, on the low table that lay before the couch and settled in beside her once more.

"It's absurd; holding a grudge against someone for all these years - when she was never at fault," he said, his voice carefully even.

But there was an undertone to it as well, a quiet plea for permission to have felt as he had for all these years, beseeching her to absolve him of the shame he felt for carrying his anger for so long.

"It is absurd, sir," Deanna agreed gently, "but the hearts and minds of humans don't always function as one. Intellectually, you know the lieutenant didn't select you for what were probably sound reasons. But emotionally...?

"Emotionally... you were in awe of her, you admired her greatly," she continued, her voice dropping, growing gentle, "and her decision not to accept you in the class hurt you at a time when you were vulnerable to that sort of hurt - and it's one that's stayed with you all this time," she said. "And one that's making you doubt yourself now.

"You're an excellent judge of character yourself, Captain," she reminded him. "But if you're concerned that what happened back at the Academy may affect your judgment, then I suggest you step back, and let the officers you do trust help you."

Picard considered the suggestion - but Deanna could sense his reluctance to accept it.

"Sir, providing the captain with information - and with opinions - is main function of your senior staff," she reminded him. "There's no shame in relying on us to do our jobs so that you can do yours."

"It's not that, Counselor..." he began to protest.

"And there isn't any shame in having feelings, sir - even ones that are strong enough to affect you. It's one of the trademarks of being human - and one of its advantages. The way those feeling have affected you that has helped shape you into the captain you are..."

He snorted derisively.

"... and it's the fact that you have those feelings, as little as you may show them, that helps the crew identify with you."

He gave her a hard look.

"You can be a little aloof, sir," she said gently, knowing he knew the truth as well as she did - but knowing that it hurt, nonetheless. "A little distanced from the people around you."

He gave a grunt of grudging amusement. "You make me sound like the lieutenant," he said gruffly.

Taken aback by the remark, Deanna considered the idea for a moment - then smiled. "Actually, Captain, in many ways you _are_ like the lieutenant. Seemingly distant and detached - but underneath, you're both passionately dedicated to your work - and to the people you work with." She considered the idea further. "In fact, sir, I think that if you were to get to know the lieutenant, not only would you be able to decide for yourself if you trust her - but you might find yourself coming to like her. You share enough of the same traits that you would have something in common, something on which you could base a friendship," she suggested gently.

Or something more, she added silently; as little as she knew about Andile, she did recognize the loneliness of position that had isolated the woman - just as it had isolated Picard years before.

It might be good for both of them to learn they weren't really alone - and to know there was someone with whom they could share their innermost thoughts.

As if, she added, rejecting the idea instantly, either one of them would ever open up to another person.

Seeming to confirm her unspoken thoughts, Picard shook his head. "Unfortunately, Counselor, it takes time to develop that sort of relationship - and time is a luxury that I do not have," he reminded her.

"Getting to know someone you may need to rely upon, sir, is not a luxury," she countered. "In this case, it's necessary for the good of the ship and the good of the mission. And that type of knowledge is something I cannot provide for you," she added.

He looked at her in confusion.

"I can't read her, sir," Deanna explained. "Empathically, I am aware of her presence - but beyond that, she is a blank to me."

"How is that possible, Counselor?" he asked. "The lieutenant is, after all, human..."

"Human - but very old," Deanna countered. "I haven't had much experience with human gerontological cases - but in Vulcan and Betazoid societies, great age is often accompanied by extremely well-developed mental shields. In these cases, the individual's mental presence is detectable - but not the contents behind those presences."

"But Betazoids and Vulcans have known telepathic and empathic skills; developing better shields would be a logical progression for individuals with those abilities," he reminded her. "The lieutenant is human - and there are very few human telepaths..." His voice trailed off as a stunning - and possibly terrifying - thought entered his mind. "Counselor, you're not suggesting that..."

"That Biji's a telepath? No, sir," Deanna replied instantly, shaking her head emphatically. "I would have sensed that in the lieutenant months ago."

"But you're an empath, Counselor - not a telepath," he reminded her.

Deanna nodded. "Yes, sir - but as you said, telepathy is extremely rare in humans - and because of that rarity, very few learn how to control it well. It seeps into their emotional construction, making their mental presence very distinctive.

"But the phenomenon of mental shields in the elderly among humans isn't well studied; perhaps it is the norm as one approaches the lieutenant's age; perhaps it is a result of cultural influence - or perhaps it is simply a function of the lieutenant's brain. Whatever the cause, it has left me effectively blind to her emotions.

"And in any case, Captain," Deanna continued with a smile, "the lieutenant doesn't need telepathy; she has something much more effective."

Picard raised a brow in surprise - and, Deanna realized, worry. "Indeed."

"I told you she listens," she continued, "but there's more to it than that. She watches you as well, watching the language of your body as well as paying attention to the words you're saying. And when the words are at odds with what you're body is doing, she knows where the truth is. In that first encounter you had with her on the ship, sir, I'm reasonably certain she was able to sense your mistrust - and quite possibly the reason behind it. After all, she did remember you from that class you attended at the Academy; I suspect she was as aware of you then as you were aware of her," she said with a smile.

He gave a soft growl of disbelief - but didn't argue the point.

"Talk to her, sir," she repeated. "For the sake of the mission - and for your own sake. You need to know for yourself whether or not you can trust her - and how far. And, if nothing else, I think you'll find the lieutenant a fascinating and remarkable person."

For a few minutes, neither spoke, Picard staring at her, his thoughts racing, Deanna watching as she felt his emotions churning - then Picard gave a sigh and rose to his feet, extending a hand to the Betazoid as he did.

"Thank you, Counselor. I'll... think about your suggestion," he said.

"Yes, sir - but don't think too long," she reminded him as she rose. "As you said, time is a luxury we do not have - and getting to know the lieutenant well enough that you feel you can trust her - and that she can trust you in turn - is going to take time," she cautioned.

He frowned at the idea, only to be rewarded by a sharp look from the empath.

"Sir, standard expectations don't work with Andile. She's not going to trust you just because you're the captain. In fact, she's very reluctant to trust anyone - especially someone in a position of authority. She's carrying a great deal of pain..."

Deanna let the words trail off, uncertain of why she had suddenly had that impression about the engineer, then shook her head, unwilling to go further on the topic - at least, not until she had had a chance to formally assess the woman.

Understanding Deanna's reluctance, Picard murmured a soft thanks to the Betazoid as he escorted her from the room - then turned back to the couch, sinking in once again.

I'm willing to do whatever is necessary to make sure this mission

succeeds, he thought to himself.

But if we're as alike as Deanna says - and if Lt. Andile is a saboteur - then she'll be as willing to do whatever she needs to do to see that this mission fails.

If she was the saboteur, he reminded himself.

It was a large 'if', he thought; one doesn't readily betray eighty years of service to an organization; not without a reason.

But she might well have had a reason, he added: hadn't Deanna said she was carrying a great deal of her own pain?

But pain from what? he wondered.

From working in near-anonymity, despite her remarkable achievements in ship design and propulsion?

From being ranked a lieutenant despite a lifetime of service? he thought.

From taking a post at a research facility that was inadequately safeguarded - and losing her entire staff - and almost dying herself - as a

result?

Could that be it? he wondered. A lifetime of slights that finally has driven her to betray the very organization she's served for so long?

But Starfleet's been none too kind to me in the last few years, he reminded himself - and I'm not about to sabotage my own ship.

And neither may she, he added, realizing he was no closer to an answer now than he had been a few hours before.

Rising from the couch, he strode across the room to his computer terminal, punched the comm button, then stopped. Geordi had scheduled the conduit check for the sensor for that evening - a project that Andile was scheduled to perform.

But if she was the saboteur, he protested...

If she was the saboteur, he argued, damaging one peripheral sensor was not going to be overly effective - and done under the auspices of two officers, it was going to be damned difficult. No, this project wasn't worth the effort necessary to undermine it, he decided. Let her complete it - and they could talk in the morning.

A sense of relief washed over him at the self-granted reprieve - and was quickly replaced by a frown. He thought for a moment, then stabbed the comm button.

"Picard to Crusher."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Doctor, would you have a few free minutes this evening? There's something I need to discuss with you," he said.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Even across the vast expanse of the shuttle bay, Geordi could make out Andile's voice, soft as always, but its musical tone carrying across the huge room. Gesturing his friend to the source of the sound - unnecessarily, he reminded himself, as Data's auditory receptors were far more perceptive than his own ears - the two quickly made their way around the three stationary ships, until they came upon the woman - and the two ensigns who were attentively following her every word.

"Maybe it's just as well she left the Academy," Geordi said to his friend as he watched the two follow kneel down beside her amongst a tangle of cables and wires.

"I do not understand, Geordi," Data replied, surprised. "Her service record indicates she was a most apt instructor..."

"Too apt," Geordi interrupted. "The reason I assigned Cho and Dulfer to

her is that they are the two least able ensigns I have. Neither wants to be an engineer - both volunteered for the rotation only so they could get it over with while we were still in spacedock then move on with their careers. But look at them now," he said, pointing at the three. "One day with Biji, and I'm not sure I could pry them away from engineering. If she'd have stayed at the Academy, she'd have converted every class to only engineers."

Data frowned, then cocked his head to one side. "I do not believe that statement to be accurate, Geordi. During her fifteen year term at the Academy, the percentage of graduates who specialized in warp physics was only one point three seven per cent higher than in previous or later years - a statistical anomaly that can be readily explained..."

Data," Geordi said, cutting the man off, "the next time you and Biji have one your lessons, ask her to explain hyperbole, okay?" he teased - then looked at his friend, suddenly worried. "You two are still practicing your human mannerisms, aren't you?" he asked.

"On occasion," Data replied.

Geordi frowned, suspecting the failed date had led the two to a further distancing - one that neither could afford, he added. "You know, Data, people who break up often remain good friends; just because your date didn't work out doesn't mean you can't still have a good relationship," he advised his friend.

"I am aware of that, Geordi," Data agreed. "Counselor Troi and Commander Riker remained good friends for many years, after the termination of their first relationship and before the resumption of their current affair."

Geordi's face wrinkled. "I'm not sure that's the best example you can follow," he said. "I haven't seen the two of them together for a week now - and even when they're in meetings together, they don't look at each other. No, something's definitely gone wrong there," he sighed unhappily.

"Have you inquired as to what?" Data asked.

Geordi instantly shook his head. "No - and I'm not about to. And neither are you," he quickly added as he looked at the android.

Data looked back, puzzled. "I do not understand."

"Data, there are some things you just don't bring up in conversation - like why someone's relationship isn't working. It's one thing if they bring it up - but if they don't, it's considered off limits."

Which was why, Data realized suddenly, Geordi had not asked any questions about his date with Andile. Assuming the date had failed, Geordi had discreetly avoided bringing up the topic, waiting for his friend to do so.

Except the date had not failed; perhaps it had not been completely successful in human terms, Data added to himself, but Andile had been amenable to seeing him again.

Wishing to set the matter straight, he started to explain the true nature of the relationship - only to be cut off by a sharp voice.

"No!" Andile said quickly. "Always check the cables three times. The markings on the two types of power cables are similar - but power lines they contain are very different. The ones you are checking are low voltage, low amperage; stick the meter probes in the wrong way and nothing bad's going to happen to you. The other lines, however, are direct current from the warp engines; they feed out here to supply the shuttlecraft during pre-flight checks. Stick one of the probes in that cable and you've interrupted the flow of power - and it's going to ground itself the easiest way possible. And that, my lads, is through you. So check your markers once, twice, thrice. That's the key; three markers on the cable. High power lines have only the two," she said.

Liam Dulfer, the taller of the two ensigns, reached for the closest line, ran his hand over it looking for the marker, repeating the words, then reached for the probes.

"Good, Liam - but don't forget to recalibrate the meter between each reading," she added. "Excuse me for a minute," she added, spying the two oncoming officers. "I'll be right back - but don't go any further until I am!" she added sternly.

The two young men both smiled up at her, then turned their attention back to the work as she moved to meet the two men - and saw the uncertainty on the human one's face.

"You look like a man with a problem, Geordi," she said sympathetically, "and since it's me you're looking at with that face, I'll assume that I'm part of that problem. Go ahead," she said, "tell me what I've done - this time," she added with a smile.

"You haven't done anything," Geordi replied. "What's happened is that the captain thinks that your anomaly and the sensor problem may be related..."

"Told you," she said triumphantly.

"... and so he wants you to investigate it by performing a full assessment on the sensor that failed," Geordi concluded.

Andile frowned. "But that's not where the problem is, Geordi!" she protested. "We weren't running any power through the sensors when I first noted the anomaly! It can't be those cables - or anywhere in that system!"

"Lieutenant..." Geordi began, but Andile held up her hand, stopping him.

"I know; it's an order," she said, conceding the matter.

The engineer nodded, relaxing a little. "Really, though, I wouldn't worry about the anomaly," he insisted quietly. "It is, after all, only a minor fluctuation. It's probably insignificant in any case."

"Yeah, and a flaw in an opal just an insignificant problem - until it cracks the stone apart," she said, her expression on her face growing unhappier with every passing second. "But it's not the flaw - or the anomaly - that's the problem," she said miserably. "It's what caused the problem! Checking out those sensor power conduits isn't going to find the problem - it's just going to confirm that we have one! Maybe the captain doesn't understand, Geordi," she suggested hopefully, "Maybe if I went to him and argued my case in person..."

"Biji, I presented your opinions," the chief engineer countered, "and the captain didn't discount them - but it's a matter of limited resources. There's only one you - and we need you tracking down a real problem, not spending a month chasing after trivial anomalies..."

"But I don't have to do it myself!" she protested. "Just give me half a day and half a dozen more like Cho and Dulfer and I can have the ship done in two days!"

"Except you have other duties that have priority, Biji," he reminded her grimly - but firmly. "We're already days behind on the training for the engines..."

"Then I'll train these teams after hours!" she argued.

"I am afraid I cannot permit that, Lieutenant," Data said firmly. "It is, after all, simply an anomaly..."

"Damn it, Commander!" she swore, cringing at their refusals - then looking up again, a beseeching look in her eyes. "Then at least let me keep Cho and Dulfer on it!" she pleaded. "I've already trained them, and..." she said turning to the two men huddled over a new length of cable - and gave a horrified cry.

"Gods! Erzhen! No!" she screamed, racing across the floor toward the two, then launching herself at the second man as he began to slide the probe inside the cable sheathing.

She slammed into him a split second before the actinic flare engulfed them both, her momentum pushing him away from the cable - then unceremoniously dropping them both in a heap as the intense light faded away.

It took Geordi's eyes a moment to recover from the near-blinding blue flash that had filled the room - but as it did, the first thing he could make out were the two bodies laying limp and unmoving on the shuttlebay deck.

Slapping his commbadge as he ran toward the two, he shouted, "Medical emergency, shuttlebay two! I need a team here - now!" he shouted, then sank to his knees as he reached Andile's limp form.

Data stopped a step behind him, settling beside the unconscious ensign. Pressing two fingers against the side of the man's throat, he immediately felt the rhythm of a pulse there - albeit both unsteady and weak. Cardiac dysrhythmia, he diagnosed instantly, induced by the high amperage of the electric current that had passed through the man. It was also the cause of the burns to the man's arms and face - second degree, he decided for himself; all survivable - with proper treatment.

Assured that there was no immediate threat to the man, he turned to Geordi, expecting a similar response from his friend - but there was a look of sheer terror on the engineer's face.

"Geordi?" he asked worriedly.

"I can't find her pulse, Data," he said, quickly moving his fingers along the length of Andile's neck. "I can't find her pulse!"


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

For a moment, panic threatened the android - then with a decisive jerk of his head, he turned off the emotion chip in his positronic brain.

"Mr. Dulfer," he said calmly, his voice flat and even as he looked at the white-faced ensign still standing by the cables, "attend Mr. Cho."

"Is _she_ going to be all right?" the young man said, his voice shaking.

Data gave the ensign a quick appraisal: panic, he recognized instantly - then spoke quickly but calmly. "I do not know. Please attend to Mr. Cho," he repeated, then stepped over the fallen body to where Geordi knelt beside Andile.

"I can't find a pulse, Data," the engineer repeated.

"Is she breathing?"

Geordi watched her chest for a moment, then placed his hand near her nose. Nothing. He looked at Data and shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Then we will being cardio-pulmonary resuscitation until the medical team arrives. Help me position her," he ordered, reaching for Andile's ankles, gently untwisting her legs as Geordi reached for her shoulders - then slowly pulled his hand back and stared at the bloody black soot that covered it.

"Data," he whispered, looking from his hand to the black powder that covered her back, all that remained of her uniform - and of her skin, he realized.

"Geordi," Data said imperturbably, "it is a burn. She can survive that. She can not survive cardiac arrest. Help me reposition her."

The calm words broke through the man's mental fog; reaching under Andile's shoulders, he gently turned her onto her back, then took his place next to Andile's head.

"The lieutenant has a smaller than average frame; chest compressions should be no more than five to seven centimeters..." Data announced as he knelt beside Andile, watching as Geordi tilted her head up...

...then lowered it back as he saw the trauma team entered the room.

"Over here - fast!" the engineer called loudly, waving the five to them.

Seeing the fallen bodies, the team split up, two of the technicians racing to each of the bodies, the fifth following behind at a slower, almost regal, rate of speed, and heading not for the patients, but for the engineer himself.

"What happened here, Commander?" asked this last man, the apparent leader of the group, and someone whom Geordi didn't recognize - and who didn't seem in any hurry to help either victim, he added.

"Ensigns Cho and Dulfer were being trained in performing routine checks of the power conduits by..." Data began - only to be cut off by the dark-haired man.

"I don't need a detailed review of their day's assignment, Commander. I want to know what caused this!" he snapped.

"A short from the warp generator conduit," Geordi explained. "Biji saw it just before it happened; she tried to knock him out of the way - but they both were hit. Biji got the worst of it."

"And Biji is...?" he asked.

Geordi looked at the man, amazed by his coolness - and by his seeming indifference. "Her," he said, looking at the woman on the floor. "Lt. Andile. Doctor..."

"Matthews," the man offered. "Dr. Gregory Matthews."

"Dr. Matthews, you don't have time for this!" Geordi protested. "Her heart's stopped - and she's not breathing."

His interest piqued - at last, Geordi thought - the man elbowed the two technicians out of his way, sank down beside Andile, then carefully drew out a medical scanner, removed it from its case, and began to pass it slowly and precisely over her chest.

Frustrated by the man's apparent slowness, Geordi added, "We were about to begin resuscitation when you came in..."

"It's a good thing you didn't," Matthews said tersely, sliding the scanner back into its holder and closing the tri-corder with a sharp snap. "Medical care should be left in the hands of medical professionals - and not to panicking officers," he said.

"Panicking...?" Geordi started, stunned, then quickly caught himself. "We weren't panicking, Doctor; no respirations, no heartbeat..."

"Except she is breathing," Matthews replied calmly, "and her heart is beating."

"What?" Geordi gasped. "Doctor, I know what I felt..."

"Clearly you don't," Matthews replied calmly. "The lieutenant is not in cardiac arrest."

"But..." Geordi protested.

"She has a faint, but quite discernible heartbeat; her breathing is shallow but regular," he informed them. "Most likely, she had the breath knocked from her when she fell, perhaps experiencing a momentary skipping of the cardiac rhythm - typical enough in a jarring blow - but nothing more serious than that," he said firmly.

Geordi shook his head in disbelief. "But we couldn't find any trace..."

"Which is why you are an engineer and not a physician," Matthews announced, then rose from Andile's side, turning to where Cho lay on the floor, the technicians working over his recumbent form.

"Data..." Geordi began - but a soft moan from the floor interrupted him.

"Gods," Andile groaned piteously, raising one hand to her head as she tried to sit up - only to be gently pushed back by the engineer.

"Unh-uh," he said emphatically. "You just lie there."

"Geordi..." she tried again.

This time Data pushed her back. "Remain," he said firmly.

"Data... what happened?" she asked.

"You and Ensign Cho were injured."

She looked at him blankly. "Cho?" she muttered, then her eyes widened in sudden awareness as the memory of the previous events flooded back. "Cho! Gods! Cho!" she shouted, pushing away the android's hand as she tried to push her way to her feet – then gasped. "My back!"

Data grabbed her hand, easing her back to the ground. "Doctor!" he called out.

Matthews glanced over his shoulder at the two, then, with a sigh of disapproval, rose from Cho's side.

"Her back - it's burned.." Geordi said.

Rather roughly, he grasped Andile's shoulder and turned her to her side. Running the scanner over her again, he looked at Geordi, clearly disgusted - then roughly wiped his hands across Andile's charred back.

Geordi gasped at the callousness of the man - then looked at Andile's back.

Under the impact of the current, the uniform had charred into a fine powder - but the flesh underneath wasn't damaged. A bright, angry red, yes - but not burned - and certainly not the bloody mess Geordi thought he had seen there when he had turned her over before.

The tricks our eyes play on us - and our minds, he added, wishing, for a moment, that he could keep his calm as easily as Data had.

"The angle of the current must have been such that her uniform was damaged - but it protected her from any serious injury," he said. "Ensign Cho, however, is injured - and seriously. I'm taking him to Sickbay."

"Is he going to be alright?" Andile asked, pushing herself up far enough so she could see the man.

"You might have asked yourself that before you allowed him to perform the tests unsupervised," Matthews said.

The woman blanched at the accusation - then, ignoring the protests of the two officers beside her, pushed herself upright and struggled to the ensign's side.

"Erzhen?" she called to the man. "Erzhen? Can you hear me?"

His eyelids fluttered - but there was no other response.

Sickened, Andile looked at the nurse passing the tri-corder over the man's body, and saw her smile reassuringly. "Electrical shock. Some cardiac disruption, a few minor burns - but we can treat him. He'll be fine, Lieutenant," she said calmly.

Andile released her deeply held breath - then pushed herself to her feet.

"I don't know that that's a good idea, Biji," Geordi began.

"Well then I'm two for two, aren't I? I mean, I'm obviously not much for good ideas, today," Andile growled bitterly. "I need to file the report on this," she insisted.

"What you need," Matthews interrupted, "is to go to your quarters and rest."

"You mean you don't want her to go to Sickbay?" Geordi said, astounded.

"That is the standard policy for anyone who has received an electrical shock, Dr. Matthews," the nurse agreed.

He gave her a cold stare. "And when, exactly, did you receive your medical degree?" he asked sharply.

She glared back - but fell silent as she turned her attention back to Cho.

"Doctor," Geordi began, "I would feel better if Biji were checked out by Dr. Crusher..."

"You're questioning my abilities?" Matthews snapped.

"I'm questioning your judgment," Geordi countered sharply. "Data and I both saw Biji get hit by the flare..."

"As indicated by the damage to her uniform - but her symptoms are not indicative of electrical shock. Considering the level of damage done to the ensign here, it's much more likely that what you saw was the flash of the flare that hit him; all the lieutenant received was a glancing touch - enough to damage her uniform - but not enough to hurt her. No, Commander, all the lieutenant needs is eight hours of sleep - and a decent meal," he added, studying her figure disapprovingly. "You will see to that, Commander," he added, looking at Data.

The three stared at the man - then Data took Andile's arm, guiding her

protestingly from the room.

"I want to stay with Erzhen," she argued.

"Beej, there's nothing you can do for him. Right now, you need to take care of yourself," Geordi reminded her gently.

"Then what about Liam?" she protested, pulling away from Data. "He's never had a friend hurt before - he's as much in shock as Erzhen is. Let me talk to him, Geordi..."

The chief engineer shook his head. "I'll take care of him, Biji. Right now, I want you to do what the doctor ordered. Get something to eat - and sleep. You can file your report tomorrow," he added.

Data wrapped his hand around her arm once again, and began to gently pull her away, even as she kept talking. "You'll talk to Liam?" she repeated to Geordi. "You'll make sure he's all right?" she said.

"I'll get Counselor Troi down here," he said. "She's a lot better at handling these situations than I am," he said.

"Liam is not a situation, Commander!" Andile snapped back. "He's a person!"

Geordi stared at her, startled by the outburst - then drew close. "I know, Lieutenant," he said, trying to force down the anger he felt at her insinuation.

She paled at the realization, stunned by the realization that she had hurt him. "Geordi," she started, "I'm sorry..."

"You're upset, Beej," he said quietly. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning," he added, nodding at Data to get her out of the room.

"Geordi, I'm sorry," she cried out as the android led her away. "I didn't mean it..."

I know you didn't, Geordi replied silently as the doors closed behind the two; the fact that you even said it only points out how upset you are - or worse, he added, realizing she was in as deep a state of shock as the uninjured ensign was. He shook his head; why Matthews hadn't sent her to Sickbay - for a sedative if nothing else - was beyond him.

You're not what I've come to expect in a doctor, Geordi thought as he studied the tall, dark-haired human. Admittedly, he seemed to know what he was doing, Geordi thought, watching as the man directed the others caring for Cho - but there was no justification for the way he so easily dismissed Andile's injuries - or for the accusation he had made against her.

I know he's the best the Starfleet had to offer - and I know he's new, Geordi thought to himself, but even so...

He raised his hand to tap his commbadge.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

"Data," Andile protested - again - as he led her through the corridors, "I can't just go sit in my quarters! I need to see Erzhen. I need to make

sure he's all right!"

"Dr. Matthews will attend to the ensign's care," Data replied calmly, his hand not relaxing one iota.

"Dr. Matthews is a horse's ass!" she snapped back. "He may be a qualified doctor - but there's a hell of a lot more to caring for a person than treating their injuries! Data, it's Erzhen's first trip in deep space - and his first time he's ever been hurt. When he comes to, he's going to be in shock, he's going to be scared..."

"And there will be appropriate personnel there to attend to his needs," Data said flatly.

"His physical needs - but what about his psychological ones?" she protested, painfully jerking her arm free of his grasp and whirling to confront him.

"I am sure that Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi are well versed in treating injuries and their concomitant emotional ramifications," he replied.

"But I should still be there!" Andile complained. "I was training him; I had the obligation to watch out after him! I'm the one who should be there when he wakes up!"

"That is not possible," the android said flatly. "You have been ordered to eat and sleep. Geordi stated he will attend to Ensigns Cho and Dulfer in your absence."

"But it's my responsibility!" she argued.

The android stared at her, seeing the guilt and pain in her eyes - but unable to comprehend either at the moment. "But that responsibility has reverted to Geordi, as you have been ordered to perform another task," he said flatly. "You must trust that he will fulfill this duty in your stead," he added.

Andile turned to him, hearing the hurt in his voice. "Of course, I trust him," she replied, quickly adding, "professionally - as I trust you," she continued, suspecting that matter was still troubling the android. "If he said he'd take care of them, he will - but it doesn't change the fact that it's my responsibility!" she argued.

"You mean you believe it is your fault," Data corrected.

She glared at him, ready to argue the point, then looked away. "I had told them not to do anything without me," she said softly, her voice heavy with shame, "but they're young, enthusiastic... I could see it in their eyes that they wanted to prove themselves to me - and I walked away!" she cried out as she whirled back to face him. "I left them!"

"You had given them an order, Lieutenant," he replied, his voice stern. "You had to assume that even though they were young and enthusiastic, they would follow that fundamental premise: that an order from a superior must be obeyed. They chose not to do so - and the consequences..."

"... may kill Erzhen," Andile whispered.

"It very nearly killed you," Data added.

Andile rolled her eyes. "Data, we haven't covered exaggeration in your lessons yet, and I'm really not in a mood to start on it tonight. No, I heard what Dr. Matthews said - I got a minor burn and the wind knocked out of me - that's all." She gave a short, sardonic chuckle. "Besides, I'm a tough old bird; you don't want to know what it would take to kill me."

Data began to reply - then stopped. Whatever he had been about to say, he quickly changed it. "Nonetheless, you were injured, even if Dr. Matthews believes the injuries to be minor. You now have a responsibility to follow the orders that have been issued to you subsequent to that injury, that is, to eat and to rest."

"And I'll do both - just as soon as I check on Erzhen!" she said, pulling away from Data - only to have the vise-like hand wrap around her arm once more.

"I cannot permit that, Lieutenant," he said firmly, pulling her back to his side.

She struggled for a moment, trying to free herself from his hold, but his grip could not be broken this time. Desperate, she pleaded, "You don't understand! Geordi or no Geordi, it's still my responsibility! I need to make sure they're all right!"

He turned to face her. "This conduct, Lieutenant, is unbecoming to you. If you have a responsibility to the ensigns, you have an equal responsibility to the crew as a whole. Please behave yourself," he added.

Andile stared at him, the stunned pain unmistakable in her face - then nodded. "Yes, sir," she whispered.

Seemingly resigned to her fate, she fell silent, letting him lead her through the halls, blind to everything but her own failure, paying no attention to where he led her - until they reached the set of doors and stopped.

"Data," she exclaimed as she raised her head, "these aren't my quarters."

"No," Data agreed, stepping close enough to the sensor to trigger the opening mechanism. "They are mine." He stepped into the room, pulling her through behind him, then, after waiting for the door to shut, released her arm at last.

Absently rubbing the sore spot, Andile stepped further into the room, staring at its contents - then suddenly glanced down at her feet. "Hey! Where'd you come from?" she asked, looking down at the orange and white creature that was pressing itself against her ankles.

"Spot!" Data said, instantly mortified by the cat's behavior. "You are not supposed to annoy visitors," he began, only to be silenced as Andile reached to the floor, scooping up the animal with one hand, and drawing it to her chest.

"He's not annoying me, Data," she said, stroking the animal's head. "He's just coming to say, "Who the hell's on my territory?'" Andile informed him - then raised the cat to her eye level. "It's all right, cat..." she started.

"Her name is Spot," Data informed her.

"It's all right, Spot," she continued to the cat, "I'm not poaching on your territory - I promise," she quietly informed the animal, then lowered her back to her chest, continuing to massage the soft fur between her ears.

Spot gave a silken purr, nestled her head against Andile's chest, then glared at Data accusingly.

"She wants to know why you've brought me here," Andile interpreted.

"I have brought the lieutenant here..." Data began, then stopped as he realized he was addressing the cat. Turning his attention to the woman, he started again. "I am under orders, Lieutenant, to make sure that you eat and rest. Here, I can ensure you do both," he informed her.

"I can do both in my quarters as well," she argued.

"But you will not," he countered - then stepped toward her, gently grasping her by the arms - then, realizing the cat was in the way, extricated the animal from her arms, and set her on the floor before reaching for Andile's arms once again, gently, this time. "Lieutenant... Andile, I believe that in the last three months, I have come to know you well. Part of that knowledge includes an awareness of your personal predilections - including an overdeveloped sense of duty toward others. Knowing this, I am of the belief that once I have escorted you to your quarters, you will neither eat nor sleep, but rather, wait a small but suitable period of time, then go to Sickbay and or Ensign Dulfer's quarters. Both would be contradictory to Dr. Matthews orders."

"On the contrary," she said pointedly. "_I_ was never given any orders."

Data studied her, taken aback by the seeming lie - then cocked his head to one side, replaying the events of the evening in his mind. After a moment, he gave a conciliatory nod. "You are correct; the orders were directed to me, not to you." He considered a moment longer, appreciating her mental clarity - then gave her a guarded look. "But having _not_ received said instructions, you could therefore justify such an exploit," Data said, nodding in understanding at her rationale.

She smiled. "I'm glad you understand. So if you'd just look the other way..." she said, sidling toward the door.

"I, however, have been given orders," he reminded her, stepping in front of her. "Orders that I am bound to obey. By bringing you here, I can ensure that you will not leave until you have complied with the doctor's directives."

"You mean I'm under arrest," she growled.

"I would not phrase it in such a manner..." he disagreed.

"Then what you call it?" she snapped. "Look, Data, you could have locked me in my quarters and ordered the computer not to release the door until I ate and slept, you know - it would have been just as easy," she argued, "unless, of course, you think I'd slither out one of the air vents," she added acidly.

He studied her for a minute, glanced at the air vent in his own room, as if considering the possibility, then shook his head. "While I concede that it is a possibility - physically, you are small enough to fit through that space - I do not believe you would do so; such an action would indicate that you understood the nature of Dr. Matthew's directives as an order - and therefore, your actions would be considered as insubordination." He looked at her, studying her intently for a moment. "And as much as you feel responsible for what happened, I do not believe you would you risk such an action," he explained.

"Data, I do what's necessary for my people - even if it means insubordination - or worse," she said bluntly, coldly - then gave a shake of her head. "But you're right; I wouldn't do it in these circumstances."

He gave a sigh of relief.

"But that still doesn't explain why we're here," she reminded him.

"As I stated, here I can monitor your compliance with orders," he said,

"as well as complete my own obligations."

"Obligations?"

"You have reminded me on several occasions that our personal relations must take a 'back seat' to our professional ones. As Chief Operations Officer, I have several reports that must be compiled on a daily basis; I usually use a part of my evening hours doing so..."

"It must be nice to be able to work twenty-four hours a day," Andile said enviously.

Data considered the idea for a moment, then tilted his head to the side. "I had never considered it as either nice or not nice. It simply... is."

"Well, is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked, moving toward the computer that stood in the place of the table in the main room.

"Yes," he said flatly. "You can fulfill the first of your obligations as well as the first of mine - to eat a meal," he said, stepping to the replicator. "What may I get you?"

Andile shook her head. "Nothing," she replied. "Really, I'm not hungry."

"The consumption of a meal was not an option, Lieutenant," he reminded her. "But if you do not have a preference, I can make a selection for you."

"No!" she said instantly, almost panicking at the idea. "I mean," she began - then stopped, sighed, and looked up at him. "Data," she said softly, almost pleadingly, "I... I... Can you keep a secret?" she said.

"I have stated that I can alter my programming to delete any memory; if you wish, I can delete any recollection of information you tell me - providing that information would not cause harm to the ship," he reminded her.

Andile smiled and shook her head. "I didn't mean it that way, Data - I just meant... I want to explain something, and I don't want it getting around," she explained.

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "I can keep a secret," he agreed.

"A few years ago, there was... an accident," she said slowly, uncomfortably. "I was... hurt. Badly," she added miserably. "I..." She hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it. Just let it suffice to say that I my ability to digest food was impaired. I can only tolerate small amounts of food at one time - and even they have to be quite simple compounds - which means there's only a few things on the replicator programs that I can handle. Simple broths, soups, some cereals..." She hesitated, then looked at him uncomfortably. "I don't weigh very much, Data - and eating in Ten Forward when you're my size... Well, everyone is always trying to get me to eat more. I know they mean well - but the pain is unbearable when I eat the wrong things or eat too much. And when I refuse, they get more insistent..." Her voice trailed off.

"You could explain the nature of your dietary restrictions," Data suggested.

"No," she replied. "I can't do that - even if I wanted to. But I don't want to, Data. I... I don't want to talk about it. To anyone."

Data took the same moment to consider silently as well - then nodded. "I believe I understand. In that case, what selections can you consume?"

She shook her head. "Really, you don't have to bother. I'm not hungry..."

"I do not recall the order being stated in the form of an option," Data reminded her firmly.

She studied him for a moment, then realized this was not a battle she could win. "I usually have broth at night," she conceded. "Mushroom, vegetable - anything simple. It doesn't matter," she added with a dismissive shrug. "It's just nourishment."

"I thought that humans savored the experience of dining," Data countered, confused.

"They do," she agreed. "But... It's never been very important to me."

Data looked at her worriedly - then reached for her hand, guiding her to the chair before the computer desk. "Sit," he ordered, then turned back to the replicator, his voice just loud enough for the machine to hear - but too low for the woman. Curious, she watched as a tray appeared, two napkins at one side, an oddly shaped spoon on the other, and a small covered bowl at its center.

Before he places the bowl before her, however, Data took one of the napkins, spread it over the desk - then carefully arranged the bowl and spoon in front of her, then, with a dramatic flourish, opened the second napkin and spread it across her lap.

"Rather elaborate for soup," she murmured.

"Is this not appropriate?" he asked.

"It's not inappropriate," Andile admitted. "It just seems to be a bit much - for soup."

"Andile, if you cannot fully enjoy the gustatory experience of a meal, you should at least be able to enjoy the other sensory aspects of dining," he

advised her.

Andile looked up at him, surprised by his attitude - then studied the arrangement before her. "It _does_ look nicer than what I usually do," she admitted.

Data gave a single nod, then removed the cover from the bowl, revealing a pool of steaming liquid.

Curious, Andile leaned forward, staring through the rising strands of steam into the bowl of milky-golden fluid, the thin strands of green rising and falling around tiny white cubes.

"And this," she sighed softly, almost reverentially, "is beautiful." Leaning over the bowl, she drew in a deep breath of the steam - and smiled. It looked beautiful - and smelled even better.

To her surprise, she suddenly realized she was hungry.

Taking the oddly flattened spoon, she filled the bowl, raised it to her lips, blew on it - then sipped the broth.

"Oh, my," she said, looking up at the android who was standing over her with an unexpectedly apprehensive expression. "It's lovely. Really," she added, then smiled as the expression faded.

"I am glad you like it," he said. "It is miso soup - from Japan - on Earth," he explained. "A friend of mine, Keiko O'Brien, recorded the program before she and her husband left for Deep Space Nine. She said she enjoyed the soup not just for its flavor, but for the patterns of the miso within the broth." He looked at the bowl wistfully. "I have made it for myself on many occasions - but despite many hours of contemplation, I am afraid I have never been able to fully appreciate either the subtleties or complexities," he admitted plaintively.

"Maybe you're trying too hard, dear," she said - then reached out her hand. "Come sit with me and maybe we can understand it together."

Drawing up a second chair, he sat beside the woman, staring into the broth - then shook his head. "I am afraid I still do not see the pattern," he said mournfully.

"Not a pattern, dear. Just... patterns. Watch," she said, giving the soup a tiny stir with her spoon. "Up... down... swirling... No pattern, dear. It just... is," she assured him. "Very zen," she added, staring at the broth.

Data stared a moment longer, then looked up at her and tentatively, almost nervously, said, "Zen... you should finish it before it is cold."

Andile's jaw dropped as she turned to him. "Data! You made a joke!" she exclaimed.

"Not a joke, per se, but rather a play on words and pronunciations..." he began to explain – then stopped, realizing that he was over-explaining. "Was it humorous?" he asked – a little anxiously.

"Yes, it was!" she said, putting down the spoon, leaning over the desk and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Data, that was clever – and funny!"

Relieved at his success, he accepted the embrace - then reached up, pulling her arms from his neck, and placed the spoon in her hand once more. "Good," he said. "Now eat."

Put out, she stuck out her tongue - then took another sip from the spoon as he watched her intently.

"Data," Andile protested - gently, "I know you said you'd make sure I ate - but I don't think Dr. Matthews meant you had to document every bite!" she said with a smile.

"My apologies, Lieutenant. It was not my intention to interfere with your dining. Would you prefer I leave?" he asked, contrite.

"No. I just meant..." She laughed again, this time, the sound soft and delicate. "It's just... I'm just not used to having anyone around while I eat. It's been a long time. But..." she said at last, "I'm enjoying being here with you," she admitted softly.

And she was, she realized: the soup was delicious - though too good, she reminded herself even as she took another spoonful - she'd pay the price for indulging in it later - and Data's quarters were anything but what she expected from the android.

Surreptitiously glancing about the room, she studied the artwork that hung on the walls, samples from half a dozen artists that she could recognize - and at least one that she couldn't.

Data's own work? she wondered. Had painting been one more venue that he had used in trying to expand his human horizons? Quite likely, she decided - though obviously done some years before; they were technically brilliant - but utterly lacking in any emotional impact.

Before he had his emotion chip, she thought; before he had discovered what feelings were.

And yet, perhaps he had known something about emotions, even then; after all, she thought as she felt a soft and furry pressure rubbing against her ankles once again, he had a pet - and judging from the gray muzzle she had seen on the animal's face, he had had him - her? - for some years, since long before he had had emotions.

Andile had no doubt that the cat had been part of an experiment of Data's, she thought, a study of how human interact with their pets - but the experiment had ended long ago - and the cat was still here. If Data had been as anemotional as he claimed, he would have relieved himself of that feline obligation when his research was ended - and yet, here Spot remained.

Why? she asked herself. Obligation? A sense of responsibility toward the cat?

Or, perhaps... loneliness?

Whatever the reason, it was clear to her that Data must have had at least some level of rudimentary feelings, even then - compassion, loyalty... friendship... feelings that, given time and encouragement over the years, could well have blossomed into genuine emotions of his own.

But time was not a luxury that the android had given himself; aware - possibly too aware, she added sadly, of the fragility of human life and the passage of time for his friends, he had forced the issue by having the emotion chip implanted in himself - and was paying the price now of having those very feelings - but without the understanding that time would have granted him.

She smiled to herself, wondering if Data understood the sense of urgency that must have driven him - or understood the fact that even before he had had his emotion chip, he had had emotions.

Curious, she glanced at him - only to find him still studying her.

Red-faced, she took another spoonful of the soup.

"Andile, may I ask a question?" he asked quietly.

"Aside from that one?" she smiled, taking another sip of the soup.

He frowned, then realized she was correct and nodded.

"It's your house, Data; you can spit on the floor and call the cat a bastard," she reminded him.

He stared at her, astounded. "Why would I wish to...? Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly brightening. "I understand. A turn of phrase indicating that I may establish the levels of conduct within the area in which I reside." He nodded, understanding her meaning - then gave her a knowing look. "In that case, Andile, I require that you be honest with me. You feel... guilty over the incident this evening, do you not?" he asked her

Andile set down the spoon and wiped her mouth off slowly, then set down the napkin beside her. She thought for a moment, then slowly raised her head and met his eyes. "You're getting to be as good a reader of people as I am," she said - then nodded. "Yes; I feel guilty."

"You should not," he replied gently. "I heard you order Ensigns Cho and Dulfer not to proceed without your presence..."

"But they did," she reminded him.

"Andile, you can not control the actions of others; you did not know what they were going to do..."

"But I did!" she snapped - then lowered her head into her hands, miserable. "Oh, gods, Data, I knew they were going to do it - and I didn't even try to stop them!" she repeated, her voice growing softer, angrier.

"You gave the order; I will confirm that for the captain..."

"The captain?" she roared, looking up at him, infuriated. "The captain? By the gods, Data! Is that what you think I'm upset about? You think I'm worried about care what he thinks - or does?" she seethed, her eyes flaring at the insult.

Data stared at her, utterly uncomprehending. "But..."

"Data," she cut in, "the worst that captain can do to me is bring me up on charges, throw me out of Starfleet and send me to prison! But no one," she said emptily, her voice growing quiet, "no one! - can ever take away the knowledge that what happened to those two boys today was my fault - and there isn't going to be a day in the rest of my life when I'm going to be able to wake up without seeing all of their faces," she whispered.

Data stared at the woman for a moment, then rose from his chair and came around the table.

Taking her hands in his, he sank down beside her chair, looking up into the eyes that were focused, so unhappily, on her lap. "I do not understand. All whose faces?"

"Erzhen's. Liam's," she said quickly - too quickly, Data thought. "Both of them, in such pain - because I failed them," she replied. "Oh, Data! I saw the truth in their faces - and I ignored it."

"Ignored what?" he pressed. "What truth?"

Andile looked at him, the pain that she was feeling unmistakable. "That they're young, Data," she said softly, miserably, "young and enthusiastic - and full of the need to prove themselves to themselves - and to everyone around them. And there I was, telling them stories about my years teaching at the Academy, working at Utopia and designing this ship... and I could see the admiration growing in their eyes. And I was enjoying it," she added bitterly.

"Pride, Data; my pride. My need to be admired, to be respected - I saw that look in their eyes - but I was enjoying it too much to think beyond it," she said.

He shook his head. "I still do not understand," he admitted.

"I was so busy enjoying being admired that I didn't bother with thinking it through; Liam and Erzhen are young - but more importantly, they're new here, and anxious to prove themselves to everyone – to me! - by learning fast and getting the work done ahead of time?" she cried out - then buried her head in her hands once again, sickened by her own hubris.

"I saw it - and I knew what they were thinking - and I did nothing to stop them. If Erzhen dies... Gods, even if he doesn't, this was all my fault. Andile!" she cried. "Andile!"

Uncomprehending, Data stared at her, then reached for her hands, pulling them away from her face, then slowly pulling her to her feet. "Do not do this to yourself," he said softly.

"You don't understand, Data..."

"I do," he countered. "You are fatigued; your body and your emotions are exhausted," he explained as he guided her toward the bed, "and that exhaustion is allowing your emotions to get the better of your reason. You should rest, and in the morning..."

"In the morning, Erzhen will still be hurt, Liam will still be upset..."

"But you will be calm and better able to deal with their feelings - and with your own," he informed her as he led her toward the alcove where the seldom used bed stood.

"Data..." she began to protest - but he shook his head, refusing to hear her arguments, staring at her intently for a moment - then stepped away.

There was the quiet sound of a replicator running - then he returned, a piece of fabric held before him.

"A sleeping garment," he explained, pressing it into her hands. "I have estimated your body size, but I am told by others that a slightly overlarge sleeping garment is not displeasurable. Is it acceptable?"

She stared at him, confused. "You want me to sleep here?"

"I must ensure that you rest, Andile – but I also must complete my reports. It would be expeditious for you to remain here so that I can complete both assignments prior to the beginning of my duty shift," he explained.

She thought for a few moments, then turned, raising her hand to the collar of her uniform.

Data stepped from the alcove, leaving the woman to change alone. He had no sense of body modesty, but he understood the concept - and Andile, he thought, with her insistence on wearing a uniform that covered almost all of her body - indeed, even overly-long in some areas - might be exceptionally modest.

Then again, he added as he cleared the remnants of Andile's dinner from his computer desk, the fact that her uniform was almost skin-tight might indicate the opposite. An interesting contradiction, he thought - and one that they might discuss... in the morning, he decided, finding that realization that she would be there strangely... pleasing.

Setting the dishes into the replicator, he watched as they were dematerialized - then stepped back to the alcove - where Andile, now ensconced in the nightgown, stood, staring emptily at the charred remains of her uniform.

"I'll have to get one from my quarters," she said, her exhaustion manifesting itself in her slurred words.

"I shall have one replicated..." he replied, taking the damaged one from her hands.

But she cut him off with a shake of her head. "Can't," she said flatly. "Your computer doesn't have the pattern. Brought mine with from Utopia. Brought three... only two left now," she added, looking up at him blearily.

It was not just fatigue, he realized at once; it was shock, the events of the day having suddenly taken their physical and emotional toll. Pulling back the coverlet, he eased her down to the mattress, pushed her gently against the pillows, then pulled the coverlet over her. "Computer," he called out, "reduce ambient lighting by ninety percent."

"But..." she protested sleepily, "your report..."

"By adjusting my visual receptors, I am fully capable of working with no ambient light should the circumstances warrant it," he informed her. "That notwithstanding, I recommend that this amount be left on for your comfort should you awaken in the middle of the night," he added.

"But your work..."

"Andile," he said quietly, "let me do this for you."

She looked at him for moment, then nodded. "Thank you," she whispered, then closed her eyes.

"Let me do this as well," he added.

She opened her eyes. "Do what?"

"Inform you that neither Ensign Cho nor Ensign Dulfer acted out of a sense of self-glorification," he informed her. "They wished to impress you, yes - but not because of your history in Starfleet or your personal achievements. They acted as they did... because they are in love with you," he said softly.

Andile's eyes opened as she looked up at him - then closed again as she gave a soft laugh. "In love - with me. Oh, yes. Of course," she laughed.

"They are," he insisted.

"As am I."


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

He eyes flew open. "What?"

"I said, 'As am I'," Data repeated solemnly, adding, "in love with you, that is," he clarified.

"Thanks; I got that." She studied him for a moment, then sat up, pushed the pillow against the headboard, and settled back. "Now where," she said as she folded her arms across her chest, "did you get a ridiculous idea like that?" she asked.

"It is not ridiculous," Data countered. "It is... how I feel."

Andile smiled - but there was no amusement in her expression. "Data, you've never been in love before. How do you know that's how you feel?"

"How does anyone know how they are in love - the first time they feel it?" he asked. "If you will recall, I did inquire if humans were able to determine a baseline for emotional comparisons - so that one person could know how another defined an emotion. You stated they could not - and that the definition of an emotion was most often left to the individual."

"Yes... but love... Love is... different! Love is special! Love is..."

"You mean I, being an android, can not feel love?" he asked uncertainly.

"Oh, my dear, of course not!" she said instantly, reaching for his hand. "When your creator gave you the ability to have emotions, I'm sure that he meant for love to be one of them as much as any other emotion. And when you built this chip of yours, I'm sure you built in the capacity to love. It's just... you've only had emotions a few years, Data. You haven't had a chance to fully acquaint yourself with all the basic ones - let alone the most complex."

"But is not love the first emotion a human, as an infant, feels?" he pressed.

"Well, yes, but..."

"And is not the ability to love, developed throughout childhood, the

foundation for so many other emotions: caring, tenderness, affection, generosity, altruism, friendship?"

"Yes, but..."

"And do I not have those other abilities and emotions?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then why can I not be in love?" he asked.

"You can!" she argued – then let out her breath and smiled at him gently. "Data," she said, gentling her tone, "I have no doubts that you can feel love – but what you are feeling for me... It's not love – anymore than what Erzhen and Liam feel. Respect, friendship – maybe even something more – but not love."

He cocked his head to one side. "Why is it not love?"

"Because... Because love is for others, dear," she said softly, her eyes meeting his. "Love is what you feel for the good and sweet and kind – the people like you, my dear... and you deserve to love someone who is the same way: good, sweet and kind. I'm not that person, dear. I'm not a nice person at all," she added quietly. "I've done things, terrible things..."

"You believe you do not deserve to be loved?"

"It's not a matter of belief, dear; I know. I know what I've done – and I know that I am not worthy of being loved."

She eased her legs from their cocoon of fabric then slowly stood. "I know you have to follow your orders, but I'd really like to go back to my quarters. I promise – I _promise!_ - that I won't go anywhere else, just back to my quarters, and that I will go to bed when I get there," she added.

The android considered the request, then gestured to the door. "While not entirely in accordance with Dr. Matthews directive, I know you would not violate an oath that was freely given," he conceded. "If you so choose, you may go. But may I ask you a question before you leave?" he said.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Do you love me?"

She stared at him for a long moment – then slowly shook her head. "I'm sorry, Data, but no, I don't love you. I haven't loved anyone for a long, long time. I don't think I can even feel love anymore... and I know I don't want to," she said softly.

He reached for her hand, then pulled her into his arms. "Then let me love you enough for the both of us."

She buried her head against his shoulder, shaking her head slowly. "No. I've always hurt those that I've loved; I can't bear the thought of hurting you, too. Not again," she whispered.

"You need not fear hurting me, Andile. I can always delete any painful memories that may arise – and in turn, I shall not permit you to come to any harm in turn." He looked into her eyes. "You once said you would help me learn to live with my emotions," he reminded her. "Perhaps in letting me love you in sufficient quantity for us both, you will be able to learn to live with yours as well," he said.

"Data..."

He reached to her chin, lifting it to bring her gaze up to his. "You will not hurt me," he promised - then easily lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the waiting bed.

As he pulled the blanket over her once again, she turned away, sleep falling on her even as she closed her eyes.

He pulled the blanket over her, tucking it in securely, then knelt beside the bed, sitting silent vigil over her.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

"I am not avoiding talking about what happened, Beverly," Picard said firmly - almost vehemently - as he set the wine glass on the table. "But this mission..."

"Doesn't require every minute of every day, Jean-Luc," she reminded him, "or this dinner would consist of two sandwiches, eaten at your desk in your ready room, rather than coq au vin here in my quarters."

He glared at her, took a final sip from the wine glass, then gestured at the remnants of the meal on the table. "This," he reminded her, "was your idea; all I wanted was the chance to discuss Lt. Andile with you..."

"Which we have done - and I have told you that I simply don't have enough information about the woman to give you an opinion - personal or medical. A good doctor needs information before making a diagnosis," she added, her voice softening, growing persuasive. "She needs to know what happened before she tries to help a patient."

"But I am not a patient," he countered.

"No," she agreed. "You're my friend - but I still would like to help you," she said, reaching for his hand. "Jean-Luc, I know this is an important mission - but you can't use it to hide from what happened with Anij," she started gently - only to feel him pull his hand away at the accusation.

"I am not hiding..."

"Fine," she interrupted tersely. "You're not hiding - you're running away," she countered. "Call it what you will - but you need to come to terms with what happened, or..."

"Or what?" he snapped. "Doctor, I do hope you are not suggesting that my personal problems would interfere with my professional responsibilities," he said rigidly.

"No," she agreed quickly, easily. "I would never suggest that, Jean-Luc."

He gave a short nod - but she could see him begin to relax.

"But at least you've admitted you do have a personal problem," she added with a smile.

Picard bristled, incensed at the insinuation - then sighed resignedly; he had said it, he reminded himself.

"... but it is not interfering with my ability to perform my duties," he quickly added.

"I never suggested it was," she agreed - then reached for his hand once again. "I know you, Jean-Luc; I know the type of man you are - and the type of captain. Your crew - and your mission - always come first. If you thought, even for a moment, that you couldn't handle them both, I sincerely believe you would step down from your post, rather than endanger someone whose life was entrusted to you."

He met her gaze, then gave a shake of his head, a tiny smile on his lips. "I think you give me too much credit, Doctor," he replied quietly.

"And I think you're being too hard on yourself," she countered - then pulled on his hand gently, drawing him up from the dinner table, leading him toward the couch in the main room.

A crystal decanter, filled with a golden liquid, adorned the low glass table, two thin stemmed glasses at its side.

A moment later, the glasses were filled, and a delicate chime emanated from them both as their possessors touched the rims together.

Beverly sipped the sweet liqueur, then gave a deep sigh and turned to the man. "If you won't talk to you doctor or to your friend," she said, "perhaps you will talk to your favorite bartender," she said.

Picard smiled, took a second sip of the liqueur, then gave a relunctant shake of his head. "It's not that simple, Bev..."

"It never is," she said gently. "But..." She stopped, hesitated, thinking, then started again. "Jean-Luc, you made a decision to try to go on with your life; to leave Starfleet, to leave the Enterprise, to leave the people who have, in essence, been your family for the last ten years. You made the mental adjustment to those losses - and you readied yourself for a new series of changes in your life, in your goals, your plans, your future. But in an instant, that all changed; when Anij said 'no', you were, for the first time in your life, lost," she said. "I think maybe that's one reason you went back to LaBarre - not because you didn't want to face us, but you needed to get back to the one thing that had been a constant in your life - your home."

"Perhaps," he agreed, mulling the idea over in his head. "Except it isn't - my home," he added. "You were quite right about that. It wasn't my home - and it hadn't been for years. This," he said, looking about the room, "this is my home."

"And we," she added softly, looking deep into his eyes, "are your family. We always have been - we always will be."

Picard smiled, feeling the warmth of her friendship pouring over him. She was right, he knew; this was his home - and these were his family. If he couldn't talk to them - or at least to her...

He took a long sip of the liqueur, then drew a deep breath. "Beverly, that night... when we were on Kes/Prytt..."

The door chimes sounded.

Beverly glared at him as if accusing him of causing the interruption deliberately - then straightened herself on the couch, and called out, "Come in."

Geordi LaForge entered the room - and wished, not for the first time, for the return of his VISOR. Not that he would ever willingly give up the eyes he had regenerated on the Ba'ku homeworld - but the device had covered enough of his face that he could hide most of his expressions - like the surprise that covered it now as he faced the sight of his captain and the ship's CMO in what could easily be considered a compromising situation.

After all, there were the remains of an elaborate dinner on the table - and while that might be explained away easily enough, there was no easy explanation for the obviously wrinkled couch the two were ensconced upon now - or for the captain's look of discomfiture.

Geordi didn't know what he had interrupted - and, he told himself firmly, he wasn't about to speculate. There were certain things he was better off simply not knowing.

"Geordi!" Beverly said, obviously equally surprised by his appearance at her quarters.

"Dr. Crusher," the Chief Engineer said as he stepped into the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meal, but I really needed to talk to you about Dr. Matthews. I really don't think he should have let Biji go without sending her to Sickbay; Data and I both saw the entire accident, and despite what he says, I don't believe she was on the periphery of the flare."

Beverly stared at him for a minute, then glanced at Picard who gave an equally confused look. "Geordi," she said as she set down the glass and rose to her feet, "I have no idea what you're talking about. What accident? I've been here all evening - and this is the first I've heard of it!"

"You mean...? Didn't Dr. Matthews notify you about what happened?" Geordi asked, astounded.

"No one notified me about anything," Beverly replied, "until now. Tell us what happened."

Geordi hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. "There was an accident in the shuttlecraft bay. Andile was training Erzhen Cho and Liam Dulfer how to check the power conduits for irregularities - we hadn't informed her about your orders yet," he added quickly, seeing the disapproval in Picard's eyes, "and Cho put the probe into a live warp power conduit by mistake. Biji saw what was happening; she tried to stop him - but before she could, they were both hit by the backwash when it shorted out. Cho's in Sickbay..."

"And Lt. Andile?" Picard interrupted.

"That's why I'm here," Geordi explained. "Dr. Matthews sent her back to her quarters."

Beverly Crusher blanched, shocked by the rapid release of an injured crewman - then gave a tentative - but reluctant - nod, as if agreeing with what happened. "Dr. Matthews is an excellent doctor, Geordi," she reassured him. "I'm sure he wouldn't have released Lt. Andile from Sickbay if he didn't..."

"But that's what I'm trying to say, Doctor; he didn't release her from Sickbay - he never sent her there in the first place!" the engineer protested. "All he did was take a cursory scan, then sent her back to her quarters after he..." Geordi suddenly stopped in mid-sentence.

"After he what?" Picard pressed.

Geordi looked from Beverly to Picard reluctantly. Discipline, he reminded himself, should always be handled privately, between the offending individual and his immediate superior - and no one else. Which, he reminded himself quickly, was why he had come here in the first place - to inform Beverly about what the new doctor had done - never suspecting that he would walk in on what appeared to be the beginnings of an intimate evening between the ship's CMO and her captain.

But if the captain could put aside his discomfiture at the intrusion - and at the insight to a personal life that he preferred to as private as possible - Geordi told himself he could do the same at revealing the actions of a fellow officer.

"Dr. Matthews all but accused Biji of causing the accident by neglect," Geordi said bluntly.

There was a moment of hesitation - then Picard asked evenly, "And did she?"

Geordi felt a surge of indignation at the idea. "Of course not!" he seethed - then instantly damped down the anger. There was no accusation in the captain's tone, only the request for accurate information. "No, sir. Lt. Andile was instructing Ensigns Cho and Dulfer in the proper technique when we interrupted her - but before she walked away, I heard her specifically tell them not to proceed until she returned. It was by sheer luck that she turned when she did and saw what Cho was about to do. A split second later, and he would have taken the full force of the surge. Instead, she pushed him out of the way - and wound up catching most of it," he explained.

"And she walked away from it?" Beverly gasped, astounded.

"No!" Geordi said.

"But you said..." Beverly began.

"I know what I said, Doctor, but..." Geordi began - then stopped, calmed himself, and started again. "Beej walked away from it - later. But when Data and I reached her and Erzhen..." He stopped, remembering the sight of the two fallen bodies. "We got to them only a few seconds after it happened - Data to Erzhen, me to Beej - but try as I might, I couldn't find a pulse on her, Doctor. Her heart wasn't beating - and she wasn't breathing."

He shook his head, remembering Dr. Matthews' remarks. "Dr. Crusher," he

protested, "I know I'm not a physician - but I do know how to find a pulse on someone's who's down - and I could not find Biji's," he insisted. "Not on her wrist, not on her neck... and I know she wasn't breathing," he added. "I thought..." He rolled his eyes and sighed knowing what he was about to say was not only ridiculous - but impossible! Still... "I thought she was dead," he admitted quietly.

"And you told Dr. Matthews what you found?" Beverly asked stridently.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"And he still didn't send her to Sickbay?" she repeated.

"No, ma'am. He said I had simply missed finding her pulse - and that the reason I didn't see her breathing was that she had probably caught a glancing blow from the surge and had the wind knocked out of her."

"But you don't agree?" Picard said.

"I'm no doctor, Captain - but I saw that surge envelop her completely - and it burned the back of her uniform down to bare skin," he added, glancing down at his hands, the memory of the black soot still fresh. Wet, he reminded himself, too wet to be just the trace amount of water molecules in the uniform's fabric. It had to be blood, he insisted - though there was no arguing with the fact that when Dr. Matthews had examined Biji a moment later, there was no overt wound.

Still...

He stared at his hand a moment longer - then look up as an angry Beverly Crusher rose from the couch and made her way toward a wall communicator.

Picard, rising at the same time, stepped toward his chief engineer. "Thank you, Geordi," he said quietly. "I appreciate you coming to tell us about this."

"Yes, sir," the engineer replied with a disapproving shake of his head. "What he did just didn't seem right," he added. "Accusing her of neglecting Liam and Erzhen - then not bothering to treat her," he said.

"I understand," he empathized. Walking the man toward the door, he added, "And Ensign Dulfer? How is he?"

"Counselor Troi's with him; Biji insisted that he talk to someone immediately..."

"A wise decision; this is his first mission..." Picard agreed.

"And the first time he's ever been through something like this," Geordi said. "She knew that, you know," he added, looking at Picard. "Biji knew that. I've had him in Engineering for three months - and I never knew a damned thing about him - about either of them. Biji has them both for four hours - and she's got their whole background," he sighed, then looked at Picard. "But the Counselor says that Dulfer will be fine; some counseling to help him put the event in perspective... and a good night's sleep," he added with a smile - a smile that Picard promptly returned.

"And the same for you, Geordi," he told the engineer. "We may have to accept the fact that things happen to the people around us - but that doesn't mean we don't feel the pain as deeply each time."

Geordi smiled. "No, sir," he agreed, "but I can't - at least, not until I write this report. It was the only way I could get Beej to go to her quarters - by promising her that I'd have this report in to you by the morning," he said tiredly.

"Consider the report given, Geordi," he assured the man. "Now get some rest."

Clapping the man on the shoulder once more, he guided him to the door, watching as he left, then turned back to the furious woman behind him.

"Cho's in Sickbay with second degree burns to the hands and face, and some cardiac dysrhythmias from the current," she concurred. "He's stable now, and providing his condition remains stable, we'll probably release him in the morning. But one of my nurses says the pattern of the burns - and the lack of any burns to the central area of his body - indicates that he didn't take the full force of the current; something - or someone - got in his way. And if Geordi's right, that someone is Lt. Andile," she said.

"But that doesn't mean she got hit with the full force of the power surge," Picard reminded her. "Matthews could have been right - she might have received a peripheral blow: it burned her uniform and the fall knocked her breath out - but no real damage done."

"Geordi said that's not what happened," she countered, "and he was there - Greg Matthews was not."

"Except for one thing: she walked away from it," Picard reminded her sharply. "Beverly, a power surge from a warp conduit means thousand of volts - and hundreds of amperes. That's enough to kill someone!"

"I think that's what Geordi said, Jean-Luc," she said grimly. "No heartbeat, no breathing..."

"And five minutes later, she walks out of the shuttlebay, alive and well?" he answered.

"Alive, yes - but that doesn't mean she's well," She said. "I'd like to get her down to Sickbay, put her on a monitor..." She stopped at his warning glance, then shook her head. "I know, I know - you don't want me to push it with her - but electrical shocks can cause long-term and often unexpected problems," she protested.

Picard sighed; she was correct, he knew - and as much as Andile would protest the point, she should be under a physician's care. He nodded, tapping his commbadge. "Picard to Lt. Andile," he said.

For a moment, there was no response, then, to both their surprise, an unexpected voice replied. "Captain..."

"Data?" Picard asked, astonished by the unexpected voice.

"Yes, sir," the android agreed - softly.

"I was trying to reach Lt. Andile..."

"The lieutenant is sleeping..."

"Sleeping?" Picard said, confused. "Data, where are you?"

"In my quarters, sir," he replied.

"And the lieutenant...?"

"Is also here," he said.

Picard raised his eyes at the physician.

"Data, this is Dr. Crusher," Beverly interjected. "I just heard about the accident; is Lt. Andile all right?"

"Yes, Doctor," came the soft reply. "She experienced some emotional distress after the incident, but she is resting comfortably now."

"I understand - but electrical shocks can cause unexpected problems even hours - or days - after the event; is it possible for you to check her vital signs for me?" she pressed.

There was a moment's silence, then the soft hum of a tricorder carried over the intercom. "Her respirations are... twelve per minute. Her pulse is... forty-eight. Her blood pressure is eighty over forty-six; low - but within norms for a woman of her size and physiological status..."

Picard tapped his commbadge, interrupting the android, and looked at the physician. "She's resting and Data's monitoring her condition. Is there anything more you could do for her in Sickbay?" he asked softly.

For a moment, Beverly was about to point out the half a hundred tests they could run, scanning for a thousand variables that might indicate any damage that could have been done - and all performed upon an unhappy and exhausted crewman. She sighed; much as she would rather the woman be safely ensconced in her medical demesne, the stress on the engineer would probably be greater than the benefit. Unhappily, she shook her head, conceding the point. "No," she said softly, then raised her voice as Picard touched the badge again. "But Data? I'd like you to keep an eye on her vitals; check them every ten minutes. If there are any changes..."

"I will notify you immediately, Doctor," he agreed.

"Thank you," she said - then looked at Picard who touched his commbadge to break the link.

"I don't know," she sighed a moment later. "Maybe Dr. Matthews was right; maybe she did just catch the edge of the surge - maybe she did just have the wind knocked out of her. But even so, any doctor worth his salt would have followed up on an injury of that nature - not just sent her off with an order to get some sleep. And Greg Matthews is many things - but he is not a bad doctor," she insisted.

"Then what you're saying is...?" Picard pressed.

"I'm saying Geordi may have over-reacted. Andile is small - and as Data just pointed out, she does have low blood pressure - and under the effect of that type of shock, her pressure may have dropped even lower. He could well have had his finger on the right spot - and still not have found a palpable pulse. It's not unheard of," she said.

"But you don't believe it," Picard countered.

Beverly pursed her lips - then shook her head. "No. Missing a pulse is one thing - but not breathing is another - and I know Geordi didn't miss that. And Greg shouldn't have made the assumption that Geordi did - or the assumption that Andile was all right just because he did find a pulse when he got there," she said angrily.

Picard nodded, understanding the woman's anger - and all the reasons behind it. "Nor should he have handled the situation without consulting you first," he added.

She turned, an angry glare on her face. "You think I'm over-reacting because Matthews took charge?" she asked angrily.

"I don't think you're over-reacting at all," he replied calmly. "What happens in Sickbay is, ultimately, your responsibility - and therefore, you have both the prerogative and the obligation to ensure that everything is done at your level of standards. I wouldn't want you to be the CMO on my ship if you would settle for anything less," he added.

She hesitated, her anger billowing up at the actions of her new staff member - then gave a sigh. "Thank you. But ultimately, what happens on this ship is your responsibility," she said. "I'll talk to Greg, remind him about ship's protocols - and I'll check up on Cho, make sure he's all right," she added - then reached a hand to him. "I'm sorry," she added.

He raised an eye, curious.

"About having to leave," she explained. "You were saying something," she reminded him.

"It wasn't important," he assured her.

"Yes, it was," she contradicted him.

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "It was. But not as important as one of my crew needing the ship's CMO," he assured her. "We can talk about it another time."

"Are you certain? I can meet you in your quarters after I check on Ensign Cho..."

He smiled. "It'll be late, Bev - and you do have a full day tomorrow," he reminded her. "And..." he added, "I have some things I need to think over," he added.

She gave him a calculating look. "Why do I suspect that those things have nothing to do with the events in the Briar Patch - and everything to do with Lt. Andile?" she said, gently accusing him.

"Because," he said, reaching for both her hands, taking them in his, "you are a woman of remarkable perspicacity," he said - then leaned forward, planting a kiss on the top of her forehead.

Beverly smiled - then looked at him frankly. "I'll accept the compliment - but don't think for a moment that this means we're not going to have that talk. And soon," she added.

He smiled - but his personal problems had suddenly become far less important than they had been a few minutes before - and his professional ones far greater.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

"No!"

The ear-splitting shriek cut through the room as Andile bolted upright in the bed, her heart pounding, her eyes wide with terror, her ears echoing with the scream that had torn her free from the nightmare that had been holding her prisoner.

Sick from the horrors of her mind, she stared uncomprehendingly at the room around her, desperately trying to remember where she was - and even more desperately praying that wherever it was, it was far from the nightmare world in which she had been trapped.

But these weren't her quarters, she knew, a sense of nausea rising in her as she tried to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings; if this isn't my room, then... where? Back there? In that place? Again? Still?

Oh, no! Oh, please, by all the gods, not there! Not again!

Panic beginning to rise, her eyes darted about the room, searching out an escape... There! she realized; a door! A way out - but to where - and who might be waiting on the other side?

But it was a chance - and any chance was better than the certainty of what would happen if she stayed here, if - when! - they came back! Terrified, her heart racing, she steeled herself, resolving to do what had to be done, and started to push back the blankets that covered her - only to hear a protesting yowl from beneath the covers.

Startled, Andile pulled them back - and was astounded to find herself facing a cat who was noisily protesting the affront to its feline dignity.

She gawked at the animal for a moment then gave a cry of relief as she reached for the furry beast.

Spot, she thought to herself as she pulled the animal to her chest, kneading the soft fur on its head anxiously.

Spot - Data's cat. Which meant...

Which means I'm on the Enterprise! she realized, relief flooding over her, the nightmare beginning to fade at last. On the Enterprise - and in Data's quarters!

Data was here, she told herself - then froze. Data was on the ship, yes - but not here in his room! He couldn't be! If he had been, he would have come running at the sound of her scream - but if he wasn't here, where was he? she thought, her overtired mind beginning to send waves of panic through her body.

He wouldn't have left me, she thought; he had been ordered to stay - but orders can be countermanded in an emergency, she thought.

She glanced at the door - but the red alert lights weren't flashing; if there was an emergency, it wasn't ship-wide.

But emergencies didn't have to involve the entire ship she reminded herself; it could have been something less dramatic, something less important... like the accidental death of a young ensign, she knew.

Erzhen, she thought, the memory of the previous night flooding back over her. Erzhen was dead, and Data had gone to file his report with the captain.

Erzhen's dead, and I killed him.

I killed him, she thought, heart-sick. I let myself be distracted, I let my pride get the better of me; I let my ego rule where my mind should have - and I killed him!

She felt a sharp pain in the corner of her eye - then the hot trickle of a tear rolling down her cheek

Do not dare to cry! the voice in her head screamed at her. Do not dare to cry! Andile do not deserve tears...

She felt the cat drop away from her chest as her hand pulled back automatically, moving without conscious direction, pulled back - then viciously returned, slamming across her face with enough force to knock the wind from her.

Tears of pain stung her eyes, but she choked them back instantly.

I'm not crying! she screamed back in terror and pain; I'm not crying!

I will not cry, she insisted; I _can_ not cry! I have work to do! I have a report to file, I have... to see Erzhen, she thought to herself grimly, her hand falling back to its place on her lap.

But only for an instant. Then without thinking she rose from the bed, stumbled toward the door, intent upon seeing the young man one last time - and then to make her way to Cmdr. Riker to make her full report and submit herself for discipline.

Court-martial, she told herself; a court-martial at the very least - but even that wouldn't be enough, she thought. I killed him! I killed him through my pride and my vanity... and whatever they do to me won't be enough.

It would never be enough.

It had never been enough; there was nothing that anyone could do to her that could ever make up for all her mistakes, her errors, her sins, her crimes...

Eyes blurred with the tears she knew she had no right to shed, she stepped toward the door...

...at the same time that someone stepped toward it from the other side.

Data stared, her unexpected appearance at the door startling the usually unflappable android - then quickly recovered. Stepping into the room, he pulled her away from the doorway, letting the doors slide shut behind him.

"You should not be out of bed," he said firmly - then noticed the crimson patch rising on one tear-stained cheek. "You are injured..." he added worriedly, reaching up to touch the discolored patch.

She looked at him, uncomprehendingly, her hand reaching up to the same spot as if unaware of the welt forming there. Unaware, he thought - and unconcerned, as if she couldn't feel the wale.

Or anything else, he hurriedly realized. She was numb, insensate - perhaps even sleep-walking, he thought as she started toward the door again. "Erzhen's dead," she whispered flatly, emptily. "I have to see him. I have to write my report..."

Data stared at the grief-stricken figure for a moment, bewildered by her confused ramblings - then reached for her arm, gently but firmly guiding her back into the room.

"I have to see him..." she protested numbly.

"You must rest," he replied, gently guiding her back toward the bed, realizing she was still half-asleep, still half in shock.

"I have to see him..." she began again, only to have him silence her by pressing his finger to her lips.

There was no point in explaining the reality of the situation to her, he knew; she was too tired, too exhausted to understand. Instead, he softly replied, "You do not have to see him now."

"Yes. Before they take him to the morgue..." she began, then looked at him. "I didn't want to put a morgue on this ship," she said emptily. "I thought... I thought if I didn't build a morgue, then there would be no place to put the bodies - so they couldn't die, Data," she whispered. "I didn't want anyone else to die," she insisted.

Data stared at her for a moment, understanding - intellectually - the devastations that grief and fatigue could bring on - but the intellectual awareness was a far cry from the reality of seeing someone he loved in such terrible pain.

Unsure what to do, he started to reach for his commbadge - then stopped. It would take time for a medical team to get here - and further time for them to diagnose and treat Andile's misery. Worse, he reminded himself, they might be unable to do anything to help her, for psychic stress and physical ailments required completely different treatments - and different people to treat them. And while he trusted Counselor Troi, Andile, he knew, did not.

She trusted no one on this ship, he reminded himself.

Or so she said, he added.

Gently cradling her face, he tilted it up, guiding her red-rimmed eyes to meet his golden ones. "Andile," he said softly, "I have never lied to you. I will never lie to you. You must trust me in this. Ensign Cho is not dead," he said softly. "Erzhen Cho is not dead."

"He is," she protested miserably. "I know he is..."

"Andile, he is not dead," he said firmly. "I have been monitoring the ensign's status in Sickbay; at last report, the damaged tissue on his arms and legs had been regenerated, the cardiac dysrhythmias had ceased, and his condition had been upgraded to stable. Dr. Crusher's latest report indicates he will be released in the morning, and will be allowed to return to work after a brief recuperation period," he informed her quietly.

She stared back at him, searching out the lie that she knew he was telling - but there was no sign of falsehood in his open, honest face. "He's alive?" she said at last.

"He is alive," he assured her. "According to the doctor's report, Ensign Cho is alive and doing well. He will recover," he said gently.

As will you, he added - though for the first time in his life, there was a hint of uncertainty - and desperate need - in his thoughts.

"But if Erzhen's all right... where were you?" she asked plaintively.

Data's eyes widened, suddenly stricken by the realization that it was his absence that had been the cause of this painful episode. If he had been there when she awoke... "My apologies; if I had known my absence would so upset you..." he said, then realized his apology was meaningless to the distraught woman. "I believed you were asleep," he explained, trying to keep his words simple enough for the grief-fogged woman to be able to comprehend. "I went to your quarters to secure your uniform and the other items you might need for your morning ablutions," he added, glancing at night table.

Andile followed his glance, foggily making out the neatly folded uniform, a non-descript comb and a small but heavy bag, loosely tied at the top.

"I looked for the rest of your belongings, but I did not see any other items; if you will inform me of their location..." he began, only to be silenced by her hand on his arm.

"No... There isn't anything else," she said emptily.

"You mean the rest of your belongings are at Utopia Planitia," he corrected.

She shook her head wearily. "No... That's all there is. That's everything I have."

He looked at her, confused. Despite centuries of change in the nature of material gains, the collection of material items had seemed to be a constant among the humans he had encountered in his lifetime - either as a symbol of wealth and personal achievement, or as mementos of personal experience and individuals encountered.

That had been a practice that had mystified him for a time, for with his perfect memory, he had not been able to understand how humans could value a material item over the recollection of an actual event.

But humans did not have his gift of faultless positronic memory storage, he had learned - and more importantly, they did not want that ability - for it was not the precise recollection of events or the flawless remembrance of the facial features of another being that they wanted, but rather the emotional experience that had accompanied those faces and times.

It had taken Data a long time to fully understand that need, and longer still to incorporate the practice of accumulating possessions into his life - and of the few items he had collected, none brought about a emotional experience.

Even looking at Tasha Yar's holo-portrait, his most cherished possession, he recalled every event they had shared, down to its smallest detail - but there was no joy at her presence in his life - and no grief from her death. The book the captain had given him symbolized their friendship, he knew - but given to him at a time when his only definition of friendship had been from his internal dictionary; he had not understood then the true depths of feeling that a friendship could entail.

But even so, as bereft of emotional content as his possessions - and he - might be, he still had those possessions - while Andile, a human, had virtually none.

It might simply have been a matter of not wanting to transport the items from one assignment to another, he argued logically, knowing how frequently she moved from place to place - but staring at the woman, watching her gaunt face as she slipped back into the depths of sleep, he realized the truth was far stranger - and far more painful.

He drew the pain benumbed woman into his arms, cradling her tightly against him.

Andile did not maintain possessions, he suddenly knew, because there was nothing she cared to remember.

Or worse, perhaps: things she could not forget.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

As weary as Will Riker felt as he entered the captain's ready room, the man behind the desk looked worse.

Picard's face was sallow and drawn and there were dark circles beneath the man's eyes, all evidence of a night - another night, Will reminded himself - spent behind the desk, pouring over what appeared to be, from Will's side of the room, a stack of personnel files.

He had been searching for something, the first officer realized - but for what he didn't know - and judging from the expression on Picard's face, neither did the captain.

"You look terrible," Will said.

"A long night," Picard admitted, slowly rising from the desk, stretching slowly, almost painfully - then making his way to the replicator. "I had a thought - a suspicion," he admitted, "about someone - and I've spent the last..." he glanced at the chronometer "...six hours trying to track it down. But..."

"Nothing," Will concluded for him.

Picard shook his head. "Less than nothing. Trying to determine who is a potential saboteur and who isn't just from their personnel file is next to impossible. Names and dates, facts and figures - but unless there's an obvious omission or a blatant discrepancy, there's almost no information - and certainly no tangible evidence," he added grimly.

"The next time Starfleet redesigns the personnel application forms, perhaps they should add a spot in the demographics for 'saboteur'," he suggested only half-jokingly. "It would save time."

"And sleep," Picard agreed with a yawn, then turned to the replicator. "Tea, Earl Grey - hot," he ordered.

The glass materialized a moment later - and Will enjoyed watching as the man took a sip, then gave an appreciative sigh. "This replicator enhancement in remarkable," Picard said. "Quite remarkable."

"Credit Lt. Andile," Will said. "She's a firm believer that crew morale and the quality of rations are in direct proportion; she fought to make the re-initialization of the replicator programs one of the highest priorities after the computer was installed."

Picard nodded, taking a second sip of the tea. "I can't say I disagree with her," he murmured, then glanced at his first officer.

There was something... familiar... about the man this morning, he thought to himself; not the return of the old Will Riker he had known for so many years - that bright and enthusiastic officer was still being restrained by some unknown force - but there was something in his eyes, Picard thought, something he had seen before of his old friend streaming through from deep within.

Something Picard did not like seeing.

Will Riker was deeply worried.

It was not an emotion the man often expressed; his personal concerns were ones he usually kept to himself - and his worries over the ship were usually sublimated, held back while he focused on resolving the problem, holding back his stronger emotions while directing his energy - and the energy of his fellow officers - toward finding and enacting a solution.

The fact that Picard could see that worry in his friend's eyes, here and now, meant that either he had finally decided to discuss his personal problem with the captain - a possibility that Picard discounted immediately - or Will had found a problem for which he could find no solution.

"What is it, Will?" Picard asked at once, suddenly worried himself.

But the door chimed before he could respond.

"Come!" Picard barked, anxious to get back to the topic of Will's concern.

Worf entered.

As with Will, there was something in the Klingon's expression that struck a familiar chord in the captain - but, as with Will, it was not a comfortable sensation. The Klingon wasn't smiling, Picard thought as he looked at his Security officer; Klingons rarely smiled, and Worf even less than most - but even so, there was something behind the man's typically dour expression that verged on glee - a triumphant boasting of the eyes that Picard had seen before: Worf had done his job - and done it well, against all odds.

"What is it?" Picard asked at once, understanding instantly why his first officer and his Security officer had come to see him at the same time. "What have you found?"

A little taken aback by the man's instant awareness, Worf found himself glancing at the padd in his hand.

"A... discrepancy," he replied, his certainty a little lessened by the captain's obvious concern.

"Concerning...?"

"Lt. Andile."

Picard was expecting that, Will realized as he watched the man; expecting it - and dreading it all at the same time. But whatever he felt at hearing the name of the woman mentioned, he kept his emotions carefully reigned in.

"What type of discrepancy?" Picard pressed, holding his voice carefully neutral.

"Worf found some... abnormalities in her personnel record," Will said. "We've been trying to track them down, cross-reference them against the ship's database, trying to corroborate some of the dates noted..."

"... and we have been unable to do so. Captain," Worf said, his voice both pained and gleeful. "There are significant gaps in the lieutenant's service record - gaps for which there is no official explanation - or approval."

Picard looked from the Klingon to the human, then back again, wondering what, if anything, Will had told the Security officer about the lieutenant's history.

Probably very little, he decided; what had happened at Sipantha was rumor at best - and cloaked in the deepest layers of Starfleet security in any case. Worf's security clearance notwithstanding, Will would have kept that revelation to himself unless absolutely necessary - or, Picard added grimly, there was something else that was alarming the Klingon.

His sense of concerning growing - and quickly - he reached for the padd the Klingon proffered, reading over it quickly.

"I see nothing here that's out of place," he said a few minutes later.

"Captain, the gaps in the lieutenant's record..." Worf began, only to be interrupted.

"Commander," he said quietly, "the lieutenant is one of the senior engine designers in the Federation. There are going to be gaps in her record, periods when her actions are not documented, because she may have been working on top secret projects for Starfleet..."

"Sir," Will interjected, "I must point out that when Starfleet has a secret operation underway, they do not leave a gap in the personnel file for those involved. Should Starfleet Security ever be broken, those omissions would be as glaringly obvious as an outright notation of the officer's activities at those times. No, Captain; Starfleet policy has always been to document the actions and locations of every member - even if those locations and actions aren't real. It's the only way they can ensure the safety of their personnel - and the safety of the Federation," he reminded the man.

Picard thought for a moment, absently reaching for the tea. But as the glass reached his lips, he stopped, then stared at it, pondering the dark brown liquid.

Will was right; Starfleet didn't leave gaps in a personnel record. His own missions to Romulus - and the disastrous mission to Celtris III - had been officially obfuscated by references to fictitious conferences on far distant planets, well out of the realm of the Romulans and the Cardassians.

No, Will was correct; Starfleet didn't leave gaps in personnel files. At least, not when they could avoid it, he added.

But even Starfleet wasn't perfect - and the devastating raid on San Francisco during the Dominion War had meant that many of the personnel files had been lost in the destruction of Starfleet Headquarters. True, many had been reconstructed - but not all, Picard thought - and it was unlikely that anyone had had time to go back and reconstruct the intricate lies that had been planted to protect the hundreds of officers that had been involved in the thousands of covert operations in which Starfleet had been engaged.

He shook his head. "It's not enough," he said firmly to the two men. "It's circumstantial - at best."

"Yes, sir - but under these circumstances..." Will protested.

"Under these circumstances, Commander, the rules and regulations of the Federation still apply," he reminded the man grimly - but he still set down the tea glass. "Without at least some evidence, we cannot proceed against an officer."

"But Captain," Worf protested, "the omissions in her personnel file..."

"Are omissions, Worf," Picard said sharply. "You cannot prove a negative - you can only disprove a positive. If you want to me to consider the lieutenant as a suspect, you're going to have to come up with something better than the fact that you can't prove where she wasn't."

"Captain," Will interrupted, "with the computers as they are and without access to Starfleet's database..."

"I know - it's going to make your jobs considerably more difficult - but that difficulty doesn't obviate the necessity for us to follow the rules and regulations that Starfleet has set down; if you're going to live by the sword, gentlemen, then you're going to have to be prepared to die by it as well. Which means, for the moment at least, that we still are going to have to judge the members of this crew by their actions, rather than by their histories - and certainly not by their lack of histories. And the lieutenant's actions last night tend to influence me more heavily than a few gaps in her service record," he added - and found himself confronting two bewildered expressions.

Strange, Picard thought to himself; the rumor mill, as much as he despised its existence on his ship, was usually far more efficient than this. It had been nine hours; by now, the story should have spread over every deck of the ship. An accident, a heroic rescue that nearly killed the rescuer - and Lt. Andile, a Starfleet legend, the center of that story.

Except that the heroine would have never permitted the story to be spread, he reminded himself. If there was a tale being told, it was far more likely to Dr. Matthew's version was the one that was being passed along - and a tale of alleged negligence and dereliction of duty by one of the crew's favorites was not a story that was going to be spread along quickly - if at all.

No, he thought to himself, there was no reason that either man would have heard the story.

"There was an accident in the shuttlebay," he began to explain. "Lt. Andile was training Ensigns Cho and Dulfer how to check the conduits for power anomalies - and Cho placed the probe in a warp conduit by mistake."

"My God!" Will gasped, understanding immediately the consequences of the error - but Worf remained silent, his only response a slight widening of the eyes.

"Is Cho...?" Will began.

"He's alive and in good condition - but only because the lieutenant shielded him from the majority of the power surge by pushing him out of the way - and taking the majority of the impact herself. That is not," he added, looking directly at Worf, "the action of a saboteur."

"Unless the saboteur wished to disenfranchise herself from suspicion," the Klingon countered grimly.

"At the risk of their own life?" Picard gaped, astounded by the idea. "Worf, if she had miscalculated..."

"Sir, by your own admission yesterday, the lieutenant is an exceptional mathematician," Worf reminded the man.

Picard pursed his lips, reluctantly agreeing. "Still, the risk..."

"Is a reasonable one to take in light of the nature of her mission," the Klingon insisted. "By seeming to ensure her loyalty to the crew, she would remove herself from suspicion - and be freed to move about the ship as she saw fit."

"She's had that freedom for the last three months," Will reminded him.

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "Yes, sir - and that freedom, along with her expertise, means she had the opportunity to cause the damage we have already encountered."

"Except that there is no evidence that the ship has been damaged at all," Riker quickly reminded him. "Everything that's been happening to the ship can still be explained as technical problems - and considering that we're working with new engines and new computers, installed under extremely trying circumstances, some level of technical errors has got to be expected!"

"Nonetheless," Worf argued, "in view of her knowledge, and our lack of information concerning the Lieutenant's personal and political background, I feel that Lt. Andile poses a security risk to the ship. As Security Chief, I must recommend that you confine her to the brig," he urged the captain.

"For what?" Picard asked, surprised by Worf's recommendation. "What has she done that merits putting her in the brig?"

"She has done nothing - yet. But with her level of knowledge about the design of the ship and its engines, and with her present level of freedom within the ship, she poses an unacceptable risk to the crew, the delegates and to the ship itself!" Worf said vehemently.

"Mr. Worf, Cmdrs. La Forge and Data currently have a similar level of knowledge; would you have me throw them in the brig as well?" the captain countered.

"Cmdr. LaForge and Cmdr. Data are not new members among the crew, sir," Worf pointed out needlessly. "Lt. Andile is. We know nothing about her."

"We know she's has served in Starfleet for more years than I have been alive, Mr. Worf," Picard said. "That many years of service counts for something. The fact that she's new to this ship hardly seems cause for imprisoning her."

"But Captain!" Worf protested, "She's the only one who has the knowledge and the opportunity to sabotage the ship! If we give her the opportunity to actually do something..."

"Under that argument," Picard pointed out, "we could justify imprisoning every member of the crew. Right now, we don't even know that the ship has been sabotaged; this still could be a matter of technical failures - and while that might be grounds for bringing charges against the lieutenant - she was responsible for overseeing the project - it is not for an accusation of sabotage. If you intend to press charges, Mr. Worf, you're going to have to provide evidence - real evidence - and not just supposition. For now, the lieutenant will remain at liberty - unless you have something else to tell me?" he added.

Worf shook his head, clearly disappointed. "No, sir," he growled, knowing he was defeated - for the moment.

"Nonetheless," Picard added with a unhappy sigh, "I am going to keep your recommendation under consideration, Mr. Worf. But I will not try anyone on mere speculation," he continued vehemently. "For now, I'd like you both to continue your investigation of the remaining crew - including Lt. Andile. But while you are researching your suspects, consider this: Lt. Andile may well be the only single person to have had the knowledge and opportunity to perform these acts of sabotage. But what if we are not looking for one person - but two? Or three - or more?" he suggested.

Will rolled his eyes up, silently cursing himself for having missed the obvious; whoever was trying to harm the ship - if they were, he reminded himself; this might still be a matter of purely gross misconduct on the part of the construction team at Utopia Planitia - could not have been working alone. "Of course," he murmured, agreeing.

"The presence of multiple saboteurs would not exonerate Lt. Andile," Worf pointed out.

Picard nodded, agreeing. "No - but neither would it convict her. But it is a possibility we must consider - and one you'll need to examine in your review of the personnel files. It may be that our saboteurs, if they even exist, have been trained separately, in different places and at different times - and none of those resultant gaps in their service records would normally merit further investigation."

"Captain," Will pointed out, "if that's the case, it may be impossible to ever determine who are the saboteurs."

"I am aware of that possibility, Number One," Picard replied, "but so would those responsible for the conspiracy. It would be the ideal for concealing their actions and their agents."

"It would also suggest, however," Will pointed out, "that this has been planned for some time - and that," he added, "is not likely - not considering how quickly we were called into action."

Picard nodded. "Agreed - and that may be our only saving grace, Commander. Nonetheless, we do need to consider all the possibilities - remote as they may be." He looked at Worf, giving a curt nod of his head for the Klingon to proceed with the task.

Worf growled, a reluctant acquiescence to the man's orders, then gave a slightly more formal bow, turned on his heel and left the ready room.

In stony silence, Picard watched as his Security officer left - then gave a soft sigh and locked his gaze on his first officer.

"I would have thought that the news of the accident would have dissuaded Worf," he said quietly, expecting the man to readily agree with him.

Instead, there was a strained silence from the first officer.

"Will?"

Riker pressed his lips into a thin line - then handed his padd to the captain. "Under other circumstances, the accident might have vindicated Biji," he said, "but..."

Picard looked at him, waiting.

"There was an accident at the Utopia shipyards, sir, just after you left for the Briar Patch. Two of Lt. Andile's team were killed - by a warp power cable that shorted out," he announced.

Picard studied him for a moment, then quickly scrolled the padd to the incident.

"According to this," he said a few minutes later, "the two were killed when they began working - without orders - in an area where the cables were being tested. The records showed that they had been assigned to another area of the installation and had no authorization to be where they were. Will," he said, looking up, "this looks like an accident, pure and simple. There's no connection to what happened last night - or to the lieutenant," he added.

"Except they were the same type of accident," he reminded Picard, "and she was responsible for both teams. That's a little too coincidental for comfort, sir."

"Coincidences do happen," Picard replied. He glanced at the padd once again - then, to Will's surprise, set it aside on his desk.

He was going to keep it, Will realized; keep it and study it - and, most likely, compare it to the reports that were filed about the previous night's disaster.

Despite his reassuring words about the new engineer, Will thought, the captain was having his own doubts.

As he watched, Picard rose from the chair, slowly walking to the windows in his office - then turned to the first officer, as if denying himself the calming effect of the ethereal streaks that passed beyond those panes - as he had denied himself the tea.

Because Andile was responsible for both? Will wondered.

"I have always thought that I was a good judge of character, Will," Picard said after a long pause, "and everything I have seen in the lieutenant's file has indicated she is a person of good character. Perhaps not the best of officers," he admitted, recalling the numerous infractions listed in the engineer's file, "but of good character," he repeated.

After all, those charges, he reminded himself - mostly for insubordination - had been accrued when the woman had fought to support the benefit and safety of those who served beneath her. Picard smiled to himself; whatever the lieutenant might be, she wasn't one to suffer fools gladly - and she was not about to let her people suffer at all - if she could help it. And if that meant putting herself or her career on the line - then so be it.

"Nonetheless, everything Worf has brought up indicates that she may well be responsible for our predicament," he admitted. "But at the same time, she has been the one who insisted that the anomaly may be based in the very equipment she is responsible for. That doesn't make sense; a saboteur doesn't point to themselves, Will; they don't announce that the problems were finding are their fault. They work behind the scenes, publicly distancing themselves from any association with what's happening... don't they?" he asked rhetorically - then sighed and shook his head. "My instincts are that she is not involved - but Worf's instincts are that she is," he concluded. "Which one of us is right - and which is wrong? And if it's me, if I'm the one who's wrong, how long do I keep this ship - and this conference - at risk before I act?"

"But right now, you don't know that you're wrong," Will argued, though he knew Picard had already had this argument with himself; still, he knew how much it helped to hear another voice argue what he already knew. "Without concrete evidence, Captain, and all we do have is circumstance and conjecture, we cannot make the assumption that she's guilty! That is one of the most basic guarantees of the Federation; innocent until proven guilty," Riker pointed out.

"But if her goal is to bring about the downfall of the Federation, wouldn't she rely on very tenet to protect herself while she finishes doing whatever she's doing to the ship? Shouldn't we do as Worf suggests; assume she's guilty, and throw her in the brig - just in case? If she's innocent, it would quickly confirm it; if she's guilty - then we've just saved the ship - and possibly the Federation!" Picard argued, then shook his head, sighing.

"So the ends justify the means?" Will asked. "Deny her her rights - for her own good and ours?"

Picard smiled, knowing the argument all too well. "It would be a hell of a thing, Will," he mused, "if we disregard that basic Federation doctrine in her case - so that we might preserve it for others."

Will looked at him, understanding all too well the conflict Picard was experiencing: trying to protect the rights of an individual, without risking the life of his crew - or his ship. It was a difficult task, he knew, and one that could be answered to readily - and too easily - by the old Vulcan axiom: the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few - or the one.

But they were Vulcans, Will reminded himself; the rights of the individual were an ideal that could be sacrificed in the light of cold logic. Sacrificed - along with the individuals who had possessed them.

But Jean-Luc Picard was not a Vulcan - and he would no more sacrifice the rights of one of his crew than he would the person themselves. "For what it's worth, sir," he said, "every officer on this ship who has met Lt. Andile has come away with a positive opinion of her; hard-working, knowledgeable, loyal - a little odd, perhaps," he added with a smile, remembering their first encounter. "I don't think she's what any of us expected in an engineer - but after talking with her, she's everything I'd want in an officer. I have a hard time accepting that she would do anything to harm the ship or the crew. I don't believe she's our saboteur - if there even is one," he added.

Picard nodded, then glanced warningly at Riker. "I agree - but we can't let our personal opinions sway our objective appraisal. And not every officer who has met her has had a positive opinion of her," he added. "Worf doesn't trust her," he pointed out.

"Sir, Worf has never met her," Will countered.

Picard nodded, contemplating Riker's words. "Perhaps that's just as well, Will," he said after a long pause. "His assessment is unclouded by any personal feelings."

"And my opinion is colored simply by knowing her?" Will asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Begging your pardon, sir, but if I had to describe the lieutenant in a word, it wouldn't be charismatic. They don't call her the 'Bitch Goddess' without reason."

"The lieutenant's personality was not what I was talking about, Will," Picard reminded the man quickly. "What I meant was that there is too much riding on this not to evaluate every piece of information available. The Federation and Starfleet both depend on this conference concluding successfully - and that may depend on my judgment of one person. I want that judgment to be as informed - and unbiased - as possible."

He shook his head, sighing. "It's a hell of a thing, Will, to be asked to make this type of an assessment on someone I barely know. If I make the wrong decision, it could destroy her career and her life - or it could destroy the future of the Federation."

Will grinned ruefully. "That's why you're the Captain. The big chair and the big decisions."

"Thank you, Number One," Picard said, the hint of sarcasm edging his voice.

He fell silent, thinking, then nodded. Will was quite correct; the decision was his - but he was not about to make it - at least not without something more substantive than coincidence, happenstance and suggestion as the basis for that decision. No, he needed something more, something real... and, he realized after a moment's thought, he had an idea where he might get that information.

But it would take time - and more than a little persuasion.

He cleared his throat, signaling the change from a personal discussion to a professional one. "Keep me informed of the status of your investigation. How are the preparations coming for the arrival of the delegates?" he added, welcoming a chance to talk about something beside the lieutenant.

"Their quarters are prepared, each at least two levels apart. We've established security perimeters around each delegate's quarters, and they will be escorted at any time that they are in secure areas within the ship. The preparations for the reception have been finished," Will added with a smile.

"Reception?"

"For the first night that all four ambassadors are aboard have been made," Will reminded him. "Per Starfleet's orders? 'To allow the delegates to meet one another in a non-confrontational social setting and establish a level of rapport that will facilitate a swift and hopefully mutually beneficial conclusion'," Will quoted.

Picard grimaced, loathing both the double-talk - and the thought of attending a reception.

Formal receptions were rarely an enjoyable experience - too many people forced together because someone had thought a social meeting might make everyone more comfortable - when, truth be told, they'd all rather be someplace else. And in these circumstances, the stress levels would be even higher. True, everyone involved understood the significance of their meeting - and understood equally well that if they couldn't find an accommodation that met all their needs, there was a chance that the Federation would collapse - and take all their respective governments down with it. But thus already worried, already on edge - and add to that the animosity that already existed between the participants - tempers would be flaring within minutes of the guests arrival. Whatever gains they might hope to achieve would be set back weeks as the delegates first sought to overcome the problems created at that first meeting.

But he was only a starship captain, as Admiral Czymszczak reminded him when he mentioned his objections days before; his opinions were best kept to himself.

"I'm certain we'll all enjoy it, Will," Picard grumbled, reminding his first that he would be there as well.

"Pardon?" Will said.

"The reception. Senior officers will attend," Picard informed him - then smiled at the man's grimace.

"RHIO," Will grumbled to himself.

"Number One?"

Will straightened, not having realized he had spoken aloud. "RHIO, sir. Something the Lieutenant pointed out. "Rank hath its obligations."

Picard smiled. "That it does, Number One. That it does," he murmured - then hesitated, thought for a moment - and looked at Will once again. "The lieutenant said that," he repeated.

"Yes, sir," Will replied. "Just another one of her sayings," he added.

"Indeed," Picard answered, then turned to face the windows once again, adding, "dismissed, Number One."

Picard stared at the streaming lights beyond the viewport, the words of his officers echoing in his thoughts - and a stream of new thoughts radiating out in their wake.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

"What's this?" Beverly asked as Picard placed the plate in front of her, then set a second one in front of himself.

"Dinner," he replied blithely.

She smiled. "I gathered that much. I meant..."

"I thought I owed you this - after having last night cut short," he added, then gestured at the plate. "It's bitter greens, endive, spinach, and Corellian lettuce, thin slivers of rare steak, red wine vinaigrette - and just a touch of sesame seed," he explained. "Of course, it needs a proper loaf of bread from the _boulangerie_," he added as he placed a basket of bread on the table between them. "Unfortunately, this will have to suffice," he continued with a sigh, tearing a piece of the crusty bread from the loaf and handing it to her. "There are still a few things the replicators don't make well."

She looked at him knowingly. The contents of the plate before her - and his comments about the faults of the replicators - has been answers to her question - but they both knew it was not the question she had been asking, anymore than the answer he had given was a response.

Which meant, she knew equally well, that he wasn't in a mood to answer her.

At least, she added, not yet.

Taking a forkful of the salad, she chewed it contemplatively for a moment, then gave an approving nod. "Delicious."

"One of the new programs from the replicator upgrade," he replied.

Ah, Beverly thought to herself, beginning to understand - but she said nothing, taking a second bite of the salad instead, then reached for her glass of water.

Seeing her do so, Picard began to explain. "I was going to open a bottle of wine," he said, "but wine with a vinaigrette...?" He shuddered as if appalled by the idea.

She smiled at the act, knowing him well enough to know the pretension was only that - a pretense. Another barrier, built to protect him from the outside world, letting them only see what he wanted them to see.

But I know you better than that, she thought, a bit triumphantly, maybe better than you want me to know you...

No, she thought, suddenly sobered; you once offered to let me know you that well, to let me know you as intimately as I dared... but I didn't dare.

I'm sorry, Beverly thought. You lowered the walls you had built around yourself, risking everything to let me in – and in return I hurt you. No wonder those walls have been rebuilt: to protect yourself from those who would hurt you anew.

Like me.

"Beverly?"

She looked up, seeing the worry in his eyes at her sudden silence - and smiled. "Just thinking," she admitted, knowing the question before he even asked it.

"About...?"

You don't really want to know, she answered silently - then forced a smile and reached for his hand. "Jean-Luc," she said softly, "you don't have to do this."

He looked at her, seemingly uncomprehending. "Do what?"

"Do this. Dinner," she said.

"Beverly, I just thought it would enjoy trying one of the new programs..."

She smiled, drawing back her hand. "Jean-Luc," she reminded him gently, "this is the first time you've invited me to dinner in your quarters in the last three years. You didn't do that just so we could play with the replicators."

He gave her a openly puzzled look. Three years? Impossible! Surely they had had dinner together during the last three years! he protested. They had dinner together almost every evening - except when he had work...

Which had become more and more frequently, he admitted.

And when they had gotten together, they had eaten in her quarters or in Ten Forward.

And after a few months, only in Ten Forward...

And then Beverly, too, had become more involved in her own work, begging off his invitations as she focused on her research.

Until dinner, like their shared breakfasts, had faded away into nothing more than distant memory, a page of his life, blanked by distance, ready to be filled with new memories of...

Anij.

His eyes widened in realization.

"Beverly... I... I never realized. But if you realized, why didn't you say something?" he asked, aghast at his slow realization of the truth.

Beverly shook her head, smiling sadly. "I thought you needed it," she said softly. "I thought we both needed it. Time away from each other. You needed the separation; you were beginning to make the break between yourself and Starfleet; between the life you lived here - and the life you were preparing for. I knew that - even if you didn't - and I didn't want to make it any harder for you by making you cling to an old habit," she told him gently.

"You were _never_ an 'old habit'," he protested.

She smiled, albeit sadly. "Thank you - but I couldn't be a part of the new life you were planning. I could, however, make that transition easier."

"By stepping out of my life," he realized for the first time.

She nodded slowly, neither proud nor ashamed of her machinations. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, Jean-Luc," she whispered, "but I thought... I thought it was the best - for both of us," she added more hastily than she had intended.

"No," he replied contritely. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I made you feel that way - or that you believe my invitation to join me here today was not sincere."

"I don't doubt that it's sincere, Jean-Luc," she argued. "But it's sincere about work, not about..." She let the words trail off, still unspoken after all these years.

He stared at her - then hung his head in shame. She was right, he realized; it has been three years since he had invited her here - and he had only done so because he had needed something from her.

"Beverly..." he began softly, only to be interrupted by the gentle touch of her hand on his arm.

"Don't," she said softly. "Not tonight. Tonight... tonight you have more important things on your mind than... this," she said, finding the words as awkward for her as she knew they were for him.

To her surprise, she found herself smiling - albeit sadly. Perhaps, she thought to herself, we don't talk about it because we can't, because, when we both come down to it, it wasn't meant to be.

But our friendship is, she added, smiling at him, reaching for his hand once again. "Jean-Luc, whatever we may be or may not be, we are friends. And fellow officers. And the fact that you've invited me here, tonight, tells me that you need to impose on that relationship. And since you have asked me here, to your quarters, someplace you rarely invite anyone, I think I can safely assume that it's something that you want kept quiet. Furthermore, since we're in the middle of a mission, and as I am the ship's Chief Medical Officer, I have to assume it's information about one of my patients - information you suspect I'm not going to give you readily - and if we're going to have a fight about it, you'd rather do it here than on the bridge or in your ready room," she replied.

He glared at her angrily - then closed his eyes, sighed, and gave a nod. "Yes. Beverly, I understand about patient/doctor confidentiality, but there are some issues that transcend even that trust. This mission is critical..." he began to explain.

"Jean-Luc," she started.

"Please, Beverly, let me finish what I was saying," he replied, cutting her off, hurrying on with his argument before she could reply. "This mission is critical; the continued existence of Starfleet - of the Federation itself may depend on its outcome - and because of that, I need - need, Beverly - to know everything I can about the one person on whom I may have to depend - including her medical history. Now if there's something you've learned..."

"She didn't show up," Beverly interrupted him.

Taken by surprise, he stopped in mid-justification. "I beg your pardon?"

"Lt. Andile - that's who I assume we're talking about - she didn't show up. She had to have known that after last night, I'd want to check her over, make sure she was all right - and I knew she'd try everything to avoid coming in, so I tried to cover every base possible - but she out-smarted me," she admitted with a disgusted sigh.

"How?" he asked, perplexed.

Beverly shook her head. "She out-thought me," she admitted. "I knew she'd be worried about the ensign who was injured last night, so I left orders with Alyssa to have her report for a physical when she came to see Erzhen. But she never came in," Beverly replied, a little disappointedly; she had expected something better from the engineer.

Seeing the disapproval in her eyes, he shook his head. "If Geordi's report about her reaction was accurate, I doubt she would have dismissed Ensign Cho so readily, Bev," he admonished her. "She probably pulled his status report from the computer - and since you released him first thing this morning, she would have been able to avoid going to Sickbay to check on him. You should have left the order on her terminal," he recommended. "She'd have to have seen it when she returned to her quarters this morning..."

"I tried that as well - but no luck there, either. Data was the only one to enter her quarters since yesterday."

Picard raised an eye questioningly.

"Probably getting some of her things," Beverly explained with a smile. "Perfume, hair brush... a girl like to have her own things in the morning, you know."

He reddened slightly, then coughed, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Um... yes, indeed," he replied uncertainly.

Beverly smiled; it was obvious he had no recollection of what personal items a woman wanted first thing in the morning - if he had ever known, she added silently. No doubt Jean-Luc had had his share of romantic evenings - and mornings, she presumed - but sharing one - or even a dozen - mornings with a woman was a far cry from sharing a living space with her.

Whatever it was that a woman needed or wanted in her morning toilette was a mystery to the man.

It was an amazing bit of naiveté in a man so otherwise worldly-wise, she thought - and so terribly sad.

She shook her head, clearing it of any thoughts of the emptiness of his life and focusing herself on the problem at hand - something, she decided, looking at his face, that the captain had been doing as well.

"More likely he was there after something less... frivolous," he proclaimed after a moment's thought. "I doubt the lieutenant would concern herself over... perfume," he declared.

Beverly started to argue - then stopped and gave a nod; from everything she had been told, Andile was many things - but vanity was not one of her faults. But why then had Data gone to her room? Had Andile been so worried that she had created a reason for him to go there, sparing her the visit - and the inescapable consequences. Was she that paranoid? she wondered - or that prescient?

Picard was lost in his own thoughts. "She did return to duty this morning," he mused, recalling the Engineering roster Geordi had submitted. "You could have ordered her in..."

"Excuse me?" Beverly interjected. "Weren't you the one who told me to go gently with her? Considering what you've told me of her, I can't imagine bringing her in while on duty as being anything other than a prelude to a disaster," she replied - then gave a chagrined smile. "I'll admit I considered it," she said a moment later, "but Geordi did say she was in the middle of a critical project..."

"The sensor check," he murmured to himself; after the accident, it had been put off - making its completion all the more urgent today. No wonder Geordi had been reluctant to release her.

"... and he didn't want to interrupt her unless it was an emergency. And it wasn't," she admitted. "Every read-out from Data's tri-corder indicated that she had no attendant complications from the power surge; it seems Andile lucked out - this time," Beverly concluded, then gathered up another bite of the salad. Before she raised the fork to her mouth, though, she looked at the man across the table from her.

"Nonetheless, she's deliberately avoiding me, Jean-Luc; she's knows damned well that after what happened yesterday, there's no way she's going to escape a physical - but even so, she's doing everything she can to delay that from happening. Avoiding Sickbay, avoiding her own quarters, busying herself on a project so she can't be interrupted - but at some point, she's going to have to face up to reality. My worry is that the longer she delays it, the more anxious she's going to become - and I don't know how she's going to respond to that stress," she sighed unhappily.

Picard looked at her. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning..." Beverly sighed, setting down her fork and meeting his gaze head-on. "Jean-Luc, we all respond to the stressors in our lives in a manner of ways. We all have coping mechanisms that help us deal with our problems. Some are healthy - exercise to release physical tension, meditation to ease emotional and psychological concerns, Counseling when the stress becomes to much to handle... But some mechanisms are decidedly unhealthy. Addictive behaviors - like alcohol, compulsive behaviors - like running away..."

He looked at her suspiciously - but there seemed to be no reminder of his own actions, even a teasing one, in her words. Relieved, the grimace eased from his face as he turned his attention back to her words.

"... and if what I've learned is accurate, the lieutenant is the queen of unhealthy coping mechanisms," Beverly concluded.

"How so?" Picard asked.

"She exercises compulsively: she spends at least four hours a day dancing - unless she's on duty, when she works compulsively. She doesn't sleep unless she's completely exhausted - and even then, she drags herself back to work as soon as she's conscious... she skips meals..." She looked up at Picard. "Do you know how much she's had to eat in the last ten days?" she asked - then continued, answering her own question.

"Three thousand, four hundred and forty calories - in ten days!" she announced. "I know; I checked the replicator files to see what she's ordered. That's it; three thousand four hundred and forty calories. A healthy human consumes more than two thousand calories a day - and she's had barely a tenth of that amount!" she growled.

"It's a seventh," he corrected automatically, then added, "There are other sources of food on this ship aside from the replicator."

"If you're talking about ration bars, she's not using those; Will says she can't stand them - wouldn't eat at all during the field trials when the replicators were still off-line," she informed him.

"Hydroponics?" he suggested; there were fruit trees and vegetables growing in abundance there...

"I thought of that as well - and she hasn't been there either," she protested.

"Beverly..." Picard began, trying to calm the physician.

"She can't keep doing this," the physician interrupted. "Exhausting her body physically, starving herself... Jean-Luc, she's killing herself - slowly and brutally - but I don't know why."

Picard watched the woman for a few minutes, seeing a pain in her eyes that he had seen too many times before.

She was worried for her patient, he knew - but there was more to it than that. Beverly's concern for the woman - or for anyone under her care - was never limited to her obligations as a physician - but was driven by her responsibility to a fellow being. She didn't want to cure Andile of whatever disease was possessing her body or her mind simply for the sake of curing her - but because she could not bear to stand idly by while someone suffered.

He reached for his friend's hand, drawing her attention away from the thoughts of her patient, and gave her a quizzical look. "If her condition's that precarious, I'll order her to Sickbay..."

But to his surprise, Beverly shook her head. "No. It wouldn't help her. Yes," she admitted, "I'd be able to tell you everything that's wrong with her, and I'd be able to tell her how we'll treat her - but if I don't understand what's causing it, we'd only be curing the symptoms - not the disease. And in this case, the disease is whatever's making Andile behave as she does. And that could be anything from a physical ailment to an emotional trauma. Grief, anger, worry..."

"Guilt?" Picard suddenly asked.

Beverly raised an eye, contemplating the possibility. "Guilt," she agreed - then looked at him suspiciously. "Why do you ask?" she added.

He studied his plate for a long time, then gave a shake of his head, finally giving in.

For the sake of his crew, for the sake of his ship, for the sake of his mission, he told himself sternly - then gestured at the plate before her. "Finish your dinner, Doctor," he said gruffly.

She gave him a surprised look. "What's the hurry, Captain? Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes," he replied as he drew up a forkful from his own plate, "Ten Forward."

Her eyes widened - then she smiled. "Ah. The evening discussion. You want to see the lieutenant in action - and just coincidentally, have a nice chat with her afterwards," Beverly realized. "Subtle, Jean-Luc; very subtle. Next time, why not just put out ship-wide search for her?"

He gave her a stern glare. "Eat your dinner, Doctor," he growled.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

"I am still confused," Data admitted, looking from one person at the table to the next.

"By what, Data?" Deanna asked, curious. They had been sitting at the table in Ten Forward for the better part of two hours, thoroughly rehashing the same subject until Deanna had thought she had heard every belief and idea about the topic that could ever exist. What aspect was left that Data couldn't grasp?

"By love," he said plaintively. "If love is as unique to the person as this evening's discussion has inferred, then how can one being equate the feeling they are experiencing with the feelings of another person?" he asked.

"But that's how all human emotions are, Data," Will volunteered. "What I would say is happy, Deanna might call delighted."

"Or joyous," Andile added.

"Or elated," Deanna proposed.

"That is my point," Data argued. "You are using objective terminology to describe subjective experience."

"That is the nature of human language, Data," Will said. "It is a vocal symbol for a concept - but the concept is subjective - and worse, the symbol can be interpreted in many ways."

"Then how can you assure yourselves that the feeling you are attempting to relay has been correctly communicated - or correctly interpreted?" he replied distressed by the confusing practice.

"We can't," Andile said. "Not always."

"That's why we may use a number of words to ensure that someone understands us," Deanna continued. "We might rephrase something in a number of ways, trying to use different words with similar meanings, so that the intent behind the words is carried over - or we might ask someone to restate what we've said so that we know that they understand us. But human language has always been marked by the fact that perception of a message - what we hear and understand - can be greatly different from the original intent of that message."

"It seems a confusing method of communication," the android protested, "prone to misinterpretation and error."

"It is," Will agreed.

"And yet," Andile offered, "the fact that our words can be interpreted in so many different ways open new ideas, new thoughts every day. And that's not limited to emotions, Data; we humans - and Betazoids, and probably half the species in the galaxy - are not objective creatures. We interpret everything - everything! - subjectively, coloring them and flavoring them with our own experiences - and desires," she added softly.

"For subjective experiences," Data insisted.

"Experiences, yes," Andile concurred, then smiled at him. "But we also interpret objective things in a subjective manner, Data. We apply values, based on our own experiences and reactions, even to inanimate objects."

Data stared at her, more confused than ever. "But..." He hesitated, thought, then shook his head. "I do not understand," he decided, a note of frustration in his normally even voice. "How can you interpret an object in an subjective manner? It is merely an object - and therefore, definable in objective terms. Height, weight, length, color..."

Andile smiled patiently. "Ah, but objective descriptions aren't enough for humans, Data. We need to make things our own, to embrace them, to color them with our own beliefs, with a touch of ourselves." She hesitating, thinking for a moment. "Here," she said at last, "try this." Turning to Riker, she asked, "Commander, would you name an object? Something simple, something basic."

Will thought for a moment - then spying a Dorellian ensign sitting at the far edge of the lounge, said, "A desert planet... no, just a desert. A dune," he simplified further.

Andile nodded. "A dune. Describe a dune for me, please, Data."

He looked at her, perplexed at the request. "A dune," he replied. "A hill of sand, composed by the accumulation of granules of sand or a sand-like compound as the result of the action of winds and/or glacial action."

"Accurate and precise," she said with a smile

Data gave a slight incline of his head, accepting the praise.

Andile smiled. "Now would you like to hear my description?" she asked.

Curious at how her response could be more precise than his own, he nodded.

Andile looked at him for a moment, then closed her eyes, thinking.

"I see," she said a moment later, her voice dropping, soft and rich, "a hill of sand in the distance, the wind casting a fine mist of sand across the top, a hazy cloud atop the razor-sharp line, a purple shadow standing out against the glare of the setting sun.

"The sun has dropped beyond the lowest hill; the sky, so recently bleached of all its color by the glare of the sun, now turns to azure as night begins to fall; the hills, once white beyond the lack of all color, now glow pink in the final rays of the dying day.

"Embraced by the warmth of the sand, the cool of the breeze as the winds of night begin to blow, two lovers cross the desert, knowing their time together is as brief as this moment of desert calm; that like the moment of perfection they are sharing on this empty plain, all too soon the night will pass, the dawn will return, and the blazing heat of the merciless sun will drive them to seek the safety and surcease of shelter - alone."

She opened her eyes, looked at Data, and smiled sadly. "That's what I think of when he says, 'a dune'," she replied softly.

"Biji," Deanna said softly, her voice hushed with awe, "that was... beautiful."

"Lovely," Will agreed. "Maybe you should have been a writer instead of an engineer," he said.

Andile shook her head. "Hardly," she said, dismissing the idea with a short laugh. "A momentary flight of fancy, sir - the only things I was cut out to write are technical journals," she insisted, then looked back at Data.

"Then..." Data said, clearly stricken, "... my response was incorrect?"

"Of course not!" Andile protested.

"But my response..."

"Was appropriate for you," she assured him. "That's what we're trying to say, dear; everyone responds differently. That doesn't mean one response is wrong and another right - they're all right... for the person who's feeling them."

"But if I have no basis for comparison of what a feeling is supposed to feel like," he argued, "how do I know that is what I am feeling?"

"You don't, Data," Deanna replied.

"Then how will I know what emotion I am feeling? How will I know... when I am in love?" he asked the others plaintively - but his eyes locked on Andile's.

She stared back, silently begging the android not to repeat what they had discussed the night before - but before Data could say anything, Will spoke.

"You won't," Will said slowly, as if remembering, "because the first time it happens, you won't know that that is what love feels like."

"Then..." Data began, only to be silenced by Andile's hand coming to rest atop his.

"You won't know, Data," she said softly. "Not at first," she added, then looked from Will to Deanna. "Will he?" she asked them both.

Will squirmed, a little uncomfortable under her hard gaze. He hadn't wanted to come here tonight, he reminded himself; he hadn't wanted to be part of one of Biji's discussion groups. In fact, he'd carefully arranged to work a different shift that day, knowing it would leave him free to avoid this talk - and Deanna's worried looks.

But no one could have guessed that Andile would have started her talk two hours early that night - and how could he have possible known that Deanna would have chosen Ten Forward as the site of her last meeting of the day? he asked himself.

There had been no gracious way out when the discussion had begun - and, he reminded himself, if Andile was indeed a suspect in the investigation of the possible sabotage of the ship, he had a duty to observing her as she interacted with the other members of the ship.

He just hadn't intended that observation to be quite so, well... face to face, he admitted to himself.

But there had been nothing even vaguely seditious in her discussion of love, he told himself; hell, he added, she had barely said anything, rather, she had let the others talk, voicing their opinions, each thought respectfully welcomed by her, offered up to the others as worthy of their consideration...

It had taken Will a time to realize where he had felt this type of open communication among peers - and when he did, he had held back a chuckle. He wasn't sure that the captain would appreciate knowing that Andile's open-air chats about archaeology or xeno-biology or warp coils - or love! - sounded for all the world like one of his staff meetings.

But that was precisely what these gatherings felt like, Will thought to himself - and found himself, once again, warming to that open forum. Warming enough that he had joined Andile and Data at their table at the center of the room - then beckoned for Deanna to join them as well.

But now Andile was staring at him with that unyielding gaze of hers, studying him as if he were some insect, pinned to a board, unable to free himself as she slowly dissected him, his every part, his every inner secret - his very soul! - being carefully and thoroughly examined.

And if she was studying him, he suddenly thought, was she also judging him? Would she find him as wanting as Starfleet had found him? Would they find him as lacking as he had begun to do? Growing edgy, he began to rise, trying to free himself from her stare - only to have her suddenly look away.

"You won't know what love is at first, Data," Andile told the android at long last. "Then one day, you'll realize that everything that once mattered doesn't any more. All that matters - all that really makes a difference in your life, all that stirs your heart and soul - is whether or not she's happy. And when your happiness depends on hers, and when everything you do is done to spare her grief, to ease her sorrows, when the universe places all the pain of the worlds upon your heart and you accept it joyfully because you know then that she will never feel it, then you'll know you're in love.

"But the day you understand that she would rather suffer the torments of hell with you rather than let you hurt alone," she added softly, "then you'll understand what love - real love - truly is."

Data stared at the engineer, still confused - but her eyes were locked on the tall human beside her - and on the Betazoid between them - though the commander seemed to be paying no attention to Andile, Data decided.

Nor was the counselor, he added - though why tears were forming in her eyes as she stared at the first officer, he was equally uncertain.

Puzzled he opened his mouth to speak - but Andile silenced him with a touch of her hand, her eyes still locked on the other two.

"Deanna, I'm sorry," Will whispered after a moment, reaching for Deanna's hand.

"No," she whispered back. "Oh, Will, don't apologize..."

"Yes," Andile interjected softly, speaking just loud enough for the two to hear. "Do apologize. Both of you. Apologize a thousand times. Apologize for loving each other so much that you would do anything to spare the other pain - then apologize again because love, real love, means knowing you can share that pain. Beg each other's forgiveness for forgetting that love means not wanting to hurt the other - and for forgetting that you can survive any pain when you share it with the person you love."

The words seemed to flow by the two unnoticed; they stared into each other's eyes for a long time, then, as one, wordlessly rose from the table and turned to the door.

Andile watched them leave, then turned back to the android beside her. "Do you understand yet?" she asked.

He studied her for a moment, then looked back at the two as they exited the elaborate doors that marked the entrance to the lounge. "No," he admitted. "If anything, I believe I am more confused than I was before."

"As are they," Andile said, gesturing at the closing doors. "That's my point, dear; after a lifetime of human feelings and human emotions, they are, in their own way, as lost and confused as you are. They're still trying to grope their way through love - and they've had emotions all their lives.

"We spend our entire lives fumbling with our emotions, dearest, learning to come to terms with them at one level or another, always thinking we understanding them - until we realize we don't. Then we step back, reassess - and try again," Andile said, assuring him with a gentle pat on his hand.

"Or we don't," came a deep voice from behind her. "Sometimes, we step back - and never try again. One of the hardest things for any human to do, Commander, is to overcome the setbacks they encounter. We become embarrassed, ashamed... and we give up," Picard said as he approached the two. "Fortunately, there are times when someone steps up and reminds us of what we need to do," he added quietly. "Good evening, Lieutenant, Mr. Data."

"Good evening, Captain," Data replied.

Andile, silent, merely pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.

Picard smiled, shook his head, then gestured at the table. "At ease, Lieutenant; we're all off duty - and we don't stand on ceremony in Ten Forward," he added.

"Yes, sir," she said softly, understanding.

Understanding all too well, Picard realized as he watched her pale; while dismissing the politesse of ceremony might spare her having to come to attention at his approach, it also meant that he didn't have to wait for their invitation to join them at the table - an event she clearly didn't want.

Didn't want - but one that she knew was expected of her, he added. "Would you care to join us?" she managed in a weak voice, then hurriedly added as she spied a green and black uniformed woman behind him, "Both of you?"

"Thank you," he replied, gesturing for Beverly to take the chair beside him, then settling himself in next to Andile. "Lieutenant," he said, "I don't believe you've met..."

"Dr. Crusher," Andile concluded.

Beverly raised an eye, surprised. "Have we met, Lieutenant?"

"No, ma'am," Andile replied.

"Then...?"

"Just observation and deduction, ma'am," Andile explained. "You're wearing a science uniform, a caduceus and commander's pips. I wouldn't imagine the ship has more than one physician carrying that rank, which suggests you're the CMO here. And as for your name, Cmdr. LaForge mentioned it in passing the other day," she added. "All I did was put the information together."

Beverly smiled. "Indeed. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant," she said, extending a hand to the still standing engineer.

But to her surprise, Andile didn't reach for her hand. Rather, she inclined her head, bowing politely.

For a moment, Picard was appalled; refusing the hand of one of his officers was unbelievably rude - but not against the regs, he reminded himself. After all, there were any number of cultures that didn't permit casual contact with strangers, he reminded himself - and half a dozen more that didn't have an appendage similar enough to a hand to accept the traditional Earth greeting. Because of that, Starfleet had incorporated a number of optional gestures for acknowledging a meeting - including the rarely used bow.

It was still rude, Picard reminded himself, remembering that the woman had had no problems in accepting his hand a few days before - but it was by the book.

He sighed silently, then gestured at the chair where the woman had been seated.

"Please, Lieutenant," he said, carefully controlling the irritation he was feeling.

"Thank you, but I was just leaving..."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. I was..."

Was what? Andile quickly asked herself. Tired? Hardly what she'd want to say in front of the ship's CMO. One mention of being tired and the woman would have her down in Sickbay! No.

Then what? That she wanted to go back to engineering? After what had happened when these two had first learned she was working double shifts, she wasn't about to set herself up for that fall once again.

Maybe she could say that they were planning on going dancing! she quickly tried.

But one look at the gentle but utterly artless android and she knew the attempt would fail. Honest, innocent, he wouldn't yet know how to go along with her ruse - nor could he begin to understand why she wouldn't want to visit with two of the people he called friends.

No, she thought to herself miserably; there's no way out of this.

Unhappily, she sank into the chair.

Ignoring the long hesitation, Beverly said, "We had hoped to hear your entire discussion, Lieutenant - but it seems we were late."

"They're not my discussions, Dr. Crusher," Andile replied, a little sharply. "They're the crew's. I simply moderate them."

"That would not be an entirely accurate statement, Andile," Data replied. "While you often do serve as a moderator, you also function to initiate the talks, provide information to stimulate their development..."

His voice trailed off as Andile glared at him furiously.

"... but your main function is moderating," he quickly concluded.

"In any case," Picard continued, ignoring Andile's protests and Data's unwitting affirmation, "it seems we missed a most interesting talk. I thought these sessions began at nineteen hundred hours."

"Usually they do," Data agreed. "But the lieutenant was anxious to begin earlier this evening."

"Indeed?" Picard asked, looking at the woman.

Andile squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. "I... missed the last few discussions, sir; I thought if I started earlier, we could... make up for lost time..." she said weakly.

And, Picard added for her, if you started earlier, you might be able to avoid meeting up with the ship's captain and medical officer.

Andile began to redden.

Then why not simply skip the discussion altogether? he wondered to himself. If you were so terrified of running into one of us, they why not simply cancel this meeting...

Because you'd be letting your fellow shipmates down, he realized at once. They enjoy these meetings - enjoy them so much that you will let nothing - aside from your duty to the ship - interfere with them. Even if it meant risking an unwanted encounter with the ship's captain.

The red began to flare into crimson.

Your worries about your crewmates' problems were more important than your worries about your own problems, Picard continued silently, impressed by his interpretation of the engineer's actions - and if they wanted these discussions, they would have them, and damned was the price you might have to pay!

The sound of a sudden fit of coughing startled him from his reverie.

It was Andile, coughing, almost choking, her face turning from scarlet to purple as she fought to gasp a breath of air between the spasms that suddenly rocked her.

Horrified, he started to his feet, but Data and Beverly were already beside her.

"Lieutenant?" Beverly said. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Are you unwell?" Data echoed worriedly. "Is there something you require?"

"Water!" she gasped between spasms, reaching for the half-empty glass that was before her.

Grabbing it, Beverly guided it into the choking engineer's hands, then helped her raise it to her lips.

The spasm ended as quickly as it had come upon her; gasping, Andile set down the now empty glass, the hideous purple shade fading from her face - and leaving it an equally hideous white.

"Are you all right?" Picard asked.

Andile nodded. "Yes... Something just went down the wrong way," she whispered, her throat strained from the effort.

He nodded, seeming to accept her answer at face value, then glanced at Beverly. "I think the Lieutenant could use a fresh drink," he told her.

She stared at him - then her eyes widened slightly with comprehension. "I think we all could," she agreed amiably. "Data, why don't you give me a hand?" she said.

He looked up from Andile's side, about to protest - but the engineer lay a hand on his arm, nodding. "Go ahead, d... Data," she said, forcing a strength into her voice she didn't feel. "I'm fine - but I could really use another glass of water," she insisted.

He hesitated, then gave a short nod. "We shall return promptly," he insisted, then followed the physician as she made her way through the crowd toward the bar.

No you won't, Andile thought to herself as she watched the two walk away; even if this wasn't the busiest time of day in the lounge when getting a drink would take time in the best of circumstances, the doctor would make sure you stayed away long enough for... for what? she wondered - then turned an expectant and angry gaze on the captain.

He met the gaze head-on - and gently deflected it.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. As I said, I just swallowed something the wrong way," she insisted.

"Your pride, perhaps?" he said.

"Pardon?"

"Your pride," he repeated. "I had been informed that you were able to read body language almost as well as some telepaths can read people - but until now, I didn't believe it," he admitted.

"And now?" she pressed.

"And now...?" he mused. "Well... All I can say is that that was the first time I'd ever seen someone choke because I was thinking about them," he informed her.

Andile began to redden once again.

"Are you really that adept at reading body language?" he pressed, quickly changing the topic to something safer, something more neutral, not wanting a second fit to overtake the woman.

She nodded, equally relieved by the change, her face returning quickly to its normal, albeit unhealthy, pallor. "Yes, sir. At least with people from the cultures I've studied," she added. "Body language is specific to each culture - even more so than the verbal language is. It takes time and practice - but I've had eighty years with Earthers; I'm good," she said.

He nodded, hearing the pride in her voice - and the desperate attempt to suppress it. No wonder she had choked, he thought to himself; she didn't like compliments - even from herself.

"Good enough to believe what you wrote in your report?" he pressed.

Andile paled, then swallowed and nodded. "Yes, sir. I knew what Ensigns Cho and Dulfer were thinking - what they were feeling - and I did nothing to stop them. I should have," she whispered, shamed. "I should have stayed with them, walked them through the first few tests, explained the need for time and precisions and care..."

"I know," Picard said, stopping her short. "I read your list of corrective actions - including the recommendation that you be court-martialed," he added.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"No," he replied flatly.

"Pardon?"

"I do not court-martial officers for following standard procedure, Lieutenant," he informed her flatly. "Which is what you did. You were in a training session; you had given your trainees explicit directions not to begin a procedure until you returned - an instruction that was overheard and verified by two of my officers. At that point, you had done everything you were supposed to do - that the two trainees proceeded against orders..."

"You weren't there!" she seethed. "I was – and I knew what they were thinking, Captain! They wanted to impress me!"

"And you knowing that - knowing that they wanted to impress you, knowing they would do so by proceeding against you explicit orders, you still walked away, allowing two young men to proceed with doing something that would possibly kill them?" he asked acerbically.

Andile opened her mouth - but nothing came out.

"In retrospect, yes, you may have deduced that that was what they were thinking, Lieutenant - but you did not know that at the moment you left them. You couldn't have," he insisted. "If you had known - if you had even suspected that those two ensigns were about to try something like that - you would never have left them alone.

"I've read your record, Lieutenant," he said confidently. "I've seen what you have done to save the lives of the people with whom you've served. You have never allowed a person under your command to come to harm - deliberately or unintentionally - when you could have prevented it - and I know you..."

"Know me?" she interrupted sharply, her voice an acidic hiss. "You don't know me! By the gods, you don't know a damned thing!" she spat at him, then spun from the chair, knocking it over as she hurried from the table.

Stunned by the unexpected outburst, it took him a second to recover - and by the time he had made his way to his feet, she was pushing her way through the crowd, hurrying toward the lounge doors.

For a moment he was tempted to call out to her, tempted to order her to stop, to return to the table - but in the crowded room, there would have been no way to do it without alerting everyone present - and humiliating her in the process.

And he would not do that, especially not after making such a point of their all being off duty here.

Instead, he reached for the fallen chair, righted it, then looked up as Beverly returned to the table.

"What was that all about?" she asked as she set down the two drinks.

"I'm not entirely sure," he admitted, perplexed. "I was trying to assure her that what happened in the shuttlebay was not her fault..."

"But she didn't believe you," Beverly concluded.

He sighed. "No. The opposite; she does," he insisted. "I may not be able to read body language the way the lieutenant does - but it's obvious she knows she wasn't responsible for what happened," he said.

"Then why is she insisting she is?" Beverly asked, equally puzzled.

"I'm not sure - but I suspect there's quite a bit more to the lieutenant than any of us know," he replied, trying to reason his way through the engineer's mysterious behavior - and finding no answers. He gave a final sigh, then looked at the physician. "And you?" he asked. "Did you find the answers you were looking for?"

She smiled, then opened her hand to reveal the surreptitiously hidden micro-scanner. "If you mean was I able to scan her, then yes," she said.

"And...?"

"And it's going to take some time to analyze what it found, Jean-Luc," she reminded him.

"Then let's begin," he said, rising from the chair.

She frowned at him. "First you rush me through dinner, now you're chasing me out of Ten Forward and back to work," she complained. "When this is all over, Jean-Luc, you're going to owe me a proper night out," she informed him sternly.

He smiled back. It was a price he was more than willing to pay - if, he reminded himself grimly, they got out of this.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

Andile flew through the halls, racing along the nearly-deserted corridors, ignoring the friendly calls that followed her as she ran from Ten Forward, oblivious to the expressions of worry and concern from the few that she passed as she hurried, grim-faced, down the hallway.

Reaching a lift door, she slammed her palm against the button - but when the door didn't open immediately, she turned, racing back down the hallway and entered the alcove that guarded the Jeffries tube from an accidental mis-step.

Straddling the ladder that ran the length of the tube, her feet riding the outer edge of the rail, she let herself fall, her hands grazing the outer rail as well, pressing against the metal posts every now and then to slow and control her descent.

Why? she asked herself suddenly as she watched the rungs pass by, mere inches from her face. Why bother? It didn't matter; she was nothing to them - and even less to herself.

She watched the passing rungs a second longer, then with a forceful shove, pushed herself away from the rails.

What could it hurt now? she wondered. Geordi could figure out the engines without her, they could make the computers work without her - she built the ship, installed the engines - it would all come together soon... her work was done. She didn't need to stay any longer. She didn't need to stay - and suffer the humiliation, the shame of them learning the truth.

I can go.

I can go... at last!

She was falling free now, free from the ladders, free from the rails, free from the errors and mistakes that had filled her life, free of everything... free!

She gave a joyous laugh, a shriek of freedom - and bliss.

*Andile!*

The voice tore through her, shocking her out of the joy of the fall, terrifying her back to grim reality.

*Andile!* it accused again.

"No!" she protested, screaming out in rage - but she knew her protestations were in vain; the voice could not be denied.

Not now, not ever.

Surrendering to the inevitable, she reached out for the rails speeding by her face and grabbed one, then began to tighten her grip around it, slowly trying to reduce her speed before she reached the bottom level of the tube.

But the gradual slowing wasn't enough; hearing the warning voice reverberate within her head once again, she instantly reached for the second rail as well, pulling her feet against the ladder, tightening her grasp to stop herself, feeling the skin peel away from her palms as she quickly lost speed.

Even so, she was still moving too fast when she hit the bottom of the tubeway; stunned by the sudden impact, she rolled to the ground, the air knocked from her lungs, her knees and hips screaming out in pain. Insensate, she lay there for a moment, pain drowning out all her other senses - then slowly pushed herself to her feet.

There is no pain, she informed her legs and ankles; there is no pain, she told her raw and bleeding palms. You are andile.

It took a moment for the shocked and assaulted flesh to accept the message - but even before it did, Andile had begun to stumble down the hall, forcing her body onward.

Andile! she screamed at herself.

Andile! she shouted as she reached the door to her quarters, slapping the release, falling against the doorjamb as it slid open - then falling to the floor in a heap of misery.

"Andile?"

It took a moment for her to realize the voice had come from outside herself; shaken, she looked back over her shoulder and saw the android enter the room behind her.

"Leave me alone," she whispered miserably, forcing herself to her feet once again.

Data considered the order for a moment, then nodded. "If that is what you wish," he said uncertainly, unhappily.

Andile nodded. "Yes. It is," she said. "Go. Please go. I want to be alone..." she begged.

He hesitated, then... "Are you certain?"

She nodded once more. "Yes..." she began - then suddenly shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Oh, gods, Data, I don't know!" she cried, reaching out to him, aching for the embrace of his arms - and feeling them instantly wrap around her.

"I've always been alone, Data," she whispered as she pressed her head against his chest, "all my life, there's never been anyone there for me, never been anyone not to be alone with... "

"I am here... now," he reminded her.

She nodded, then fell silent, wanting, needing nothing more than she had at that moment.

Two arms around her, a warm body to cradle her, a soothing voice to tell her everything was going to be all right...

"Tell me it's all going to be all right," she begged softly. "Please; tell me it's all going to be all right!"

He hesitated; despite the desperation in her voice, he hesitated. He had understood and reacted without comprehending that she had needed to feel the warmth of his embrace - it was a part of the human condition he could accept, even though he would never have that same need for physical contact. But to assure her of something without understanding the nature of her worry, to blindly promise her that everything was going to be 'all right' was imprudent; he would need to study the problems she faced, test tentative solutions, study implementation processes...

But she did not want to hear that, he knew; she did not want reason and logic and study; she wanted something else, something more.

She wanted... hope.

And he did not know if he could give it to her.

But it was what she wanted, he reminded himself.

He hesitated for a moment, then...

"Andile, it will be... all right," he whispered softly.

Whether she believed him or not, he could not tell - but the words seemed to ease her anguish; she pressed closer to him, leaning more heavily against him, forcing him to tighten his grasp about her - but there was no sign of the overwhelming fatigue in her face as there was the night before. Rather, she seemed simply to crave the nearness of his presence, finding solace simply from his being there.

He continued to hold her for a long moment, then slowly readjusted his arms, moving one up to cradle her head, the other to the narrow curve of her waist, easing her against him - and feeling her arms move to encompass him more tightly as well.

For a long time, they stood there, locked in the other's embrace, then Data looked down...

...and kissed the top of her head.

Then her forehead.

Her eyes.

The bridge of her nose.

Her lips.

Her eyes opened in surprise - then closed again, as she gave a soft, deep sigh.

He lowered his head, seeking out the soft hollow at the base of her throat, kissing it gently as she tilted her head back, giving him free access to the tender site.

But her collar was in the way; reaching up, he drew his finger along the seam, breaking the molecular bond that held it closed, gently easing the collar open a little further, kissing the exposed flesh - then drew his finger along the seam a little further.

Andile gave a soft groan as he pushed the uniform from her shoulder, her head coming back to lie against his chest as he kissed the bared shoulder - then groaned again as he began to work her arm free of the sleeve.

"Oh, Data," she whispered, "What are you doing?"

For a time he said nothing, working his way along the length of her arm, baring it to the warmth of the air, to the tender touch of his kisses - then returning slowly to her shoulder, her throat, her neck, her lips... and pulled away.

"I am attempting to seduce you," he explained as she opened her eyes to him, then added, uncertainly, "Am I doing it correctly?"

"Oh, yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes."


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

Picard took the two steaming mugs of coffee from the replicator then set one down on the computer console in Beverly's quarters automatically, his eyes locked on the micro-scanner resting on the desk as he sipped from the second.

"Well?" he asked.

She looked up from the tricorder that had been attached to the scanner and gave a disgusted shake of her head. "Still no good," she sighed.

"Maybe if we used the terminal in Sickbay..." Picard began to suggest.

"And have Greg Matthews asking questions?" she retorted, affixing him with a quizzical look. "I thought you wanted to keep the lieutenant's medical history quiet," she reminded him.

Picard gave her a troubled look. "I thought doctors were required to keep medical information confidential," he said.

"We're supposed to," she replied. "That doesn't always mean we do," she added disapprovingly

He frowned. "You don't trust him, do you?"

"No," she sighed. "Not that I have any reason not to - technically, he's competent - more than competent; he's probably a better doctor than I am, technically - but I'm not comfortable with him." She shook her head, uncertain of the cause of her vague dissatisfaction with the man. "Let's just put it this way: I'd trust Greg to treat my condition - but I wouldn't trust him to treat me. But," she conceded, "maybe that's just me - or maybe it's just that he's new, or maybe it's just this mission."

"Or maybe there's a reason you don't trust him," Picard added.

She raised a brow at him, and was rewarded with a smile.

"You don't get to be Chief Medical Officer of a starship without developing good instincts about people," he reminded her. "If you're not comfortable with Dr. Matthews, there probably is a reason. When this mission is over, I'll request his reassignment," he said.

To his surprise, however, she shook her head. "That won't be necessary, Jean-Luc; personal feelings aside, he is brilliant... if a bit brusque," she added, remembering Geordi's less-than-glowing report on the man's behavior in the shuttle bay.

Picard watched her for a moment, then slowly nodded, reluctantly giving in to her. "All right," he conceded, then looked back at the scanner. "Is there any way we can use the terminal in Sickbay without him realizing what we're doing?"

"No - but we shouldn't need to," she insisted. "This terminal is as good as the one in my office. We should be able to do it here - if we can do it at all," she added grimly.

"Then the scanner didn't work?" he asked, glancing askew at the miniature device.

Beverly shook her head again. "It worked, all right - at least it worked as well as it could - but it was never designed as a comprehensive diagnostic tool," she reminded him. "Starfleet invented it with the sole purpose of being able to detect a Shape-Shifter without having to resort to blood tests."

He nodded, remembering; there had been some hope that if the Dominion infiltrators could be found covertly, without alerting them to the fact that their presence was suspected, then Starfleet could isolate them, feed them disinformation - and wait for the Dominion to reveal themselves at a time and place when Starfleet was ready for them.

The plan had been ideal, Picard reminded himself - but like many ideals, it never materialized.

"I remember," he murmured. "But I also remember it didn't work," he added.

"Not for that, no; the Shape-Shifters were too thorough, too adept at mimicking the structure of the races they imitated - right down to the cellular level. Nonetheless, it did prove itself as a handy little medical scanner - albeit at a very limited range. Perfect for covert use, when you want to find something out that the other person doesn't want found out," she added with a grin, reminding him that that was what they had just used the device for - then frowned. "Though I think I'm treading on thin ice, ethically."

"Because you want to find out what's wrong with one of your patients?" he scoffed gently.

"No - and that's precisely the problem here. Andile is _not_ one of my patients, Jean-Luc - and until she is, or until I have a real reason to make her one, then I am bound to keep my hands off - even if I'm sure there's is something wrong with her," she added frustratedly.

"It was an order," he reminded her.

Beverly gave a rueful smile, is if daring him to remember a time when she would violate her ethics at his - or any person's - command. "I seem to remember it was a suggestion," she countered.

He bowed his head, conceding the point. "In any case..."

"In any case, I used it," she gave in, somewhat relieved that the device hadn't worked, sparing her any more of the internal moral debate. "Ethics aside, I can't bear to see someone in so much pain - emotional or physical - and not try to do something about it. Using this..." she said, brandishing the micro-scanner, "I thought if I could get close enough to Andile, it might give me some information about her, about whether she has some underlying illness..."

Or whether she might not even be who she claimed, Picard added, knowing Beverly had had the same thought when she agreed - reluctantly - to his suggestion to use the device.

He understood her reluctance; he had hated making the suggestion in the first place - but it wouldn't have been the first time that a Starfleet officer had been kidnapped - or killed, he added grimly - and replaced by a surgically altered look-alike. And while the micro-scanner might not be able to detect the subtleties of a Dominion shape-shifter, it could certainly tell the difference between a genetic human and a Cardassian, Romulan or Klingon.

But not a surgically altered human, he reminded himself, keeping that possibility open in the back of his mind.

His thoughts playing on that possibility, he watched as Beverly entered a new set of commands into the terminal - then angrily thumbed the power control to the keyboard. "Damn it! Still nothing! No matter what I do, Jean-Luc, I'm still showing high levels of tritanium in the readout. It's got to be a fault in the scanner, but every time I try to filter out the tritanium, I lose the lieutenant's signal, too," she complained. "It's almost as if there was tritanium in the lieutenant herself!"

Picard gave her a puzzled look. "But that's possible, isn't it?" he asked. "Tritanium is used in some surgical procedures..." he reminded her - as if she, a physician, needed reminding of that basic fact.

"Yes - but not in the quantities I'm detecting," she replied staring at the screen. She played with the terminal a moment longer, then gave a frustrated sigh, pushed herself back from the desk and looked up at him. "Tritanium is sometimes used in orthopedic surgical procedures," she explained patiently. "If a bone is badly broken, if the healing process indicates that it will never recover full strength or mobility on its own, the pieces can be reset around a tritanium framework. It's light but incredibly durable - Data's skeletal structure is made from tritanium - but unlike many metals, tritanium's fully compatible with organic tissue. The crystalline structure allows the bone to integrate into the lattice and build on it - and the bone will be as dense and as durable as it was before the break. But the amount of tritanium needed in that type of repair is miniscule; what this readout shows is more than any bone repair could possibly account for," she said, flatly.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if she could possible have forgotten what he told her earlier. "She was badly injured at Sipantha..." he began - but Beverly stopped him immediately with a touch.

"Not this badly," she said, shaking her head, "If she really had this amount of tritanium in her body, that would mean that more than half her bones had been rebuilt," she informed him.

He looked at her, somewhat blankly.

"No one survives that kind of injury, Jean-Luc," she explained patiently. "That many broken bones, broken so badly that they all require tritanium lattices... No," she insisted after a moment's thought, "it had to be something else. A fault in the scanner, maybe, or something in Ten Forward interfered with the scanner - or there was another computer glitch," she added with a tired smile.

Picard smiled, then shook his head. "I think we can discount that possibility, Doctor. After all, we haven't had any other problems with the medical programs," he reminded her, "and I think it a little unlikely that we'd suddenly have an isolated problem in this one area. More likely your first suggestion was right; something interfered with the scanner, or..." His voice trailed off, his eyes losing their focus as he stared emptily into the room.

She gave him a knowing - and disapproving - look. After fifteen years together, she knew him well enough to know - or at least suspect rather certainly - what he was thinking. But knowing what was on his mind was not the same thing as giving voice to it - and she wasn't about to open that can of worms. If he wanted to broach the topic that was nagging at him... But that was precisely what he wanted, she realized equally quickly: he needed to talk about his concerns, with someone he could trust implicitly - without damaging the subject's reputation in the process.

Beverly smiled. There was a compliment in that trust, she knew - one she was not about to betray now. "Or what?" she pressed him - gently.

"Or someone interfered with it," he replied, raising his eyes to hers.

"Someone?"

He gave her a frown, disliking her goading him into speaking the answers they both already knew. But one of them had to say it, he reminded himself; one of them had to speak the thought out loud - if only to quash it. And I, he reminded himself, am the captain.

RHIO.

"The lieutenant," he growled tersely.

She shook her head. "Jean-Luc, I know there is some circumstantial evidence against Andile - and I know you don't care for her personally - but be reasonable," she said, smiling tiredly at him. "After all, an hour ago you were telling me you thought she had deliberately moved the discussion ahead two hours for the sole purpose of avoiding us - now you're saying she also just happened to be wearing a body frame of tritanium just so I couldn't take a scan of her?" she teased. "I know you've said she's the most prepared officer you've ever known - but I think that's carrying things to extremes, even for a saboteur."

"It does sound a bit paranoid," he admitted sheepishly.

"Well," she conceded gently, "let's just say it's unlikely. About as unlikely as us finding an answer from this tonight," she added, giving the computer screen a final disgusted glare. "Come on," she added, rising from the desk, taking her mug in one hand and Picard in the other and guiding him toward the room's couch.

Sinking in, she settled into one corner of the cushions, curling her legs beneath her, and cradling the mug in both hands. "You're right about one thing though," she continued, sighing with relief as the cushions sank around her. "She is hiding something. What I wouldn't give to get her in Sickbay for a thorough work-up..." she sighed. "The woman's positively cachetic, Jean-Luc! That type of thinness isn't normal - which means it's either there's something seriously wrong with her physically or there's something even more seriously wrong with her psychologically."

"Any idea which?" Picard pressed.

Beverly shook her head. "I'm a doctor, Jean-Luc, so it's in my nature to assume it's physical - but the more I think about it, the more I think this might be something for Deanna," she announced then looked at him.

"How so?" he asked.

"She refused to shake hands with me," she reminded him.

Picard shook his head disapprovingly, still taken aback by the behavior of the engineer. "It was rude, I'll admit," he conceded, "but I'm not sure how that qualifies the lieutenant to be one of the Counselor's patients. After all, it was by the book."

"Yes," Beverly agreed, adding, "when one's culture prohibits shaking hands. But hers doesn't; she's human..."

"But not from Earth - and there are many human cultures both on and off Earth that frown on direct physical contact," he argued - then shook his head. "Though she did shake hands with me when we met," Picard recalled, sighing disappointedly at the lieutenant's breach of protocol. "Still, I don't see how that makes her a candidate for Counseling," he added. "Remedial training in shipboard etiquette, perhaps - but not Counseling."

"Except she didn't forget the protocol, Jean-Luc; she followed it – exactly as required," Beverly countered.

"Then all the more reason to ask why that should qualify her for Counseling?" he asked.

"Jean-Luc," Beverly sighed patiently. "You're the ship's captain; no crewmember is going to refuse to shake hands with you except where cultural prohibitions exist. It just isn't done. Crewmembers defer to your cultural practices as a matter of respect. But Lt. Andile didn't avoiding shaking hands with me because she didn't respect me; she did it for a very simple reason: I would notice what you clearly didn't."

He shook his head, puzzled. "What? What didn't I notice?"

"Her sleeves," Beverly replied.

He stared at her for a moment, stunned. "Her sleeves?" he finally repeated.

"Yes," Beverly confirmed solemnly. "They're too long."

He stared at her a moment longer - then broke into a smile. "Is that your diagnosis, Doctor?" he asked. "That the lieutenant refused to shake hands with you because her sleeves were too long? And you think she should see Counselor Troi because she lacks a sense of fashion?" he asked teasingly, wondering if the physician weren't making too much of such a small detail. "That's hardly a surprise considering her profession; it seems to be a common ailment among engineers. They pay more attention to their engines than they do to themselves."

"Except Andile does pay attention to her uniform," Beverly replied. "She has to."

Picard stared at her, now thoroughly confused by the woman's logic - or lack thereof.

"Andile's uniform's ten years out of date, Jean-Luc," she explained patiently. "It's still regulation, of course - from everything I've seena dn heard, I can't imagine her violating a basic regulation like uniform styles - but that pattern is so obsolete that it's probably not in the standard replicator files any more. And while I can understand why she wears it - it's the most practical outfit for her working conditions - in order for her to get the uniforms, she had to have written a replicator program specifically to make the uniform - and if she's going to go to that effort, she's not going to deliberately have the sleeve end in the middle of her palm the way hers do - unless that's exactly where she wants it to end. She's trying to hide something, Jean-Luc, something she doesn't want to risk showing by shaking hands with the ship's CMO," she added.

"Such as...?" he pressed.

"The scars," Beverly replied. "She's cut her wrists, Jean-Luc."

He stared at her, astounded.

Impossible! he decided instantly. Lt. Andile was a veteran of eighty years in Starfleet, he reminded her silently; she had been given award upon award, medal upon medal for her valor, for her bravery in saving the lives of her crews and her fellow shipmates. An officer like that would never try suicide!

Would she? he added a moment later, his instant rejection of the idea fading as he began a sober assessment of the woman's personality - or tried to.

My God, he thought. I've known of this woman for fifty years - but what do I, what do any of us really know about her? Who am I to say she couldn't have tried to kill herself - and who am I to judge her if she did?

The reasons that drove people to end their own lives - or to try to do so - were more varied than anyone could ever know - and no one, not even the most sensitive of empaths could ever understand the pain that accompanied so many lives, he reminded himself. Bravery had nothing to do with it; even the bravest of souls could sometimes find no way to carry the burden of pain that life gave them, and sometimes suicide seemed the only way to escape the pain, to flee the hurt... The haunting echo of Andile's soft words in the lounge came back to him, the sound of her voice, redolent with pain for Deanna and Will, heavy with a loss Picard suddenly realized he could never even imagine... She knew pain, he realized. She knew hurt - and as sorrowful as her voice had been, he knew that it had been a grief he could never imagine - or hope to live with.

And perhaps Andile had decided she could not live with it, either.

"I didn't know," he admitted quietly. "There's nothing in her file... I didn't even imagine..." He let his words trail off.

Beverly stared at him, confused - then her eyes widened and her mouth dropped as she realized what Picard must have been thinking. "Oh, no! No!" she said emphatically. "I didn't mean that at all Jean-Luc," she insisted. "A suicide might cut herself once, twice, several times - but what I saw on Andile's wrists were hundreds of scars - so many that they've formed into thick bands - though I'm not sure that what I saw was any more comforting," she admitted. "Some of those scars are new."

Picard stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't understand," he said.

"Self-mutilation, Jean-Luc. I suspect she's cutting herself - deliberately. It's not unheard of," Beverly added quickly as she saw the worry rise in the man's eyes, "and it's certainly in keeping with what I've heard of Andile's penchant for self-abuse: working too many hours, not eating, not sleeping - cutting herself, scarring herself is simply a more outward expression of her own self-loathing," she explained.

"But... why?" Picard replied, finding himself even more appalled by this possibility than he had been by the thought of a suicide attempt.

Beverly shook her head. "For the same reasons that she abuses her body in other ways - but I don't know what that reason is. That's why I said I thought the lieutenant's problem was more Deanna's department than mine, Jean-Luc; she may be physically ill, too, but it's her mental state I'm concerned about. She's punishing herself for something: either something she's done - or, if she really is the perfectionist that Will's made her out to be, something she hasn't done."

He fell silent, a look of intense pain covering his face, reminding Beverly once again how intensely he felt the needs - and the problems - of those he commanded.

He has such passion, she thought to herself, such feeling for his crew... and despite their history, Andile was a member of his crew now, his responsibility... No wonder the crew loved him as they did, she thought - and how sad that he had never found a woman who could be the sole recipient of that passion. How could Anij have rejected him? she asked herself, bitterly reproaching the woman for her refusal of his proposal.

But I refused him as well, she reminded herself a moment later, knowing she had been as much a cause of the man's loneliness as the Ba'ku woman had.

Ashamed by the pain she had caused him, she turned away, unable to face him - until his voice cut through her moment of self-misery.

"Is there anything you can do for her?"

Beverly chewed her lip, thinking. "I'm not sure," she admitted at last. "If the cause of her perfectionism, this insatiable drive of hers, is physical as well as psychological, I may be able to treat the underlying cause - but without Deanna to treat her as well, any treatment I perform isn't going to last," she confessed.

"Then I'll order her to report for counseling..."

"How?" Beverly asked with a tolerant, but unhappy, smile. "You can't require someone to undergo counseling unless their behavior is affecting their performance, or they pose a threat to the ship or to themselves," she reminded him. "And in Lt. Andile's case, her perfectionism isn't affecting her performance in the least - if anything, it's enhancing it."

"But the self-mutilation..."

"Is a theory. I don't have any proof - and even if I did, it isn't life threatening," she replied calmly. "I said there must have been hundreds of scars; if she was suicidal, she could have killed herself at any of those times. She hasn't; she's not trying to kill herself - only punish herself - and there's no way I could support you if you wanted to claim that type of behavior as life-threatening. Abusive, yes; pathological, no. That doesn't mean I have to like it," she added at his accusing glare.

He considered for a moment. "You said there's a chance that there might be something physical behind this behavior..."

"There are illnesses that affect one's mental health..." she agreed.

"Then why didn't you didn't order her down to Sickbay, Doctor?" he said. "If you suspect she's ill, you could have dreamt up some pretense."

"I don't need a pretense," Beverly countered instantly. "She hasn't had her physical yet. All I have to do is call her in and tell her it's time."

"Then why didn't you?" he asked, surprised at the oversight in the usually perceptive woman.

Beverly opened her mouth to protest, then hesitated, stopped - and gave him a perplexed look. "You know, I don't know why I didn't," she admitted. "That was my first reaction when I saw the scars, to remind her that she hadn't been down yet - but ... but I guess I had it in my mind that you didn't want me to," she conceded, the argument sounding weak, even to her.

"I didn't want you to do so without cause - but if you feel there's a legitimate reason..."

Beverly hesitated again. "Well, complete physical is required of all new crewmembers..." she started hesitantly.

Picard looked at her hopefully - then saw the reluctance in her eyes. "But...?" he said.

"But once I bring her in, I'm never going to have a chance to get that close to her again. She's going to resent me, resent any efforts I make to help her recover - and for any therapy to work, she's going to have to want to get well - she's going to have to want to be helped. And right now, she doesn't want that."

"She can't refuse treatment," Picard reminded her. "Regulations require..."

"Regulations require all Starfleet crew and officers to submit to necessary medical treatments," she countered. "But if push comes to shove, she can refuse treatment - by resigning," she reminded him.

He stared at her aghast. "And you think she would resign, rather than be treated?" he asked, astounded at the idea.

Admittedly, he hated having to endure the ministrations of the medical profession - but not so much that he would leave Starfleet. The very idea that Lt. Andile would leave over such a trivial matter was almost incomprehensible!

"I don't know," Beverly admitted. "But considering the importance of this mission - and considering how important you said Andile may be to the success of this mission, I'm not willing to risk it.

"Right now, the door's open to her," she reminded him, "but the moment I get her down there, against her will, it's going to slam shut, and it's never going to open again. I'd rather not do that, Jean-Luc; not until I have to," she said slowly.

He drew a deep breath, then shook his head. "Maybe she's not aware of her condition..."

"Of course she's aware," Beverly interrupted him. "She's aware - but she doesn't want help. If she did, she wouldn't isolate herself as she does..."

"Isolate herself?" he said with a smile. "Bev, the woman's in the middle of everything! First with the installation of the engines, now with the computer problem, the nightly talks..."

"In the middle, yes - but alone," she reminded him. "She doesn't have any friends on board - not real friends - no one she can talk to..."

"There's Data," he interjected.

Beverly smiled a knowing smile. "Yes, there's Data. The one person she spends the most time with, the one person to whom she's most likely to talk - and the one person on this ship who could least empathize with her problems," she said.

Picard's eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting that that's why...?"

"She's involved with him?" Beverly finished. "No, not the only reason; I'm sure her affection for him is genuine - but I have no doubts that his emotional naiveté is one of the factors involved in making that relationship come to be. Intellectually, he understands emotions and feelings - but when it comes to how to apply and interpret those feelings, he's still learning - and from her. He's not going to challenge what she tells him - at least not the way that you or I would, because he simply doesn't have the experience to know differently. The knowledge, yes - but if there's one thing that Data's learned over the past few years, it's that knowledge and experience are a far cry from one another - and when it comes to emotions, experience wins. He knows it - and Andile does as well - and don't doubt for a second that she won't use that uncertainty of his to protect herself," she said firmly.

"Protect herself from what?" Picard asked worriedly.

"From getting the help she needs."

He gave her a puzzled look.

Beverly smiled. "The first step in being treated for any illness, Jean-Luc, is admitting the truth behind it. Signs, symptoms, risk behaviors... If you don't tell your doctor the complete story, as best you know it, it's much harder to get the proper treatment." She reached for his hand. "When I went to LaBarre, I knew you were in pain - but there was little I could do for you until you were willing to talk to me, to tell me what happened..."

He gave her a cool - and non-too-pleased - look. "And that's why you came? To 'treat' one of your patients?" he asked. "And am I now cured?"

She smiled patiently, ignoring the sharp barb. "There's no cure for the kind of hurt you felt, Jean-Luc - only time - time and the knowledge that there are people who love you and will be there for you, whenever you need us," she said gently.

He closed his eyes, regretting the callous remark, then squeezed her hand gently. "I'm sorry, Bev," he said. "You didn't deserve that."

"No," she agreed, "but I understand it. In a crisis, you - me, everyone - begins to doubt everything. We've known each other for years, Jean-Luc - and in those years we've come to trust one another - but after what happened with Anij, you've begun to doubt everything - including that trust. You're going to need to test it - time and again - until you're sure of it. But you are reasonably sure of it - or you wouldn't have accepted this mission.

"Andile, however, does not trust us. Oh," she quickly added, seeing him beginning to open his mouth to argue the point, "she trusts us professionally - I have no doubts she's read the personnel file of everyone aboard - but personally?" She shook her head. "That kind of trust comes only with time and experience with people; she's had as little with us as we've had with her. No, she doesn't trust us - and until she does, she's never going to let us know the truth about her."

"Which is...?" he asked quietly.

"That she's not perfect. That's she's human, flawed - that she's made mistakes."

There was a gentleness to her voice, a tenderness that let Picard know she wasn't speaking of the engineer alone. "Beverly," he began to anser, his voice equally gentle but unyieldingly firm, "I've never said I was perfect..."

"I didn't say you did," she replied. "But I know there's a level of perfection that you - and Andile - demand of yourselves. I see it - and the pain you feel - every time you're forced to change a decision, every time you have to obey an order you know is wrong or violates your conscience. It tears at you, making you wonder if this - this one act - is the one that will destroy your reputation with the crew. You've never understood that they know you better than that, Jean-Luc; that your reputation is how the rest of the world knows you - but they know you as the man - and it is that man, not the reputation, that they admire."

He looked at her for a moment, then snapped, "Admire? Admire me for trapping them for two years in this ship, watching as the war went on without them, unable to help their friends, their families, their worlds, as the Dominion threatened everything they swore to protect - just because I had to stand my ground?" he snapped.

Her jaw dropped. It had been two years, she thought to herself; two years - and we've talked this through a hundred - a thousand times!

But still it tore at him, she suddenly realized, stricken by the depths of his pain - and at his refusal to let it go.

"Jean-Luc, don't you dare doubt what you did in the Briar Patch!" she snapped back. "You saved those people; you saved their world! What you did was right - and you know it!" she reminded him.

"In my mind," he growled. "But not according to Starfleet - and my crew paid the price!" he retorted

Beverly stared at him, shaken by his intensity - then reached for his hand.

"That's why you tried to leave us behind," she added, taking his hand in hers, remembering the expression of dismay that had come across his face as the six officers had confronted him as he loaded the Captain's yacht that fateful night two years before.

He had been stricken by their unexpected presence at the Calypso that early, early morning as he prepared for his lone departure; stricken, afraid for the lives - and the careers - of the people he called friends - and yet, she knew, he had been grateful, too, for knowing their dedication to him had run beyond the depths of simple loyalty to their captain - and on to the depths of trust in their friend.

He looked down at the soft hand in his, then slowly raised his eyes to her, the self-doubt and anger still heavy in his expression. "I knew what I had to do, Beverly - but I never wanted any of you..."

"...to be hurt," she concluded for him. "We knew that, Jean-Luc; you were our captain. You would never knowingly let us come to harm.

"But what greater harm would there have been in letting us sit idly by while you defended the principles on which Starfleet and the Federation were founded - while we did nothing? Jean-Luc, if we have trust in you, it's because we know you hold the same values we do. And if you could risk everything for them, could we do any less? Would you truly have wanted us to?" she pressed him.

He stared back at her - then slowly shook his head. "But I didn't want what happened, either," he said softly.

"I know," she agreed. "But what you did for the Ba'ku was right. We know that - and we know that whatever it cost us personally, it cost you a thousand fold. But as much as it hurt you, as much as it hurt us all, we can sleep at night, knowing that we did what was right," she reminded him.

He raised his eyes to meet hers, the doubt still there, but joined by a thankfulness for her understanding - and her compassion.

"I don't think Andile wanted whatever happened to have happened, either," she continued. "But unlike you, she doesn't have the knowledge that she can talk to us about it - that she can trust us enough to tell the truth. And so she keep it - whatever it is - to herself - and suffers."

"Or maybe she believes she has to suffer," Picard added suddenly.

"What?"

"Beverly," he started, turning to her, "you don't believe Andile could be a saboteur, do you?" he asked.

"No," she said firmly. "She's too dedicated, too loyal to Starfleet..."

"And yet..." He hesitated, thinking, trying to put the myriad pieces together in his mind. "And yet, what if she was placed in a position of having to choose between the welfare of Starfleet - or the Federation," he added, an idea coming to him, "and the welfare of the crew? Which one would she choose?" he asked.

Beverly stared at him, the awful answer materializing in her thoughts. "Jean-Luc," she began to protest, "You yourself told me that Andile has never allowed Starfleet to use any of her equipment of ships unless they had been proven time and again to be safe..."

"Because there were options available," he interrupted. "There were other ships available, other engines... but what if this time there were no other options? What if the survival of Starfleet or the Federation required the failure of this ship or this mission?" he asked her, alarm growing in his eyes. "and what if that failure was dependent on Lt. Andile?" he pressed. "Wouldn't that be enough for even someone as dedicated as she was to have turned against the welfare of her crew?"

"She would never agree to it!" Beverly protested.

"She would - for the greater good," he countered. "But not easily," he admitted, "not without protesting the decision. Maybe not without punishing herself for what she knows she's going to have to do," he added grimly.

Beverly stared at him for a long time, horror-stricken - then shook her head. "No. No," she said firmly. "This self-punishment of hers goes back a long way," she insisted. "That kind of traumatic weight loss, the scars on her wrists... This self-abuse goes back years, Jean-Luc!" she declared.

"Two years?" he asked. "To the time of the accident at Sipantha?"

Beverly thought, then admitted, "Yes - but what does Sipantha have to do with this?" she added.

"I'm not certain, but... Whatever the lieutenant and her team were working on, it resulted in an explosion big enough to rip apart an asteroid," he reminded her.

"A new weapon," Beverly realized.

"One that may have been developed using technology in violation of our treaties," he suggested.

She thought for a moment. "And you think the Cardassians and the Romulans found about it?" she asked.

"It's a possibility," he conceded.

"But if they knew about it then, why wait until now to dissolve the Federation Council?" she asked.

"Maybe they're not," he replied. "Maybe this conference isn't about reestablishing the council. Maybe it's just a pretext, a cover, to explain something else," he said.

"Such as...?"

"The disappearance of a Starfleet ship," he said.

She gave him a puzzled look. "You've lost me," she admitted.

"Beverly," he replied, "the last time the Federation was caught using outlawed technology - on the Pegasus," he reminded her, "we had to settle with the Romulans by releasing all the information we had on the project. This time, imagine they - and the Cardassians - won't settle so easily. Imagine they want something more... substantial. Like temporal warp drive," he added.

"Andile's engines," she whispered, horrified.

"They couldn't give them the technology directly," he agreed. "not without providing the same information to all the allied planets. It would be a violation of the Federation Council agreement. But if the only ship with temporal warp were to disappear - and with the only engineer who fully understands that theory - Starfleet could write it off as a tragic accident. And the Romulans and the Cardassians could emerge with their own forms of the drive in a year or two, the natural development of a basic theory, with no one the wiser," he said grimly.

"And us?" she whispered.

"They can't afford to let us return, knowing that this was a ruse to cover Starfleet's reparation for having violated a treaty," he told her solemnly.

Beverly closed her eyes, bit her lip - then looked back at the man. "That would explain so much - the rushing of the ship to preparation..."

"It could be used to cover our disappearance," he agreed.

"... the fact that so few of the crew were called back..."

He nodded. "Some of us had outlived our usefulness," he agreed, tightening his grip on her hand. "And some of us hadn't," he added. "That's why you weren't called back; Starfleet had no reason to be rid of you - but once you knew about the call back, they couldn't stop you from returning - not easily, not without creating suspicions in your mind. And so..."

"And so this is how it ends," she said bravely, refusing to let him see the fear that was welling up in her.

He smiled, knowing her put-upon bravery was no greater than his own. "No. It isn't over yet, Beverly - and knowing what we know - or at least what we think we know - maybe we can stay one step ahead of Starfleet," he informed her.

Beverly gave him a frank look. "It's not Starfleet I'm concerned about, Jean-Luc. You've outwitted them before. I'm worried about Andile. From everything you've told me about her, I suspect that if she's determined to see this through, there's very little any of us can do to stop her."

Picard thought for a moment, then nodded, knowing she was right.

But no one, he reminded himself, not even the legendary Andile, was perfect. Even she couldn't succeed in every plan she made.

Especially when there was a chance she didn't want to succeed.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

The room was dark, lit only by the distant flickering of a single candle on the nightstand, its light imperceptible but for the glint it cast in the eyes of the two people lying on the bed.

"Deanna..."

"No," she said softly, raising her finger to his lips, pressing it against them, silencing him - for the moment. "I know you're not ready to talk about... about whatever is on your mind. I know it's hurting you, but I also understand your not wanting to talk about it. Even with me," she added softly.

"Oh, imzadi," he sighed unhappily, reaching for the finger touching his lips, pulling it away. "You have to believe me... If I could talk about it with anyone, it would be with you..." He stared at the hand in his, then kissed the finger softly.

"But you can't," she replied.

"No," he agreed. "Not yet. Not... Not until I come to terms with what I know - and what I'm going to do," he sighed.

She studied his face in the dark, seeing the terrible pain in his eyes, a pain that grew all the more intense when he looked at her.

"Is it me, Will?" she asked. "Something I've said, something I've done?"

He stared at her, seemingly shocked by the idea, then smiled, shaking his head reassuringly. "Never, beloved," he assured her.

"But... I see such pain in your eyes when you look at me," she said.

"Because... Because the plans I had made for us, the future that I saw for us..." He shook his head once again. That future isn't going to happen now, he reminded himself silently.

"Because we're back together?" she asked him softly. "Is that what this is all about? Our affair?" she asked, stricken.

Had their affair somehow offended someone at Starfleet during the three months they had been back at Earth? she asked herself. Had they been a little too open, a little too obvious since they had resumed their relationship?

Will opened his mouth to repeat the reassurance - then closed it slowly. "I don't know, imzadi," he replied honestly.

Devastated, she stared at him, then pulled back, trying to free herself from his grasp and from his bed.

But his hand was on her arm before she could move, pulling her back to him, drawing her close until their eyes were mere inches apart, so close that there was no place for any lies or dishonesty between them.

"But if it is, imzadi, if what happens is because I chose to come back to you..."

"We chose," she corrected softly, hoarsely.

Will smiled. "If this is all because we chose not to lives our lives apart any longer... Then I will never regret or repent it, no matter what happens," he whispered.

She stared at him, touched by the depths of his words, but knowing what they both had always known; that if it came to a choice between her and his career, his career would win. It wasn't even a contest, she knew; they had both been clear about that decision, even the first time they had been together. And now, now after so many years, after such an advancement and such a record as Will had earned, there was no way that she could stand in the way of his progress - no matter what he might say, here, now, in the heat of passion - and hurt.

Pushing him back gently, she began to remind him about that promise they had made to each other long ago - and remade much more recently: to be honest about who they were and where they were going, even if it meant hurting the other one - but as she lay her hand upon his chest, she felt a wash of emotions running through him that she had never felt from the man before - a wave of emotions so strong it knocked her back on the bed and left her gasping from its impact.

"Will..." she gasped - then felt a drop of moisture on her chest. And another.

"Deanna... I love you," he whispered.

For a moment, she tried to speak - but there were no words. Instead, she opened her heart to him, opened her soul, letting his being flow within her - then felt herself shuddering as the intensity of his feelings began to fill her soul.

"I love you," he repeated.

"And I love you, Will," Deanna suddenly cried out, her own tears welling up and spilling across her cheeks.

Sobbing with a joy he had never known before and a passion deeper than anything he could have imagined or dreamt of, Will drew Deanna up to his lips, kissing her with every ounce of feeling he had ever known - then guided her back down to the pillows once more.

Imzadi.

Imzadi.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

Geordi took one look at the android as he entered his office the following morning and gave a low whistle. "Data, you look like something the cat dragged in!"

Data gave the chief engineer a baffled look. "Geordi, I do not believe that is physically possible. Spot is capable of moving a mass limited to a maximum of approximately two hundred and fifty grams; my body mass, on the other hand, is..."

"A metaphoric cat, Data," Geordi interrupted with a sigh, forgetting once again the literalness of his friend, "not Spot. What I meant was that you look awful. If you were anyone else, I'd think you'd been up all night - but since you're up all night, every night, I suppose that wouldn't explain it. Is something bothering you?" he asked, concerned for his friend.

Data hesitated. "I do not believe the term 'bothering' is appropriate - but I am confronting some uncertainties regarding the nature of human relationships."

"Ah," Geordi replied, understanding at once. "That talk Biji had last night about love." He gave a knowing - and somewhat disapproving - nod. "I had a feeling that would stir up some new problems for you."

"Indeed," Data confirmed, then gave his friend another troubled look. "You do not approve the topic?" he asked.

"Data, whether I approve or not won't keep Biji from talking about what she wants to talk about," he said, suspecting it would be easier to stop a core breach in progress than to get Andile to not do what she was determined to do, "but I do wish she had come to us before she launched into this particular area. I know she's trying to help you come to terms with your emotions - but love is... complex. You're not going to understand it in just one night."

"Indeed," the android confirmed. "In fact, if anything, I feel more confused than prior to the discussion," he admitted.

"I can imagine," Geordi sighed. "Talking about love is hard enough - but doing so in front of a hundred people... I don't know what she was thinking..."

"You must not criticize her actions, Geordi," the android quickly - but gently - chastised his friend. "The choice of topic was mine. I wished to know more about love - but Andile said it was unique to each individual. So I requested that we open the subject at the evening's talk so that I might encounter a number of different attitudes toward the emotion."

"And did you?" Geordi asked blandly, refusing to admit to the curiosity that filled him; after all, he insisted to himself, he was human: he had grown up knowing what love was - and didn't need to take his needs before a gathering of half the ship's officers.

But knowing what love was and experiencing the fullness of the emotion were two different things, he reminded himself - and when it came to real love, he sighed unhappily, he was no more experienced than his friend.

"There is no question that every person present had a different perspective concerning love - including," he added with a clearly bewildered look, "several individuals who were involved with one another." He thought for a moment, then looked at the engineer. "Is that possible?" he asked. "Can two people who are in love with each other experience mutual love - but in different manners?" he asked, puzzled.

Geordi began to answer - then stopped, shaking his head slowly. "I wouldn't know, Data," he admitted. "I've never really been in love. At least, not the way most people are in love." He stopped for a moment, thinking. "But... But if two people care about each other, and have a mutual affection, maybe the specifics of those feelings don't matter," he mused. "After all, if it makes you both happy..."

"But what if it does not make you happy?" Data interrupted. "What if the strength of your feelings does not evoke a pleasant experience - but rather an unpleasant one?" he pressed his friend.

Something was troubling the android, Geordi realized - and troubling him a lot. He hadn't seen Data this upset since... since... since he'd had his chip installed - and it had malfunctioned, he realized, suddenly worried for his friend.

"Data," he said instantly, "what's wrong?"

Data opened his mouth to begin an explanation - then found himself hesitating, then stopping, confused.

Geordi is my friend, he reminded himself quickly; I should be able to discuss with him all aspects of my personal life - including my sexual relations. And yet I find myself reluctant to do so, he realized.

Because he has not experienced these feelings and thus will not be able to identify with them? he wondered. Or because that his lack of recent romantic involvement may serve to distance us from one another?

Or perhaps because... I do not wish to share these feelings, he admitted to himself.

Whatever the cause for his reluctance, though, his friend was about to have no part of it; even as Data ran through the possibilities in his mind, Geordi plunged ahead.

"Data, if your emotion chip is malfunctioning, we can remove it, fix it and reinstall it. We've done it before with the upgrades you've made..." he reminded the android as he reached for a scanner.

But before he could turn it on his friend, Data reached for his hand, stopping him. "There is nothing wrong with the chip, Geordi..."

"Are you sure? Have you run a diagnostic?" his friend replied.

To his amazement, Data felt a sense of... amusement, rush over him. His friend was worried for him, he realized - but worried in the way he knew him best - through the technology that ran his body.

Perhaps that was why he had not felt able to share the details of his problems with Geordi, he realized; his friend did not yet see him as a feeling creature, but rather still as an animated machine whose feelings were no more an integrated part of him than his clothing was. How then, he asked himself, could he expect Geordi to understand the depth of his feelings for Andile - or the pain that he had felt upon leaving her last night, when Geordi did not yet accept that those feelings were possible, let alone real.

"I am sure, Geordi," he assured his friend. "But I will run a complete diagnostic, if you would prefer."

The Chief Engineer nodded. "That chip is one of a kind, Data - we've got no real idea what kind of power tolerances it can handle - and Biji's been having you run it full time since she came aboard," he said.

Data nodded. "Agreed - though I believe my quandary is more from the nature of human relationships than from a fault in my emotion chip. Geordi, if I loved someone, but some aspect of their existence was causing me unhappiness, what should I do?" he asked.

Geordi's eyes widened - then he gave a shake of his head. "So that's what's on your mind," he said, beginning to understand the reason for the android's concerned expression. "That's a tough one, Data. I suppose it would depend on what aspect it was. You can't change people, Data - the only way they change is by wanting to change - so if it was something basic, like they were cruel, or dishonest, or didn't like cats," he added with a smile, "I don't know that you could change it. But then again, I don't know why you would fall in love with someone who you didn't basically like in the first place," he added.

"Assume then that it is not a disparity of personalities that cannot be changed," Data agreed. "Perhaps it is a choice of lifestyle. Such as a person who does not care for herself properly."

Geordi snapped his fingers, nodding enthusiastically as he began to understand the nature of his friend's worry at last. "Right! Like maybe she doesn't eat enough! And maybe she doesn't sleep enough. And maybe she works double and triple shifts... But Data," he added, confused, "I thought you and Biji..." he began - then stopped, hesitated, and tried again. "I mean, I thought your date didn't work out," he reminded the android with a hint of surprise.

"But we remain friends," Data answered.

"Well, yeah, but..."

"And is friendship not a form of love?"

"Well... yeah," Geordi conceded reluctantly.

"And is not concern over the well-being of that friend an expression of that love?"

"I suppose you could say that," he admitted - then gave in with a sigh. Data's going to convince himself he's in love, no matter how big a stretch it might be, he thought to himself - just as he convinced himself about a dozen other aspects of his growing humanity. But if that's what he needs, Geordi thought, that's what he needs - and who am I to argue with him?

"Is there something in particular you are concerned about?" Geordi asked, willing to play along - at least for the time being.

"I was in Andile's quarters yesterday evening, Geordi," Data admitted. "She has been aboard for three months - but to date she has not begun adapting her quarters to her own taste. She has no personal items, no art work, no personal apparel..."

There had not even been linens on the bed, he reminded himself, the memory of her lying naked on the bare mattress, asleep, shivering in the cold of the cabin's night air, with neither sheet nor blanket in the room... He had replicated the latter for her, covering her before he left, but aching at the realization she had not thought herself worth even the minimal effort needed to provide such a basic level of comfort.

"Data," the engineer said, unknowingly interrupting the android's memory of the night before, "I know she's been on board for a long time - but she's only been a crewmember a week!" he reminded the android. "You don't move into a place when you're only assigned there temporarily. Probably most of her belongings are back at Utopia; I doubt she'd have wanted to move everything here, only to have to take it back when this mission's over," he mused - then saw the stunned expression on Data's face.

The look astounded Geordi; could Data have forgotten that Andile's assignment was temporary? he wondered - then dismissed the idea. Data forgot nothing, he reminded himself - but that didn't mean that he was willing to accept the reality of Andile's temporary placement on the ship, he thought.

"Data, when this mission's over, Biji is going back to Utopia," he reminded the android gently. "She's Starfleet's premiere ship designer; they can't afford to leave her here, acting as my assistant..."

"I am cognizant of these facts," Data replied evenly.

Geordi stared at his friend for a moment, wondering if his friend was aware of the bald-faced lie he had just uttered - then gave a long sigh.

"But however long she's here for, there's no reason she can't make the place a little more... homey. Maybe you can help her go through the replicator files, find a few things..." he added.

Data gave a single nod of his head, considering the idea - and dismissing it. Not that Geordi's advice was not worthy of consideration - but if Andile had not deemed herself worth the seven point three seconds it had taken him to replicate one blanket, it was highly unlikely she would see herself as being worthy of the hours and days necessary to properly equip her residence - and especially not if she viewed this residence as only temporary.

Which did not mean, he reminded himself, that there was not a solution to the problem: it simply was not this one.

But there was another one... "I shall broach the topic at our next meeting," he agreed, finding himself cheered at the thought that had come to him.

Seeing the pleased look on the android's face, Geordi let out a silent sigh of relief - and gave himself a pat on the back; it had been good advice - both for Data and himself. After all, a worried Data _and_ a ship in trouble was more than he - or anyone else - could handle.

"Speaking of meetings, if we don't get these numbers together in the next hour, we're not going to be ready for our meeting with the captain," he reminded the android. "I don't suppose you finished them last night, did you?" he added hopefully.

"I am sorry, Geordi," Data apologized, "I did not. The lieutenant and I..."

"Were up talking," Geordi sighed knowingly. He rolled his eyes at the thought of another of Andile's famous all-night gab fests with Data; how those two could spend an evening just talking - about emotions, or crew morale, or any of the other topics Data had mentioned - was beyond him. But then, what else were they going to do? he sighed, unhappy for both of his friends; Andile was, after all, far too old for that kind of a relationship, and Data...

Well, he sighed to himself, Data was Data.

But if talking all night made them both happy, then who was he to argue with them? he decided, then set the topic aside as he took a padd from his desk and handed it to the android. "You review the sensor scans, I'll do the computer status," he told his friend - then added, "And Data?"

"Yes, Geordi?"

"You don't have to rush this love business. When the time comes, you'll know it," he assured his friend.

Data considered for a moment, then gave a nod. "I believe you are correct," he agreed, then turned back to the padd.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

"We rendezvous with the Cardassian representative's ship in twenty-six hours," Picard announced to the gathered staff seated at the conference room table. "I would like to know that my ship is fully operational by that time," he added, looking at the seven faces, searching for confirmation of the hope, then singling out the face of his Chief Engineer.

But if he was looking for confirmation there, he was not about to find it. "Engines are operating within Starfleet parameters," Geordi replied.

"But not within the lieutenant's," Picard responded, hearing the uncertainty in Geordi's voice.

The engineer sighed, then reluctantly nodded. "No, sir - and we have confirmed it; there is a fluctuation in the warp power lines - but it is negligible, and well within tolerances," he conceded.

Picard could see the unhappiness in the man's eyes; he was an engineer, he reminded himself; unexplained mysteries, especially in his engine room, were something he did not like - even when they were within 'tolerances'.

"And the check of the port sensor power lines didn't determine the cause of the fluctuation?" Will asked.

Picard gave the man on his right a quick glance, tightly holding back a pleased smile at his sudden turn in attitude. Whatever it was that had been troubling Will since Picard had come back aboard was still plaguing the man - Picard could still see the worry deep in the first officer's eyes - but today, for the first time in almost a week, there was something of the man he had known for so many years in the officer beside him. None of the joy, he admitted, none of the unusual blend of light-heartedness and sheer determination that marked him as the exceptional first officer he had known - but there was a resolve there, a new found decision to fulfill the duties of his job.

Fulfill them - and then...?

And then something else, Picard realized, as if Will's resolution to see this mission through was a final act aboard this ship.

We need to talk, he reminded himself again, making a mental note to try and set aside some time for his first officer - and for his friend - before his attention was pulled back to the others.

"No, sir. Beej... Lt. Andile... confirmed that the power lines to the sensors were functioning normally; the anomaly isn't being caused by whatever took out those sensors," Geordi confirmed.

"But the port sensors are still not functioning," Worf reminded him.

"Which means that either the sensor itself has failed - which is unlikely - or we're still looking at a computer glitch," Geordi replied, glancing to Sandra James.

She shook her head. "It's not a glitch," she began. "I've run every diagnostic I could on the two systems, and they're both working - independently. The interface, however, is not - at least, it's not working consistently - and I suspect the sensor failure is due to an interface problem in those neural pathways."

"The same interface problem we're seeing in other areas of the computer?" Picard pressed.

"Yes, sir," she confirmed.

"How do we resolve it?" Picard pressed. "Can we bypass those pathways?" he asked.

The computer chief shook her head, the blond curls bobbing as she did so. "No, sir. I mean, yes, we can for this one circuit, but it's not feasible for the entire ship. The bio-neural cells are very much like our own brain cells; to a great extent, they're non-differentiated. In theory, one cell can carry on the functions of any other brain cell since, technically, they're interchangeable. But once a cell is connected by synapses to other cells, you can't just move them about and expect them to perform their functions; they have to reestablish connections with adjoining cells - and that takes time. In our case, to bypass the existing pathway means we must create a new pathway for the circuit to follow. That takes time..."

"Then the sooner we begin..." Picard began.

Data interrupted. "Sir, while your suggestion would provide a resolution for the problem of the defective sensor, the commander is correct in stating that it would not be feasible for every pathway that is malfunctioning. There have been three hundred seventeen minor glitches indicating a neural incompatibility," he reminded the captain. "To replace each pathway already discovered to have failed would take..." He fell silent, making the calculations, "seven thousand, two hundred, twenty-three point seven two hours. Add to that the time necessary for the additional pathways that fail during that time, which at the rate of current failure which is increasing exponentially, will take..."

"I get your point, Mr. Data," Picard interrupted him before the android could rattle off another string of numbers. "Then how do we resolve this problem?" he pressed the gathering.

"Perhaps, Captain," Deanna Troi chimed in, "before we try to fix the problem, we need to determine the cause. Cmdr. James, you said this interface problem had not occurred before," she said.

"No. But when I developed this system, I was using new cells - and new iso-linear chips," she reminded them. "And while I am using the cells I brought with me from the Institute, your iso-linear chips are from a different series..."

"But their configuration is identical with that the iso-linear chips in your prototype," Data informed her.

"Yes, but they've been in service for some time. There could be a degree of degradation..." she began.

Picard gave her a hard stare. "Commander, processor function is like being dead. Either you are - or you aren't. A chip may be damaged and fail to work completely - but its function does not degrade with time. If they are compatible, they should function with your bio-neural cells..."

"But should isn't the same thing as does," she interrupted. "I know it doesn't make sense, but it does happen sometimes. Minor changes in the technical schematics, material changes in a production run..."

"So you're saying it is possible that our new computer will not function," he began. "And you've waited until now to decide this?" he added, his voice growing hard.

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again - then opened it once more. "Captain, when I was given this assignment, to install my computer system on your ship, it was with the intention of replacing all the iso-linear chips as well as install the bio-neural cells," she said, her voice resolute. "This was to take three weeks. Instead, I was given less than three days to do the work. As a result, some change had to be made to speed the project. I was informed that the most efficient way to install the computer would be by leaving the iso-linear chips in place and simply installing my bio-neural cells and the interface," she replied flatly.

"Informed by whom?" Picard pressed.

"By the designer of the ship," she replied.

For a moment, Picard was silent as the revelation to sink in - and silent a moment longer as the significance struck home.

"Then what you're saying," he said after the long silence, "is that it was Lt. Andile who told you to leave the iso-linear chips in place; that you should not remove the existing chips and install the new ones?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir; she said that replacing the chips with their upgrades, while straightforward, would have taken more time than we could allot."

That was true enough, Picard conceded silently, but... "And did either you or the lieutenant verify whether the two sets of chips were equivalent?" he pressed, his voice growing hard.

"I didn't," the computer chief insisted.

"Did the lieutenant?" he pressed.

Sandra hesitated uncomfortably. "Well... she _said_ she did,"

Worf growled.

"But you didn't check for yourself?" Will asked.

"Of course not!" Sandra snapped back. "I don't have time for comparing basic specifications! And she is the ship's designer! She's supposed to know things like this!"

"Supposed to and do are two different things," Worf pointed out grimly.

Sandra gawked at him. "But... but if they weren't, why did she tell me to leave them in place?"

"Why indeed?" Worf murmured under his breath.

There was a long, hard silence at the table - then Picard broke it with a long slow exhalation. "Commander," he finally said, "you said you intended to replace the iso-linear chips as part of the installation. How long will that process take you?"

She considered for a moment. "Normally a week or two - when we're in port, and the systems aren't operating. Here... We'll have to pull each system off line while I'm working on it..." She fell silent, thinking.

"Captain," Worf interjected, "we cannot afford to take individual systems off line during a mission. It would endanger the safety of our mission..."

"As does not having a functioning computer interface," he reminded the Security officer, then glanced at Data. "Data, during the Tsiolkovsky disaster, you were able to replace the iso-linear chips in Engineering far faster than a human could. If you were to assist the commander..."

"Speed is not the entire issue, Captain," Data replied. "During the Tsiolkovsky event, the ship's engines had been taken off line by Wesley Crusher; replacing those control chips was a relatively simple matter of placing them in the correct slots. But in a functioning system, the chips must be installed in a specific order and timing pattern; even the slightest error could cause permanent damage to the computer. I would not recommend it," he cautioned. "Taking the systems off-line would be a more prudent decision."

"Prudent, perhaps, but not safer," Worf interjected. "We would be vulnerable to an attack while the sensor and weapons systems were not functioning."

"As vulnerable as not having a functioning interface?" Will asked.

"We would have a functioning interface if Lt. Andile had not overstepped the bounds of her position on this ship!" the Klingon snapped.

"She didn't overstep the bounds, Worf," Geordi reminded him. "As overseer for the engine installation, sir, and as chief designer of the ship, she does - or she did - have that authority," he pointed out.

"Authority, Commander," Picard reminded the engineer, "does not beget expertise; in the end, it comes down to the fact that every system that uses the interface that relies on those chips is not working."

"Begging your pardon, Captain," Beverly said, rising from her chair, walking to the replicator, "but you're wrong." She turned to the replicator, saying, "Earl Grey tea, hot."

Taking the cup from the replicator after it appeared a moment later, she set it before Picard, who looked up at her, not unthankful - but nonetheless bewildered by the unexpected act.

"The computer - and the interface - are working - at least in some areas," the physician informed them all. "You've all seen it - and used it." She looked at their blank faces - then gestured at the tea cup. "The replicators," she explained. "The night I came back onboard, the replicators, like every other system that uses the interface, were off-line - but they're working now, and I know that the replicator upgrade is involving both the iso-linear memory and the bio-neural cells. Has anyone investigated why they alone are working when no other system is?" she asked.

Picard looked at the others - then at Sandra James.

"Lt. Andile installed the replicator upgrade," she said quietly.

"Did she change the iso-linear circuits to make that upgrade?" Picard pressed.

Sandra started to answer - then hesitated, her shoulders dropped in resignation. "I don't know, sir. I... I didn't bother to ask. My team and I were busy - and it was just a replicator program. I didn't think it was important," she rationalized.

"Except it's the only program that uses the interface that's functioning," he pointed out. "Commander," he said, his voice both gentle and reprimanding at once, "I would suggest that you, Cmdr. Riker and Cmdr Data meet with the lieutenant at once and determine how she made the installation function and see if you can translate it to the rest of the ship's systems."

"Permission to accompany the commanders," Worf quickly requested.

Picard hesitated, understanding his chief of Security all too well - then nodded. "Granted. And Cmdr. Riker, please inform the lieutenant that I would like to see her when you are through with that meeting."

He watched grimly as the others rose from the table and left the room, leaving only the red-haired doctor behind, looking at him sternly.

He glared back, as if daring her to say something.

"You don't know she did anything wrong," she reminded him. "For that matter, you don't know if your theory is any more than that. All you have is some circumstantial evidence."

"How much evidence do you suggest I have - or shall I just wait until she succeeds in blowing up the ship?" he asked. "Beverly, it all just fits together too well; everything she's done, her emotional state..."

"It could all be coincidental," she said.

"It could be," he agreed.

"But you don't believe it," Beverly said, hearing the doubt in his voice.

He shook his head.

"Then let me ask you this, Captain: If Andile knew she was going to have to turn over the ship - and the lives of the fourteen hundred people aboard her - to the Romulans or the Cardassians, then why did she jump in front of that arcing cable to save Ensign Cho's life?"

He sighed. "Reflex; she realized what was about to happen - and moved to save him," he replied.

"Without thinking about the cost to herself?" she pressed.

"She didn't have time to think - she did what had to be done," he replied.

"She did what had to be done, in that instant, without thinking about the cost to herself," Beverly summed up. "Then given time - like two years - you don't think she could find a solution to this problem - and save fourteen hundred lives?" she retorted.

She studied him for a moment, watching as the question sank in, then pushed herself up from the desk, leaving the man to contemplate the idea alone.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

The lift doors slid open with an almost silent _shush_, the whisper of sound lost against the background noise of the bridge, leaving her arrival at the ship's command post unnoted by any of the officers manning the consoles in the room.

Andile sighed, thankful that her arrival had gone unnoticed by the bridge crew. She hadn't been in this room for years - and to have a chance to look around, uninterrupted, at the finished command center was something she had long ached for. Not that she hadn't seen it before - but the space that had been her command post four years ago was a far cry from the room that lay stretched out before her now.

Of course, the room that she stood in now hadn't even existed at that time; instead, it had been nothing more than a shell of structural beams, unfinished conduits, rough lighting fixtures hanging from almost every beam; there had been no consoles then, no displays, no readouts... Hell, for a time, there hadn't even been a floor, she thought with a grin, leaving her to work precariously balanced on the beams that spanned the still open space, the atmosphere held in by force fields, stars glittering around her as she watched over the construction of the magnificent ship.

And it had been magnificent, she reminded herself; every console had been designed with both efficiency and comfort in mind, ever work station laid out with an optimum view and a minimal amount of glare or distortion, every switch, every control in easy reach, ready to respond instantly to the needs of the ship and her captain, a joy to work in during peace - and deadly sleek in war. It was, she reminded herself, everything an officer could want or need.

Hell, she thought triumphantly, even the captain's ready room had been planned with the needs of a hard-driven leader in mind; a space to work, yes, away from the noise of the bridge - but a place to relax as well, to seek a minute's - or an hour's - refuge from the pressure - and the people - with whom he spent his day.

Planned, she reminded herself, as she had planned every aspect of this ship - but plans she had never thought to see fulfilled.

And certainly not under these circumstances, she added, drawing a deep breath.

Hearing the sharp inhalation, Will Riker turned in the command chair to look at her, then tapped a button on the chair's arm console, murmured something, nodded - then looked at Andile and rose to his feet. "Lieutenant? The captain's ready to see you," he said, gesturing at the door at the side of the bridge.

Andile glanced up at the taller man, hoping for some look of support - but despite their earlier friendship, there was no encouragement in his expression; none of the camaraderie they had shared just days before shown out from the once kind eyes. But these times are not those, she reminded herself grimly, then stepped up to the door, watching as Will tapped the entry panel, waiting...

Waiting for what? she wondered, curiosity quelling her apprehension. Every commander she'd ever dealt with had their own protocol for answering the door; some stepped up to the opening, ready to greet the newcomer; others said nothing, letting the computer open the door on command, while a few simply growled out something indecipherable...

Picard wouldn't be a growler, she decided as she waited - but not a greeter either. At least, not for her. Not for most people, she added, though an admiral would certainly rate that personal response, she decided. As would a friend, she added - though she suspected there were not as many of those as the captain would have liked - and fewer now that the war had taken its tolls on the ranks of Starfleet.

The life of a Starfleet captain could be a lonely one, she thought - then reminded herself that loneliness wasn't limited to captains.

"Enter," came the expected baritone voice through the annunciator - but not without a faint echo carrying through the door itself - and causing her to frown.

I should have insulated those doors more effectively, she thought, her mind turning back to her profession; if a voice carries out, bridge noise would carry back in - and this should be a quiet space, free from those distractions.

Hmmm... maybe duralinium exterior with honeycombed polymer interiors, she pondered - and create a vacuum within the polymer chambers. That ought to deaden the noise more effectively. And perhaps...

"Lieutenant?" Will said.

She looked up, her thoughts still lost in the renovations she was considering.

"You can go in," he informed her.

Startled out of her mental workroom, it took her a moment to return to the bridge where she was standing - and a moment further to screw up her courage and enter the room.

Which was, she decided as she entered it, even better in real life than it had been in her imagination. The windows were, of course, exactly as she had remembered them on her final sign-off of the ship, reaching from floor to ceiling, giving the starfaring ship's captain a look out at the real universe he worked in, a small touch of the beauty of the heavens that surrounded him - that surrounded them all. A nice reminder, she thought to herself, of what we're doing and why we're here.

But it was someone else's genius that made the room work, she realized as she turned her gaze away from the starfield - a room that she had never seen completed, she added, knowing where her work had ended and another's began; she was responsible for designing and building the ship - not decorating and furnishing it.

The desk behind which Picard now sat was large enough to comfortably hold all the materials he might need for a project - reports, padds, his terminal, all gracefully arranged around him in an arc of highly polished wood, while still leaving ample space for another person - or several - to work comfortably on the opposite side. It left no question as to who the superior was in that room - but neither did it make a glaring point of that same fact. He was the leader, yes, but the leader of a team upon whom he relied as much as they relied upon him.

Similarly, the couch had been selected with a great deal of care; big enough for a tall human to stretch out on in lieu of a proper bed - but designed so that one could carry on a comfortable conversation with just a slight hint of intimacy - an intimacy that might help relax a worried officer into revealing his deepest concerns. And the display case with the replicas of ships - starships and otherwise - some carrying the name Enterprise, others carrying other names, significant only to the man who had once served aboard them. She recognized the starships at once, of course, though true to her engineer's soul, more from their designs and identification numbers than from their names.

But those names were important to the man who possessed this room - as were the other mementos that were carefully placed around the space; books - real books! she thought, impressed - archaeological treasures, a beaded headpiece, a Klingon baldric... Important remembrances of places, people and events long past.

But not as important as the present, she realized, turning her eyes and her thoughts to the man seated behind the desk, her appraisal of the room forgotten as she came to stiff attention before his desk.

"Lt. Andile, reporting as ordered, sir," she said, following the required protocol.

Without glancing up at her, Picard glanced over a padd, then entered some information into the computer before finally turning to look up at her, studied her for a moment, then gestured at a chair and turned back to the padd, adding a note to the report - then looked up to see her still standing.

"Please," he said, gesturing at the chair once again, "Be seated."

"Begging your pardon, sir, I would prefer to stand," Andile replied firmly.

"And I would prefer that you sit... Lieutenant," he said, equally firmly.

For a moment, the two glared at each other, then, reluctantly, Andile reached for the back of the chair, lowering herself stiffly into its confines.

Too stiffly, Picard decided; there was more to her posture than mere formality - but whether it was just resentment or something else - something more - he didn't know.

Fear, perhaps, he reminded himself; after all, a meeting with the ship's captain in the middle of a duty shift was never for casual reasons, and always accompanied with some degree of trepidation, even by a woman of her experience - a woman who had faced down a board of admirals.

Drawing a deep breath, Picard pushed back his theories, forced himself to relax, then sat back in his chair, crossed his legs and began to speak. "I assume you know the reason you're here," he started.

"Yes, sir," she replied.

Good, he thought to himself; he hadn't told Will to make any surprise of the reason he had called her to his office; if there was a defense she wanted to prepare, he wanted to give her the chance. After all, he had carefully prepared his part of this meeting; she should have the same opportunity.

But before he could launch into his address, she continued.

"Both reasons," she said.

"_Both_ reasons?" he echoed, taken aback.

"Yes, sir. The official one - and the unofficial one," she explained.

He raised an eye at her. "And these reasons would be..."

"Officially, you want to question me about suggesting to Cmdr. James that using the pre-existing iso-linear chips would be an adequate substitute for replacing them; according to Cmdr. Riker, you feel I overstepped the boundaries of my responsibilities by doing so," she informed him.

Picard nodded. "Indeed, you did..."

She cut him off. "No, sir. I did not overstep the boundaries. In fact, I held to them carefully, doing what I was supposed to do - which was to oversee the upgrade of the ship."

"You were brought aboard to oversee the installation of the ship's engines," Picard corrected her.

"For that specific purpose, yes - but I do hold the power to authorize all upgrades made to the ship," she snapped back. "If you will check my original orders dating back to the construction of this ship, you will see that I was empowered at that time to approve any changes made to this ship - and I still maintain that authority. My original orders were never rescinded, sir," she added. "They can't be: I maintain designer's prerogative."

Designer's prerogative? though Picard in stunned amazement. He had had no idea... but then how could he have even imagined that possibility?

Admittedly, design teams had always been permitted to reserve the option of continuing to oversee the development and changes that a ship went through during its lifespan in Starfleet in order to study and understand the wear and tear that affected a ship - and how to better design them in the future - but no matter how interesting or innovative the design of a ship was, few teams ever accepted that privilege - or that challenge.

For accepting the burden of designer's prerogative would require that all members of the team agree to the obligation - and then make themselves available for the fulfillment of that challenge - a commitment that could easily span the rest of their lives - and few of those involved were willing to do that.

After all, design teams were usually gathered together only for the duration of the project, and while some, even many, of them might serve together on another ship-building effort, it was unlikely that they would all serve together in the same capacity once again. Furthermore, it was an incredible burden; trying to move on in one's work while maintaining a functioning knowledge of a ship as it progressed through missions, upgrades, renovations... it was hard enough to stay current on matters regarding a new ship, let alone track the information regarding one that was completed. Yes, it was the design team's prerogative, Picard reminded himself, but as far as he knew, no one had ever bothered to exercise the option.

Until now.

"Designer's prerogative," he murmured flatly, trying to withhold his surprise - and his shock.

"Yes, sir. It was my honor to do so - and my obligation," she replied proudly. "I have tracked every change this ship has been through; I have followed ever repair, every upgrade... I've even followed up on the patterns of wear and tear on her, trying to figure out how to make her better, stronger. I know this ship, inside and out - and I know the specs of every piece of equipment that went in to her then and now. Therefore, when asked if I knew a way to save time on the installation of the computer, I evaluated the basic design of the computer, assessed the materials involved, noted the similarities in the iso-linear chips - and I felt I had the basis of knowledge necessary to recommend that that stage of the conversion could be eliminated - and the authority to make that decision."

"An authority that ended at stardate 56230.1," he interrupted her. "The time at which you accepted your transfer to this ship. You no longer retain the prerogative of ship's designer."

If he had struck her physically, the blow could have made little more impact than his words did; stunned at the realization, she deflated, falling back in the chair as if every ounce of life and energy that had been left to her had suddenly been withdrawn.

And in a way, it had. Accepting the position as Geordi's assistant had meant the loss of the rights and privileges that had accompanied her position as the Chief Design Engineer at Utopia Planitia - a loss that must have left the woman feeling demeaned and even perhaps a bit used - but it had been a loss that she had not only agreed to, but had even suggested herself, knowing that she whatever her losses might be, she would at least retain a level of authority aboard as ship's designer.

But a ship's designer cannot serve aboard a ship, Picard reminded himself; Starfleet had realized that long ago, knowing that there would be too many conflicts of interest for the people caught in that position, too many interruptions to the proper chain of command: a man cannot serve two masters: Starfleet - and the ship herself. One had to give.

And in most cases, the point was moot; few teams opted for the prerogative in the first place, and of the few that took it, none would agree to make the transition en masse.

But Andile had made that choice, choosing for the ship - but sacrificing her rights and privileges in the process.

Seeing the still-stunned expression on her face, Picard felt a surge of pity. In an instant, she had lost everything for which she had worked - and worse, she had lost it through her own doing.

But the expression lasted only a moment. Drawing a long breath into her too-thin body, she drew herself erect once more and gave a stiff nod. "Yes, sir. I hadn't realized that when I gave my advice. I stand corrected; I was wrong to have made my suggestion as I did."

Picard nodded, impressed despite himself. He had been ready to read the woman the riot act over her actions - but here she was, apologizing, offering no excuses, no protestations of innocence or ignorance.

But whatever other compliments he had been about to offer her silently were quickly stilled as she added, "Nonetheless, the advice was correct."

He barely managed to choke back the expression of astonishment, any trace of sympathy he might have felt flying in the light of her audacity. "How can you say that, Lieutenant?" he asked, a little angrily, emphasizing her rank slightly. "The isolinear chips in question were only similar - not identical. And in view of the complications we've encountered..."

"Sir, what's happening on the ship has nothing to do with the chips," she interrupted. "You see, sir, no two runs of chips from a manufacturing plant are ever identical. That's not possible: there are always molecular variations and trace contaminants in the ores used in the processors. But they're close enough that Starfleet is comfortable in using the chips from all production series interchangeably," she pointed out.

Picard considered that for a moment. "And yet you're uncomfortable with running the engines at Starfleet's tolerance level," he reminded her. "How, then, could you be comfortable with their tolerances in computer chips? Or doesn't it concern you since you're not in charge of the computer section?" he added, instantly regretting the remark, surprised at himself for making the jibe. It was a cheap shot, he thought.

She obviously thought so as well, bristling at the snide comment. "Sir, at the time I made the recommendation, I assumed I did have oversight over all areas of the ship. Whatever you make think of me, I'm not enough of an ass to intentionally shoot myself in the foot!" she snapped.

They glared at each other for a moment, then Andile gave a shake of her head. "My apologies, sir," she said softly - but again, offered no excuses for her behavior.

As I have none for mine, Picard reminded himself, wondering what it was about the woman that seemed to rub him the wrong way.

It hadn't been like that fifty years before, he reminded himself - but he had been a different man then... No, he corrected himself, I wasn't a man at all; I was a boy - and she...? He shook his head, realizing he had no idea what she had been then... except utterly beautiful.

But time changes us all, he thought.

Doesn't it?

"No."

He looked up, startled by the answer.

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'no'," she repeated, adding, "I'm not comfortable with the tolerances in the chips."

"Ah," he said, relieved. "And yet you felt you could approve this substitution?" he pressed her.

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I will admit there was a chance for a problem in not replacing the chips - but the chance was even greater if you did substitute them."

He gave her an attentive look. "How so?"

"Sir, the chips already in this ship are ones that you know are functioning - and furthermore have been functioning for the last two years," she pointed out. "But the chips that were to be installed haven't even been tested. That was part of the original protocol," Andile added sharply, "that all components of the new systems needed to be quality controlled before installation - a part that Starfleet decided could be skipped in the interests of getting the computer on line in time for us to ship out on schedule."

He stared at her, stunned, then gave a brief shake of his head. "I was not aware that was part of the original implementation plan," he admitted.

"No reason you should," Andile replied, her voice softening slightly. "Neither was Cmdr. Riker. Starfleet deleted it from the protocols before they were forwarded to Cmdr. Riker. But I studied them from the beginning - from original proposals to final implementation - and had seen the change. They had to drop that requirement, sir, if they intended to launch on time - even though the initial QC failure rate was greater than eight per cent on that lot," she added.

"Eight percent?" Picard replied, aghast. An eight percent failure rate was unheard of - and had that number of defective chips been installed on the ship... they never would have made it out of spacedock, he told himself. They might never have even made it out of Utopia without the ship blowing up.

"Yes, sir," Andile agreed, seeing the realization in Picard's eyes. "I don't know if Starfleet was aware of the production problems that have been occurring from the manufacturers - but I was. As I said, I felt responsible for checking out all aspects of the ship's functions. And because I was aware of it, I informed Cmdr. James that the replacing the chips was inadvisable. She accepted my recommendation - but if she hadn't, I wouldn't have hesitated to go to Cmdr. Riker and made that same suggestion - along with my reasoning."

"And if he hadn't accepted your argument...?" Picard asked.

"I would have overridden both their objections, and taken it to Starfleet directly - or I would have refused to sign off on the engines and this ship would never have left dock, assignment or no assignment," she informed him.

He gawked at her, disbelieving. "You didn't have that authority, Lieutenant," he warned her.

Andile returned the studied look. "I know that now, sir," she said. "But not having the authority wouldn't have changed the fact that I had the obligation to this ship - and to her crew! To let this ship out of port, knowing what I knew, would have been a dereliction of duty in the highest degree - and I have never failed Starfleet in my duties," she swore, locking eyes with him. "Never!" she hissed. "And I resent the implication that I would do so now!"

It took Picard a moment to understand what she was saying. "Who implied you were?" he asked, innocently.

She gave him a hard look, then said, "Permission to speak freely, sir."

It was not a request.

"Permission granted," he replied, suspecting that she was going to voice her opinions no matter what he said - and no matter what it cost her in terms of her career.

Andile drew a deep breath - then began. "I resent what you're doing, Captain; acting innocent when I can plainly see what you're thinking. You're the one who's accusing me - even if you won't say so out loud! That's why you called me in here! If you really just wanted to ball me out over a jurisdictional screw-up, you would have had Cmdr. Riker do it! After all, he's in charge of crew discipline! But you took this on because you wanted to check me out for yourself.

"I know, better than anyone else, what's going on with this ship, everything that's going wrong, all the problems we're having. You suspect that all the problems on this ship may have been caused because of a saboteur - and you suspect that I may be that person. So you found a reason to bring me in here and try to find out for yourself if I'm capable of destroying this ship!

"Well, I'm here to tell you that I'm not! I have been loyal to Starfleet throughout the years I've been here - and that's a hell of a lot longer than you've even been alive, sir. I fought battles for them, I've designed ships for them, I've gone on missions that no one thought were possible - because it was my duty!

"But I also understood my real duty for what it was, " she added, rising to her feet, stepping up to her side of the desk, thrusting a finger dangerously close to his face. "Duty is not the blind support the official mottos and public pronouncements of an organization, but an obligation the people of that organization - and the people whom they represent." The finger disappeared as she clenched it into a fist.

"My duty is to the people of the planets we protect; my duty is to the officers and the crews of these ships. And sometimes fulfilling that duty makes me a real unpopular person, because I am not going to let the easy way take over for doing things the _right_ way. And if that means telling a ship's captain what equipment to use, or arguing my way through a flotilla of half-assed admirals in order to get them to do the right thing, and if that means spending the last fifty years as a lieutenant while people with half my qualifications and a third of my dedication get promoted past me, then so be it. But I never let Starfleet down - and I never - NEVER! - let my crew down," she announced, slamming the fist into the table, her eyes inches from his, the fury radiating so intensely from her that it was almost palpable.

But Picard refused to be cowed by the woman's onslaught. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on hers, refusing to yield even a blink.

She glared back for a long moment - then suddenly, unexpectedly, pulled back from the man and found her place in the chair once more.

Her diatribe had caught Picard unaware, astounding him with her intensity and her passion - and doubly so, because it was, he admitted to himself, on the mark, reminding him of so many of the ideals he had fought for in his tenure in Starfleet.

For a moment, he felt himself warming to the woman once again - then carefully drew back that empathy, letting any passion he felt fade away. Yes, these were the ideals he had fought for - but the fact that he had was a part of his record, a record she could easily have studied. How better, then, to appeal to his good graces than by espousing those same ideals - even while preparing to sabotage the ship and destroy the very thing he had spent his life defending?

As she had spent her life, he reminded himself sharply.

He gave a quiet sigh, finding he was no more able to fathom the depths of the engineer now than he had been a week before - even if he thought he was gaining some insight into the woman herself.

Including the fact she didn't enjoy being the subject of such a prolonged and silent scrutiny.

Squirming uncomfortably, she finally murmured, for the third time that day, "My apologies, sir."

The words seemed to break the ship's captain free of his study. Giving a nod, he accepted the apology, and then offered his own. "I am sorry as well, Lieutenant. I would like to believe that every officer, every crewman who comes aboard this ship does so with a clean slate, ready to be fully accepted as a member of this crew - but the reality is that it doesn't happen that way."

"I know," she replied quietly, miserably. "It takes time. Time you've had with your senior staff, time to build trust, understanding... friendship - and those aren't things you can transfer from one person to the next as readily as Starfleet transfer us around. But I haven't had the luxury of that time with you or your people; I've come aboard, hoping that my credentials and my history with Starfleet will grant me some latitude with you and your people. Obviously, it was an unwarranted assumption - though I didn't think it was unwarranted to the extent that you'd think I was capable of treason," she said, her voice rising slightly at the thought. "I'm surprised you haven't thrown me in the brig yet," she added acerbically.

"No one's said anything about treason," Picard reminded her.

"You didn't have to say it aloud sir - but it is what you're thinking," she said.

It took another moment for Picard to understand her meaning - then, curious, he took a quick glance at himself before quickly returning his attention to her - and to the hurt that resided in her eyes.

"Ah, your famed ability to read body language, once again," he asked, doubt heavy in his voice; perhaps as a parlor trick, her ability to assess people by their body language had some value - but this was Starfleet, he reminded her silently: we haven't the time for such games.

"You weren't so quick to dismiss it last night when I choked on your compliments," she reminded him. "But if you want further proof..." She studied him for a moment, then looked him straight in the eyes.

"You said you hadn't accused me of treason, sir - and I agree: you hadn't. At least, not out loud. But you didn't need to. You see, when I first came in," she began, "you didn't meet my eyes right away. Now, in some commanders, that's just a power play, a way of showing who's in charge, and I'll grant that there may be some underlying power issues between us - but so far, I've never challenged your authority - and if I had, I doubt you'd have bothered with playing little games like that. More likely, you would have chewed me up and spit me out when and where it happened - not waited until now. No, you didn't meet my gaze because... because you didn't want to look at someone you once respected - and find out she's a monster. Which means you believe it's possible that that's what I've become," she said, unable to hide the pain from her voice.

"And when I did come in, you had me sit down. Now, that might just be a matter of being polite - but since you called me here to discipline me over what I did, politesse wasn't called for. If anything, I should be standing at attention. No; the reason you had me sit was because it's harder for anyone to initiate an attack from a seated position. And then you sat back in your chair - as far away from me as possible; that gave you time to see me start my attack - and time to begin your own defense. Now all those on their own could be just a normal, relaxing posture, except - and this is a most telling point - you crossed one leg over the other."

He shook his head, skeptical. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but many people cross their legs," he pointed out. "That doesn't mean they don't trust someone."

"It does the way you're doing it," she replied. "Men usually cross their legs by resting one ankle on the opposite knee - a very masculine, sexually open attitude. But when you cross them the way you are - at the thigh, " she said, gesturing at him, "and it announces that you're protecting yourself; it suggests you're afraid I'm going to grab your..."

"Lieutenant!" he snapped, the blood rushing to his face as he hurriedly uncrossed his legs and sat up.

"Furthermore," she blazed ahead, ignoring his discomfiture - and his warning bark - "you kept one hand right by your terminal, ready to call for help at the first sign of trouble - and, more importantly, it kept one shoulder toward me, minimizing the amount of body that faced me - reducing potential target area. If I struck, I would be less likely to hit a vital organ."

She grinned viciously, knowing her remarks were on the mark, then studied him again. "And now, now that you're conscious of what your body is saying, you've sat up, moved closer, uncrossed your legs - and you're thinking, 'I'll prove her wrong. I'll show her that this body language business is ridiculous. See how open I am to her?' " Andile continued. "But you can't override your subconscious, Captain. You still don't trust me. Look at yourself," she added, rising from her chair, gesturing at him once again.

He glanced at his position, then back at her, not understanding.

"You've sat up - but you've drawn yourself so close to the desk that it covers you from the waist down. That's your subconscious at work, Captain," she said with a cold, knowing smile. "One of the first defensive postures all human males make when they're worried about an attack, guarding their genitals.

"And your arms," she continued, ignoring his blazing red face, "You think it's very casual, your elbows on the table, your chin resting on your hands. Very casual, very relaxed - correct? Except once again, you've protected your body. When I attack, I might break your arms, but your heart and your throat are protected. And even now, when I asked you to look at yourself, you did so as fast as you could - so you could make sure to keep an eye on where I was and what I was doing. No, sir," she decided, her voice both victorious - and hurt, "you do not trust me at all - and considering the circumstances we're in, that means you suspect I may be responsible for what's happening here - even though you're not even sure something is happening," she concluded, her voice rising as her anger did.

He glared back at her - then sighed, letting out his breath slowly, releasing his anger along with the air and slowly, self-consciously lowering his arms and pushing his chair back from the desk. "You're right," he said after a long minute. "I don't trust you. And I am sorry - for you and for me, because right now, I need you. I need someone who's familiar with every aspect of this ship, who can think quickly and clearly - and can help us find a solution to all the problems that this ship is having. From everything I've read about you in your personnel files, you are that person..."

"...but for the same reasons, I could also be a saboteur," she agreed. "And despite the fact that I know I'm not the one, you can't believe that. Hell, if I was in your place, I probably wouldn't trust me either. Sir," she rapidly added.

He forced back the threatening smile; despite what was unquestionably the most tumultuous ten minutes he had experienced in the last twenty years, there was something about the woman that kept drawing him back to her, something that, despite her flaring temper and caustic disposition, was quite... compelling, he decided.

Almost as compelling as she had been fifty years ago, he realized suddenly.

He choked back the feeling, his suspicion flaring again; if she could read his emotions as easily as she claimed, any compassion he might display would be something she could use against him - and with her quick wit, her intelligence and her imagination, she had more than enough ammunition to battle him now.

But, he reminded himself sharply, the fact that she could be a formidable enemy didn't mean she was one - and if not, those same attributes could form a most convincing weapon for Starfleet - and for his ship.

He gave her an appraising look, drew a deep breath - then nodded. "This all comes down to this, Lieutenant; you've presented me with a problem," he informed her. "I know you're new to this ship - and therefore, you're unfamiliar with my policies regarding problems, which is that I don't want to hear about them. What I want to hear from my officers and crew are solutions," he explained.

To his amazement, her eyes widened at the announcement. "Agreed," she said, nodding approvingly. "I like my people to find their own solutions as well," she said. "If they create an answer, they're more willing to implement it - and by empowering them by having them develop and execute their own answers, they're more likely to seek out other solutions. Makes for a better officer for you - and for Starfleet," she added.

He nodded, appreciating that she understood the intention - and finding himself disconcertingly pleased that she endorsed it. She's not an Academy professor anymore, he reminded himself; and I'm not a cadet; I don't need her approval.

So why did it feel so good to have earned it?

Sharply pushing back the feeling, he continued. "So I need a solution - your solution," he informed her. "You said if you were in my place, you probably wouldn't trust you. So that's what I want you to do - to put yourself in my place. If you were me, what would you do about you?"

Andile shook her head and smiled. "That's easy. I'd throw me in the brig. I'd take no chances where my ship is concerned."

Your ship? he thought with a smile, thinking the engineer had placed herself a little too much in his place - then let the smile fade as the truth settled in. It was her ship, he reminded himself; as much, if not more, than it is mine. This Enterprise was born of your heart and your mind, he thought - and if anyone was going to be protective of her, it would be her designer.

But even so...

He considered for a moment, then crossed to the front of the desk and leaned against it as he studied the petite engineer once again. "That's the second time you've mentioned the brig, Lieutenant. If I didn't know your work history, I'd say you were bucking for a vacation," he said, an easy smile coming to his face, and drawing out one in her as well - though, Picard admitted, that one was a little more forced, a little less at ease than he had hoped for. "For the moment," he continued, "let's reserve that option. What else? Remember, you are the ship's designer - and my resident expert. I need to draw upon your expertise - but in a way I can be certain doesn't imperil my people or my ship."

She gave the idea consideration. "You could confine me to quarters," she opined a moment later, her plastic smile quickly disappearing as she grew serious once more. "Make my computer terminal a read-only," she continued. "I could still get information, process it and make suggestions - but I have to give them to someone else to implement. I couldn't do anything."

He raised an eye at the proposal. "And neither could we," he countered. "I've seen your engine designs, Lieutenant - there still aren't more than a half dozen people in Starfleet who fully understand them. I suspect your repair ideas are no less brilliant - and no less incomprehensible to the rest of us. Which means we'd need you to instruct the crew in your ideas - and for all they'd know, they could be implementing the very sabotage we're looking to prevent. No, I'm afraid that idea won't do either.

"Which does bring us to another problem," he reminded her, "the fact that you were brought aboard to oversee the training of the ship's crew in running those engines - an assignment that you have not yet completed," he chided her gently, "and that you can't do from your quarters, with or without a terminal.

"So how do I achieve an optimum solution here - access to your knowledge and abilities, without risking my ship?" he asked her.

"Assign a guard to watch me?" she tried.

"My Security people are trained in security, Lieutenant, not engineering," he pointed out with a smile. "They wouldn't know if you were repairing a warp conduit - or planting a bomb."

Andile allowed herself a tiny smile, conceding the point - then frowned. "Then I think we're at an impasse, sir; the only one who knows this ship's new designs well enough to oversee what I'm doing is Cmdr. Data, but..."

"Agreed," Picard said, cutting her off in mid-sentence, then thumbed the communicator switch on the desk console. "Cmdr. Data, please report to my ready room," he announced. "I have an assignment for you."


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

"Excuse me?" Andile gasped, stunned at the captain's announcement.

"You're quite right, Lieutenant," he replied. "The only person on this ship capable of understanding what you are doing is Cmdr. Data - so if anyone is going to watch over you to ensure that what you are doing is not a threat to the ship, it will have to be him."

Andile's mouth opened and closed several times - but no sound emerged. "B-b-b-but... You can't!"

Picard gave her a surprised look. "Indeed? Why not?"

She hesitated, as if scrambling for a reason.

Such as the possibility that Data would be able to confirm my suspicions? Picard asked her silently, his worry beginning to swell once again.

"Because... Because the Commander has duties of his own!" she protested weakly. "If he's overseeing my work..."

"Work assignments are Cmdr. Riker's concern, Lieutenant; I'm sure he'll be able to reassign Data's responsibilities to others," he assured her smoothly, feeling himself tense as he saw the panic grow in her eyes.

"But..."

"Unless there's a reason you feel Cmdr. Data would not be an appropriate choice?" he added.

Andile gaped once more, then stopped and shook her head. "No, sir," she finally managed.

"Good," he replied, then circled around his desk, settled in - and began to study the woman as he waited for the android.

It was taking a huge chance, he knew; if the woman was half as good as her reputation suggested, even Data's presence alongside her was not a guarantee that she wouldn't be able to put something past him when he was off duty - and possibly, he added, while he was on. She was brilliant, imaginative - and with someone's whose emotions were as new and ill-understood as Data's were, there was every possibility she could use them against him - and against the ship.

But it was a risk he was going to have to take; Data was his best chance of using the woman to his advantage even if she were the saboteur. And if she wasn't...

If she wasn't, she was still a Starfleet officer. And sometimes Starfleet officers had to do things they didn't like - like being chaperoned.

Or like using a fellow officer, he added, silently apologizing to the woman before him.

To his surprise, she looked at him as he expressed the silent apology, a fleeting glimpse of empathy in her expression.

It startled him; there had been no way she could have seen that remorse in his body language, he insisted; the thought had been too short, the idea too fleeting - and yet...

The door chimed.

Before he could pursue the idea further, he called out, "Come."

Data entered from the bridge, then stopped, looking first at Andile, then at Picard - then back to Andile again, who fired one furious glare at him, then turned her attention back to Picard.

For a moment, the captain hesitated, surprised by the vitriol - and the fear - he saw in the woman's face; something had happened between the two, he realized... but what that something was, he didn't know.

And didn't have the time - or the desire, he added harshly - to investigate; the personal lives of his crew were their own concerns.

As long as they didn't interfere with the performance of their duties, he added grimly.

"Cmdr. Data," he said, chasing back that dread thought, "I have an assignment for you - one eminently suited for your unique skills."

"Sir?" the android replied, turning his attention back to Picard as Andile refused to look at him once again.

"As you are fully aware, the success of this mission is dependent on the ship regaining full function as quickly as possible. This means that we are completely dependent on the lieutenant's knowledge of the ship and her engines in order to succeed in the mission. From this moment on, I want you with her. Twenty-four hours a day," he added.

"What?" Andile gasped.

Picard silenced her with a glare, then turned back to Data. "Furthermore, I want you to record everything she does so we have a complete and accurate account of it."

"Excuse me? Excuse me?" Andile gawked. "Captain, I know you want to protect your ship - and I want to do everything I can to help her, but... but you can't expect me to live under Cmdr. Data's scrutiny every minute of every day, every aspect of my life open to recording to be used as possible evidence against me!"

"Not only can I expect it, Lieutenant, I can require it," Picard replied gruffly, "or I can have you confined to the brig, as you suggested."

"And as you suggested, sir, I can't help the ship if I'm in the brig!" she snapped back.

"But neither can you harm it!" he replied. "And if your interest in the well-being of the crew and the ship is as sincere as you say it is, then you should be willing to accept this condition," he added.

"That's hardly fair, Captain!" she replied angrily. "You're depriving me of my right to privacy - and telling me I should be happy about it? And if I object, then you'll take away my right to liberty? What next, a summary trial and execution - just in case?" she snapped.

"Lieutenant!" Data interjected. "You will display the appropriate respect to the captain!" he said sternly.

Andile fell silent - but there was no trace of respect in the eyes that glared at Picard, only contempt.

Contempt which Picard understood all too well, for he found himself experiencing the same feelings. This wasn't what Starfleet was about, he reminded himself; this wasn't how he liked to run his ship - but these were extraordinary times, and extraordinary times required extraordinary measures...

But wasn't that Starfleet's argument at the investigation of the Ba'ku incident? he asked himself.

Shamed, he shook his head. "That's... unnecessary, Commander. The Lieutenant's right; I am depriving her of her rights. Either voluntarily, in the case of having you serve as her chaperone, or involuntarily, in the case of having her placed in the brig. Neither option is fair, Lieutenant - but I'm afraid that fairness may have to suffer for the good of the Federation."

"Good old Vulcan logic," Andile grumbled. "The needs of the one versus the needs of the many. All well and good - unless you're the one!" she growled.

"As I said, I apologize," Picard repeated. "The best I can do is offer you the options, and allow you to decide."

"Some choice," she muttered, then sighed, shook her head, and glared at him angrily. "I'll take Cmdr. Data," she snapped, her eyes locked on Picard's, refusing to even look at the android.

Picard nodded. "Agreed. Commander, until further notice, will accompany you in all your activities, record all your meetings, all your conversations, all training sessions you may have, both day and night; he will be with you at all times..."

"At all times?" she asked, then gave Data a disgusted look. "You're going to go to the bathroom with me, too?" she sneered.

Data looked at Picard, confused; it was unquestionably a breach of human etiquette; indeed, it was considered vulgar - if not outright offensive - but the captain had said...

Picard reddened as he saw the question run through the android's mind, then shook his head. "That won't be necessary," he agreed quickly. "But for everything else, use your discretion, Commander," he amended hastily.

Data nodded. "Yes, sir. Captain, may I ask the nature of such intense scrutiny? Is my presence primarily to record the Lieutenant's actions and knowledge of the ship's engines and repairs for future reference - or to collect evidence against her in preparation for formal charges?" he asked bluntly.

Picard looked at the second officer and hesitated. Data was fond of the engineer, he reminded himself, perhaps even more than fond - but, he reminded himself, he was, first and foremost an officer of the ship. Andile might be able to mold the shape of his emotions - but unlike any other being on this ship, Data was the one person who could turn off those emotions.

Nonetheless, one needn't abuse those emotions while they were functioning.

"Let's just say you're to consider yourself a guard, Mr. Data," he said at last.

Data looked at Picard, then at Andile, then back again. "Yes, sir - but am I guarding the lieutenant from something - or something from the lieutenant?" he asked bluntly.

So much for polite obfuscation, Picard thought to himself with a sigh. Data certainly had emotions - but the constraints on those feelings were far different than they would be on a human. Trying to politely work his way around the brutal truth was pointless - and potentially dangerous, given the android's penchant for literalness. "Both," Picard said at last. "If, as has been discussed, the lieutenant is the suspected saboteur, then I cannot afford to have her given free roam of the ship, damaging the systems. Because you are capable of understanding whether her actions would be working for against the good of the ship - and because I do not believe the lieutenant could overpower you - you would be a most effective deterrent. And should it turn out that she is acting against the ship and against Starfleet, you would be in a position to stop her - and to collect the evidence that would be used against her.

"If, however, she is not guilty of those accusations, then your evidence will help to disprove them. Furthermore, if there is a saboteur aboard, your presence would serve to protect her from whoever may be intent upon seeing us fail in our mission. As you just pointed out," he said, seeing the suddenly concerned expression on the android's face, "the lieutenant may well need a guard. She is the one person who has certain fundamental knowledge and experience about our engines - and therefore, I need her safe and sound. Either way, Mr. Data, I want you with her."

"Sir, based on the nature of my relationship with the lieutenant, it might be argued that I am not an unbiased witness if she is indeed the saboteur," Data reminded the man, ignoring the astonished expression on the engineer's face.

Picard gave him a frank stare. "Data, you have always placed the needs of this crew, this ship and of the Federation before your own personal needs. I have no reason to doubt your loyalties now," he informed the android.

I just hope like hell that nothing has changed those priorities, he added to himself.

But from the expression of agreement and the flicker of pleasure at the compliment that crossed Data's face, it seemed to Picard that his first assessment had been correct.

"Now, Lieutenant," he said, finally feeling as though he could get back to the real business of running the ship, "you've met with Cmdr. James. Were you able to analyze what you did to bring the replicator program online - and how that can be applied to the balance of our computer problem?" he asked.

Andile sighed. "As I explained to Cmdr. James, I do not think the computer problems are being caused by the interface incompatibility. Yes, I agree there is an incompatibility," she amended, "but that incompatibility existed when she first designed the computer! If it didn't create a problem before, it shouldn't be creating one now!"

"Nonetheless..." he began.

"Nonetheless, there is one now," she sighed in agreement.

"And in every system - except the replicator. How do you account for this single omission?"

"I don't," she countered. "I didn't do anything unusual when I brought the system on-line, sir; I just initialized the program, ran the diagnostics..."

"But this is not the same replicator program the ship had when we came into dock," Picard pointed out.

"No, sir; it's an upgrade," she admitted.

"Could there be something in the upgrade itself that's responsible for

the fact this program alone works with the new interface?" he asked.

She pursed her lips, about to remind him it wasn't an interface problem - then shook her head in resignation. "No, sir. It's mostly refinements - better taste and texture, improved chemical analysis of spices, things like that - but the program itself isn't very different from what you had before. And no," she added with a glare, seeing the question in his eyes, "it isn't the program that's causing the other programs to fail. First of all, because I've run this program at Utopia for the last year or so without computer problems..."

Which proves nothing, Picard argued silently.

"... and because you started having problems before I installed the program," she added,

Picard looked to Data for confirmation.

"The lieutenant is correct," he agreed. "The failures that we have come to understand are being caused by the interface discrepancies began during the field trials as we began to move systems from the old computer to the new," he explained. "The replicator program was not initialized until the night you returned to the ship."

Picard sighed deeply, then looked back to the engineer, who appeared lost in thought.

"Lieutenant?"

She stared blankly ahead.

"Lieutenant?" he repeated, his voice a little louder, a little sterner.

For a moment, she gave no response, then slowly turned to look up at him, wonder dawning in her eyes. "Could that be it?" she murmured.

"Could what be?" he pressed.

"Could it be that simple?" she said, then spun to face Data. "Commander, when you moved the programs over, how - exactly how - was it done? Were the programs taken off-line, moved to the new system, then re-initialized? Or did you move them over piecemeal, one section at a time?"

"The latter," he replied. "Because of the time constraints involved, the programs were all in use at the time of the transfer. Therefore, we had to move them in sections, so as not to interfere with the engine trials."

Andile thought for a moment - then gave Picard an uncertain look. "I suppose that could be it," she said reluctantly.

"What could be it?" Picard pressed anxiously. "Explain."

"Sir," Andile began ignoring the android, "when the replicator files were taken off-line, they went off as a whole, the entire system shutting down - intact. When I re-initialized the system, it went into the new computer intact once again. But with the other systems, we had to take them off and re-initialize them a piece at a time. It was the only way that it could be done; the complete dismantling and rebuilding would have required weeks - which is what Cmdr. James had originally intended. But in rebuilding the system piecemeal, it's possible that the neural synapses that should have developed... didn't," she said.

Picard studied her for a moment - then gave a shake of his head. "I'm not certain I understand," he admitted.

"Captain," Data interjected, "it is as Cmdr. James explained: bio-neural cells establish synapses with one another, allowing greater flexibility in processing and routing of information. As we introduced the pieces of the programs, the synapses developed - but only within that segment of the total program. What the lieutenant is hypothesizing is that the interface is functioning - but only among the individual segments of the program that was loaded - but when requested to cross from one segment to another, no pathway exists. The program reaches what is commonly referred to as a 'dead end'. That is why we have partial functioning of the programs, but not complete function. The parts cannot speak to one another."

"Why not?" Picard asked.

Andile shrugged. "That's the question, sir - and one I don't have an answer for. No one does," she added before he could press her on the matter. "This computer design is new - and I don't think Cmdr. James ever put it through a test like this. No one could have known it would react this way - because no one ever intended this to happen."

Picard thought for a moment. "It sounds like a fault inherent in the computer design," he said disapprovingly.

"Yes, sir," Data agreed reluctantly, then added, "and no, sir."

"You see, Captain," Andile explained, "one reason we've switched over to using bio-neural cells is their capacity to relink and reconnect - in case of mechanical failure or cellular injury," she explained. "It's a self-healing mode; it should be able to repair itself - providing there are living cells available to carry the signal."

"Then why isn't that happening now?" Picard asked.

Andile looked at Data uncertainly. "I am not certain," the android answered for them both. "The most likely cause is an overload to the interface - but there doesn't seem to be a reason for it."

"Possibly the system overloaded due to the speed the programs were installed," Andile suggested.

Picard heard the hesitancy in her voice; she didn't believe the possibility, he thought - or perhaps she didn't want them pursuing that line further, he added, feeling a swell of suspicion.

He turned to the android, seeking confirmation.

"It is conceivable," Data agreed - also reluctantly, Picard thought - then wondered: Is he really uncertain - or is he simply following Andile's lead, concerned that arguing the point with her might endanger their relationship? he thought.

Thought - then shook the idea away; his concern about Andile, a newcomer to his ship, a potential threat, was one thing - but Data had been his second officer - and his friend - for more than fifteen years, he reminded himself. He would never betray the ship!

But the person who had been a fellow officer and friend had been, for the most part, the anemotional Data, he reminded himself instantly, the Data who had never had true emotions, who had never felt love, or loneliness or pain... and knowing those things now, what might he do to keep from losing them?

And how might Andile manipulate him to keep him feeling those things? he added.

He studied the android for a moment, then looked to Andile - and saw the expression of terrible hurt on her face.

For an instant he was tempted to apologize - then pushed back the idea; if she could read his emotions, could she not manipulate him through her understanding of them? he worried - then disregarded that idea as well.

Maybe I am paranoid, he added - but still, he offered no apology to the stricken-faced woman.

Instead, he looked at the two and asked, understanding. "Then how do we repair it? Can we repair it?" he added worriedly.

The two looked at the other for a moment, then Andile shrugged. "If it was an overload that caused the problem, then in theory, you could simply take each system off-line, one at a time, rebuild a neural pathway sufficiently large to hold the program, ensuring that the neural connections were present and intact, then re-install them."

Simply? Picard thought to himself; there was nothing about the proposal that sounded simple in the least. He looked to his second officer.

"While the lieutenant's idea would resolve the problem," Data agreed, "I believe Cmdr. Worf's objection regarding the vulnerability of the ship would still apply," he reminded Picard.

Was that what she wanted? Picard wondered, looking back at Andile - who glared back furiously.

"Look," she growled in retort, "if you're going to reject every idea I have out of hand because you think it's a trick, why bother asking for my input at all? Gods, why don't you just send me to the brig and stop wasting my - and your - time?" she seethed.

He stared at her a moment longer - then nodded. "Quite right, Lieutenant," he admitted.

She gawked back at him. "About the brig?" she said, horror tingeing her voice.

"About my suspicions," he corrected her gently, then looked at Data. "Is there a way to do what the lieutenant suggests - without endangering the ship?" he asked.

Data considered for a moment, then nodded. "It would take additional time, sir, but we could build a back-up memory buffer, move the affected system into that buffer, allowing it to continue to function as it is while we rebuild that section of the computer off-line, then re-initialize the program into the new section," he said.

"Won't that leave us without the affected system during the transfer?" Picard asked.

"The period of transfer would be less than two nano-seconds. Our period of vulnerability to attack would be negligible, and far shorter than the response time of any known enemy computer system," Data answered.

Any _known_ enemy computer, Picard thought to himself, suspecting an elaborate ruse - then shook his head. I am getting paranoid, he decided.

But there were other, more real threats, he reminded himself.

"What about memory loss during the transfer?" he asked. "Even a small loss of the programs during the transfer could affect the ship."

"Yes, sir," Andile agreed. "However, you could prevent that by not moving it. Rather the program could be duplicated, the duplicate moved into the buffer, a comparative diagnostic run between the new and the old. If the diagnostic shows no loss, then the original could be purged, that section of the computer rebuilt in vivo, and the program re-initialized as a whole, again, using a duplicate to prevent loss," she said.

"It will work, sir," Data confirmed, assuring the worry-faced Picard, "but as Lt. Andile said, it will take time. Building that much computer memory, even in vivo, will not be a simple matter - and Cmdr. James only brought three of her own people with her."

"Data, there are more than three computer techs on this ship..." Picard began.

But the android was shaking his head. "But only three who are well-versed in a construction of this nature," he pointed out, "and in Cmdr. James' computer system."

"Three - and the lieutenant," Picard reminded him, looking at Andile. "You did say you were aware of every aspect of the upgrades for this ship - including the computers?"

"Including the computers," she added miserably. "I dare say I know them better than Cmdr. James does," she added under her breath.

Picard let he comment slide, dismissing it as nothing more than sour grapes over the younger woman's higher rank - and lack of creative thought. "Well enough to train a team to build a memory buffer?" he asked sharply.

"Yes - but it's going to take time, sir. First to train them - then to actually construct the buffer." She thought, then shook her head. "It's not going to be possible to have the entire system repaired before we meet with the Cardassian ship," she informed him.

Picard's eyes narrowed. How did she know when they were going to meet with the Cardassians? he wondered suspiciously.

Seeing the doubt in his eyes, she glared back. "I saw the navigator's board when I came on the bridge," she said angrily. "It doesn't take a genius to be able to make the calculation," she explained. "And since we ran the diagnostics on the weapons and shields the other day, it pretty safe to assume we were going to meet with the Cardassians first. We were at war with them less than two years ago," she added, "and I, for one, wouldn't feel very comfortable walking into a meeting - even one that's supposed to be peaceful - without knowing my defenses and armaments were functioning at full capacity."

A logical and rational explanation, Picard thought - but perhaps a little too well readily prepared with an answer, he added.

Andile rolled her eyes up in her head in exasperation at his expression. "By the gods, Captain, why are you doing this? Why ask me to train the team, when you absolutely no faith in me?"

"Because I need my ship repaired - and because I doubt you'd try anything while Cmdr. Data is watching over you," he reminded her.

"Then why not have him teach them in the first place - and save yourself the trouble?" she asked.

Picard studied her for a long time, then replied, "I'd like to give you the chance to prove yourself, Lieutenant," he said.

She looked at him angrily. "Prove myself? Prove myself?" she roared indignantly. "Captain, if the last eighty years hasn't proven me, sir, neither will the next twenty hours!" Her voice dropped to a whisper, full of rage and fury. "But I'll do it. I'll do it because this mission is important, this ship is important, this crew is important - but not to prove myself. Not to you, sir; I do not need to prove myself to anyone - especially you!" she said, whirling on her heel, making for the door.

"Lieutenant!" Data barked, stopping the woman in her tracks.

She hesitated for a moment, then turned to face him.

"You will treat the captain with the respect he is due, Lieutenant," he warned her sternly.

Andile studied him, studied Picard, then looked back at the android. "I did, sir," she replied. "I gave him every ounce of respect he's due - which is absolutely none."

Data gawked at her. "Lieutenant..."

She interrupted the man. "You, see, Commander," she said pointedly addressing her remarks to Data, "respect - real respect - is earned, not given blindly, or it means nothing. And if my eighty years of work in Starfleet hasn't earned me a ounce of respect from Captain Picard," she added, glancing at the man, "then you can be damned sure that nothing he's done in the last week has merited earn even a molecule of respect from me! But at least I know where my duty lies - in protecting my ship and protecting my crew!" she added seethingly. "And I'm going to do it - and to hell with you, Captain!"

Without waiting for a dismissal, she turned from the ready room once again, the doors opening and closing about her, leaving the two men to stare, dumb-struck, where the woman had just stood.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

The doors to Andile's quarters had barely slid closed behind her when she began to pull off the uniform, letting the garment fall to the ground around her feet, then angrily kicking it across the room.

"Tired?" she screamed at the flying garment, at the universe in general - and at one android in particular. "I'm tired? I need sleep? I'm making mistakes? Of course I'm making mistakes! First you tell me I can't work two shifts a day - then you tell me I have to pull five in a row! The gods damn you - make up your minds!" she roared, then sank onto her bed, pulling off her boot. "The gods damn you all!" she added in fury, sending the offending boot against the far wall.

It hit with a resounding thud, then fell, landing on the heap of clothing that lay there.

How could you? she screamed, silently. How could you? You were so good to me last night, so nice... You didn't ask for reasons when I asked you to be gentle, you didn't cringe when you saw the scars... you even touched them and begged for an explanation... Oh, gods, you were sweet and kind and everything I wanted and needed...

But andile want nothing.

Andile need nothing.

Andile _deserve_ nothing.

Furious, she roared at the thought, screaming her rage at the truth she had sought to avoid but knew all too well, then angrily pulled off her second boot and threw it across the room, sending it to join the first.

She stared at the mound of clothing for a moment, waiting for the anger to fade - but her rage couldn't be shed as easily or as completely as her clothes could.

Outraged, frustrated, infuriated, she pulled herself up, stomping toward the shower as if a bath could any more rid her of her fury than shedding her clothes had.

But she had taken no more than two steps toward the bathroom when the door chime sounded.

For a moment Andile hesitated - then, refusing to answer the call, continued toward the bathroom.

The chime sounded again.

"Go away!" she shouted.

"I cannot do so," came the reply, the smooth, unemotional tones muted, but unchanged, by the door that separated the two. "I am under orders to keep you under continuous surveillance - which I cannot do from here. Therefore, you must let me in," Data explained.

"The only thing I 'must' do is to tell you to go fuck yourself!" Andile shouted back, then turned toward the bathroom once again.

She had barely taken one more step, however, before she heard the sound of the door opening.

On another day, she might have given a shriek and grabbed for something to cover herself - but on another day, she might have cared.

But her days of caring were over.

Seething, she turned around slowly, staring at the android with a piercing gaze, refusing to make the slightest effort to cover her body.

It was a calculated move; she knew precisely what she looked like without her clothes on - and it was not an attractive sight, she knew equally well - but with her arms just so, her legs spread just this far, her hips thrust forward just so - and without a stitch of clothing on - it was enough to make even the most cold-blooded of human males hesitate.

But Data was not a human, she remembered a moment later: he looked at her only long enough to register the fact that she was naked and to process the significance of that fact - then spoke.

"My apologies for intruding against your wishes, Lieutenant" he said, sincerely. "However, the captain's orders were express; I am to accompany you at all times throughout the day."

"And that justifies breaking into my quarters?" she sneered.

"I did not 'break in'," he corrected. "I utilized my Security override, in accordance with Starfleet regulations, in order to perform the assignment which I had been given; to wit: to ensure that you were not in danger," he replied calmly.

She looked at him doubtfully. "And to make sure I wasn't talking with my co-conspirators," she retorted bitterly.

"That is another of my functions, yes," he agreed.

Andile shook her head. "Bastard!" she muttered, then spread her arms. "Well, there's no one here. No conspirators - and no danger. Now get the hell out of my quarters!" she added, then spun around again, heading toward the bathroom.

But rather than leave, Data followed, quickly catching up to her, then gently pushing her to one side as he reached the door to the bathroom.

Furious, Andile turned to confront him. "Look, the captain said I could go to the bathroom - alone. And the shower's in the bathroom! Do you mind?" she growled.

"I do not mind," he replied evenly. "However, I believe the captain's order related to excretory functions only. In other matters, he stated I must use my discretion. Therefore, I must ensure that you have not secreted any covert communication devices within this space before applying that discretion." He pushed past her, entering the small room, rapidly scanning the room with his eyes, opening the drawers of the vanity - and finding them completely empty but for the comb he had retrieved the night before - then removing the neatly folded towel from the counter as he stepped back to the room's entrance.

"You're taking my towel?" Andile gaped as he left, astounded. "What in the name of the gods for? If I was intent on escaping through the air vent, you think being naked would stop me?"

Data glanced up at the square grid that covered the small opening in the ceiling, a startled expression on his face. "You did state that you were capable of leaving the room via that route," he said, as much to himself as to her. "However, I had not considered that possibility. I am taking the towel because it is possible to conceal the components of a short range communications device within the fibers of the towel itself; while the captain has agreed that you should be allowed to engage in personal functions unobserved, it is my responsibility to ensure that you do not use that time to communicate with your fellow treasoners, if there are any. I will examine the towel while you are attending to your ablutions."

"And I'll just stand here, freezing, dripping wet, until you're finished?" she snarled pithily.

Data studied the woman carefully, frowning disapprovingly. "You are engaging in hyperbole, Lieutenant," he decided a moment later. "Junior officer's quarters are equipped with sonic showers, not water showers. Therefore, you will not emerge 'dripping wet' - and neither will you be 'freezing'; as you are currently naked and not exhibiting any exceptional physical responses to cool air that one might expect, neither should you exhibit dissimilar responses at the end of your bathing process.

"However, if you desire a towel, I will replicate one for you while you are bathing," he added.

"Which you'll take back and examine when I'm done with it," she snarled.

"That is standard practice," he agreed, a little uncomfortably. "You could use the towel to dispose of incriminating evidence that you have removed from your body during the course of your shower - evidence that could be found should you be subjected to a physical search," he continued.

Andile stared at the android for a long minute, then bit her lip, forcing back the trembling that was threatening to envelope her. "You've searched my bathroom," she said softly. "You're going to search my quarters while I'm bathing. And now you're telling me that I'm going to have to submit to a body search as well," she whispered.

"It is a possibility," Data corrected her. "I, of course, would not perform such an examination," he added immediately, seeing the look of mortification on her face. "That would be done under the auspices of Dr. Crusher - and performed by a female officer, as well," he continued, as if the fact should provide the woman some consolation. "Though I am neither male nor female in fact, I do have a male appearance, and such a search might appear inappropriate."

"But you would be there," Andile whispered miserably.

"I would utilize as much discretion as possible - but yes; it would be necessary," he agreed. "The captain has ordered me to record any evidence that might be used against you - and should such a search find any evidence..."

"Don't, Data!" she interrupted sharply. "Don't use the captain's orders like this!"

"Like... what?" he replied, confused.

"Don't use the captain's orders as a way of striking back at me for last night! Gods, it's one thing to humiliate me - to follow me every step of the way all day long, to double-check my every action, to question my every move, to record every conversation I have with every person I meet, to tell me I'm too tired to keep working, to order me off duty in front of my team, to break into my room! - but to tell me I'm going have to submit to being searched..."

"I only stated it was a possibility," he corrected her quickly, softly.

But she ignored him. "... and that you're going to watch - because you're 'following the captain's orders'?" Furious, she slammed her fist against the bathroom wall, her fury escalating. "Gods, Data, at least be a man about it! Tell the truth! Admit that you're doing this because you want to hurt me, to shame me - but don't hide behind the captain, claiming you're following his orders!"

"But..." he began, a look of pure bewilderment on his face.

"I fell asleep!" she cried tearlessly. "I'm sorry! It was mean and cruel and it was thoughtless - but I didn't do it on purpose! I didn't mean to hurt you! But..." She shook her head - then wiped her eyes and looked up at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

"But I never thought you would let your personal feelings interfere with your professional duties, Commander; I never dreamt you would use your anger against me - or against any crewman on this ship. I thought... I thought you were better than that," she whispered - then turned away.

Stunned, Data could do nothing more than stare at the stricken woman, confused and bewildered, his mind racing over what she had said - and, he realized a moment later, what she had not.

Finally, he reached out, laying his hand on her shoulder, only to have it brushed off instantly.

"Don't," she said, her voice dull, empty. "Don't. You can humiliate me, Commander, you can debase me, shame me, make my life on this ship miserable - all in the name of following orders," she said. "But there's nothing in any regulation book anywhere that says you can touch me. Now get out of my bathroom."

"Lieutenant..." he began.

"Please," she interrupted. "Just... leave me alone." She turned to him, her eyes wide, beseeching him, pleading with him. "You said... You said I could take my shower... alone. I just need a minute..."

"Andile..." he tried again.

"Please!" she wailed.

He studied her, hesitated, then answered, "No."

Andile gawked at him, astounded - then her face went white with rage. "You bastard!" she cried out, her hand flying up, seemingly from nowhere, aimed directly at the android's face - then noisily made contact with it.

Data's head flew to the side under the force of the blow - then slowly, he turned back. For a moment, their eyes met, a terrible sorrow in his, shock in hers - then Andile's eyes widened and she gave a shriek of undisguised agony.

She doubled over, pulling her hand into the security of her body, crying out as pain began to radiate up her arm.

"Damn it! Gods damn it!" she cried out.

"Andile?" Data asked in bewilderment. "Andile?" - but there was no response from the woman. "Andile? What is wrong?"

"My hand!" she gasped.

For a moment, he felt a surge of panic washing over him as he realized she had been hurt, clouding his thoughts, blocking him from seeing the logical answer to what he was seeing. My emotions, he realized; they are interfering with my ability to think rationally.

Cocking his head to one side, he began to close the internal switch that enabled his emotions - then stopped. Andile would not approve, he reminded himself; after all, had she not stated on numerous occasions that if he wanted to have human emotions, he was going to have to learn to act with those emotions? he reminded himself.

But her safety had not been in danger during those discussions – but it was now, and he would allow nothing, not even his own desires to emulate humans to interfere with her safety. He shut off the chip, knowing it was the correct decision – but knowing equally well she would not approve of the act – and despite the disconnection of his feelings, a wave of guilt washed over him.

Forcing himself to disregard the errant feeling, he focused himself on his injured companion. "What has happened to your hand?" he asked as calmly as he could.

"I hit you!" she hissed, gritting her teeth against the pain.

"I am cognizant of that – but that should not result in significant injury..." he began – then fell silent as she pulled her hand free of the safety of her body's protection and raised it.

Despite his resolve to remain calm, Data gaped: the appendage was swelling, rapidly turning black as blood surged into the damaged tissues.

"Andile, this is not a normal physiological response to an act of this nature. You must go to Sickbay..." he started, but she interrupted him with a rough cry.

"No!" she barked, then lowered her tone. "No. I... I don't need Sickbay! Just..." she began, moving toward the bathroom – but the pain was rapidly catching up to her; she stumbled, starting to fall to her knees – only to be swept up in Data's arms.

Divining her intentions, he quickly carried her into the small lavatory, then propped her against the side of the washbasin, grabbed her wrist and applied pressure to the artery leading to her hand with one hand while tapping the faucet control with the other. "Computer, reduce temperature of water to two degrees centigrade."

"That temperature exceeds normal safety parameters for..."

"Override safety protocols, authorization Data omega seven four two one nine six three epsilon," he called back.

"Water temperature is now at two degrees centigrade," the computer's voice returned. "Advise against prolonged contact with human skin tissue."

"Warning noted," Data replied, touching the sink control to allow the bowl to fill with the near-freezing water, then plunged the distended hand into the water.

The intense cold must have been enough to penetrate her pain-fogged mind, for a moment later, she began to struggle, fighting against the android's rigid grasp of her hand, trying to pull it free of bitterly cold water that now enveloped it.

"Do not remove your hand," he said.

"No," she agreed weakly – then leaned against him, the pain overwhelming her.

"I am applying pressure to the main artery of your arm; this will serve to reduce the flow of blood to your hand."

She nodded, the words registering only partially.

"But you should go to Sickbay," he added.

She shook her head violently. "No! No, please," she begged. "I'll be okay."

"An injury of this nature can create long-term complications," he countered.

"I'll be fine," she insisted – then shivered as the bitterly cold water continued to draw the warmth out of her body.

Feeling the shudder of her body, Data looked at her – then suddenly seemed to realize she was naked. He glanced around the bathroom, only to realize there was no robe and no nightwear in the small room.

"Computer," he called out, "replicate a blanket."

"There are one thousand, three hundred seventeen blankets on file. Specify material and dimensions," the feminine voice replied.

"It does not matter!" he roared back, suddenly overcome by frustration. "Any type of blanket!"

"Data," her weak voice interrupted him, "it's just a machine. It can't think."

"I am cognizant of that fact, but..." he began - then stopped, staring at the woman in his arms – and realized she had pulled her hand out of the water.

"No," the android said immediately, "you must not remove your hand from the water. You became injured when you slapped me; there is severe trauma to your hand. You must allow me to continue to apply first aid to minimize the infiltration of blood into the tissues and reduce the pain."

"Data, my hand will be fine," she informed him, "and the only pain I'm feeling is from having my hand stuck in a sinkful of ice water."

"The low temperature of the water has slowed the sensory input to your brain," he replied. "If I were to permit you to remove your hand before the blood vessels have reduced the blood flow into the tissues, the pain would return; furthermore, the damage to your hand..."

"My hand will be fine" she repeated, adding, "look."

He followed the line of her gaze, turning his attention to the sink as she slowly lifted her hand from the cold water.

It was still grossly distended and the palm black with blood - but it was no more swollen now than it had been when he had plunged it into the water minutes before.

"That... is not possible," he replied hollowly, unable to accept what he was seeing. "The trauma to your hand was extensive..."

"It was," she agreed, her voice aching with weariness. "But... Data, I heal very, very quickly."

"No human is capable of healing that quickly," he protested. Even with a cellular regenerator, it would have taken several minutes for the all the blood vessels to be closed off - and considerably longer for the blood to be reabsorbed into the tissue.

Yet even as he watched, the swelling was beginning to recede - and the purplish tone beginning to fade.

Her hand was, indeed, healing. At least, he added worriedly, the blood vessels were repairing themselves. But the bones...

"Lieutenant, the nature of your injury suggests that you may have suffered broken bones within your hand, resulting in the damage the soft tissue..."

But Andile shook her head. "No. I didn't break anything."

"You do not know that..." he began to protest.

"Yes, I do," she countered, then gave a shiver before she could explain further.

It took Data a moment to realize that the effect of the icy water, the late hour and the emotional and physical traumas were taking a toll on the woman; making sure she could support herself for a moment, he released his grip, hurried from the bathroom, then returned a moment later, the replicated blanket in hand.

Wrapping it around the shivering engineer, he led her from the room and back to the bed. Settling her down on the bare mattress, he took a place before her, then reached for the damaged hand, studying it once again.

It was still dark and swollen - but even without his exceptional visual perception, he could see that it was obviously less distended than it had been moments before - and watching as Andile slowly and painfully bent and flexed her fingers, it was equally apparent that the bones were not broken.

Which was not possible, he reminded himself, quickly recalculating the forces involved in the blow that had struck him; based on known human bone densities, there was no way to avoid at least minor fractures of the phalanges.

But then again, there was no way for the soft tissues of a human hand to heal as quickly as hers had either, he reminded himself.

Which meant...

"Andile," he said softly, "are you... human?"


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

Andile gave an uncertain smile. "I think so – at least, Starfleet says I am," she added.

"You mean you do not know?" Data asked, surprised - and instantly fascinated.

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "My home world was destroyed long ago, and I... I wasn't taught about the history of our people. I didn't think much about it when I was younger, but after reaching Earth, and seeing others who looked like I did, I came to think we didn't evolve on my home world, but where we came from, how we got to Parash... I realized I didn't know who – or what – I was," she confessed. "So when I applied at Starfleet, I couldn't tell them what species I was; they asked me to submit to a genome map – which I was happy to do – I was as interested in learning about my people as they were - and based on the results, they decided I was human."

"But humans do not heal this quickly," he countered, touching her hand.

"Actually, some do," she countered. "It's an extremely unusual trait – probably a mutation of some sort – but I'm not alone in having it. It's not unheard of – but I'll admit I haven't run into anyone who can recover quite as quickly as I do."

Data cocked his head to one side, pulling up a data file from his positronic mind that referred to such unusual and exceptional healers - then nodded; such an attribute was rare in humans, but it did exist.

But healing of soft tissue was one thing, he reminded himself, healing broken bones another. And if Andile was human, as Starfleet had proclaimed her to be, then impact of her hand against the tritanium structure of his face would have resulted in at least some bones of her hands being broken.

Which they were not, he thought, watching as her fingers curled around his.

"And you are not in pain?" he asked, worried - and he realized unhappily, suspicious.

He doesn't trust me, she thought sadly - then pushed away the fleeting sense of self-pity. As if he should; as if I haven't lied to him in the past...

... and the present, she added miserably.

"It hurts," she admitted, "but I've learned how to control my own pain." She hesitated briefly. "I... I didn't have access to pain medications when I was on my home world – truth is, I didn't even know such things existed! So I developed a kind of self-hypnosis," she explained. "It takes a little while before it works – and in any case, I'm usually healed – or healing - before I really need it," she said.

As if to prove her words, the raised her hand to him, flexing her fingers carefully.

Data nodded to himself. He knew that Vulcans and other races made regular practice of learning to induce such states - though the mental self-discipline was quite challenging.

Which, he reminded himself, was why so few humans bothered to learn the practice; though it could prove quite beneficial, it was uncommon for humans to dedicate the time and effort needed for something they might never use.

But then, Andile was an exceedingly uncommon human.

He looked up at her - and saw a great sadness come to her eyes as she pulled her hand away from his.

"But you're right - in a way. A human hand couldn't have tolerated slapping you the way I did - it would have broken. And while I'm human, Data, my hands aren't... human, I mean. At least the bones aren't. They're tritanium - like yours," she said softly.

"Your hands... are artificial?" he repeated.

She looked down, miserable. "My hands were destroyed in the accident. Not completely, but... The doctors tried cloning replacements from the little bits of tissue that were still attached to my arms - but it took too long for the bones to complete the cloning cycle." She smiled at him - but the smile, like her eyes, was hollow, empty. "You see, the drawback of healing as quickly as I do is that my immune system is always reorienting itself - what my body recognizes as 'self' one day is 'foreign' just a few weeks later - and by the time the bones had completed the cloning cycle, my body saw them as 'foreign'. I rejected the cloned implants. Three times," she added with a whisper. "Three times I woke up with hands - and three times they had to amputate them," she added, her voice heavy with the memory of the pain and the loss.

Data looked up at her, finding himself aching for the enormity of her grief, then turned his attention to the thick white bands that encircled both wrists.

"Then your scars - they are the result of tissue incompatibility?" he asked, instantly wondering if Dr. Crusher could find some immunosuppressive that might reduce or eliminate the broad bands.

"No..." she started, then stopped stared at her wrists - then slowly shook her head. "I almost died from the last rejection," she told him, raising her eyes to his. "That's when the doctors decided to try tritanium. They created the bones, then created new muscles, tendons and ligaments from other parts of my body and attached them... I've spent part of the last two years learning how to use my hands again. Sometimes," she added with tired smile, "sometimes when I'm tired, I find I can't control them at all. I have to actually think about what I'm doing. A lifetime of using my hands, and now I have to think about how to pick something up. It's funny... or it would be funny if it weren't so pathetic," she added, her voice growing harsh.

"It is not pathetic," Data countered, "and it is not funny. It is... sad. I am sad," he amended a moment later. "I am sad for all the pain to which you have been subjected. I wish... I wish I could have been able to prevent it."

"Data, no one could have prevented it," she replied brusquely. "What happened, happened. I'm not asking for any sympathy or pity - I walked out of that hospital alive - something the others didn't," she added angrily.

"Others?" he echoed, curious. "What others?"

Andile looked up at him suddenly, as if realizing what she had said. "The other patients. Those who were wounded in the war - and didn't survive. There were thousands of them, Data; thousands who came in while I was there - but didn't get the chance to leave the way I did - alive. I can't complain, Data; I have no right to ever complain again. They died - and I lived." She shook her head, then stared down at her lap. "They died, and I lived - and by the gods, I will never understand why," she whispered.

Andile drew in a long, shuddering breath, then grasped the edges of the blanket, pulling it closer around her as she did, slowly rocking back and forth.

A moment later, she felt a slight change in the shape of the bed on which she sat, then felt two arms encircle her, drawing her close but not so tight that she had to stop her slow, mournful rocking.

Data held her, carefully and gently, allowing her to rock slowly within his arms, preparing himself for the emotional outburst that typically followed such human catharsis - but as he looked down at Andile's face, he saw no tears upon her cheeks. Deep within her eyes, yes - but with no outward appearance whatsoever.

"Andile, an emotional release is often beneficial in times such as this. If you are uncomfortable with my presence, I will remove myself..."

"Oh, Data," she interrupted sadly, pulling away, looking up at him, "why are you being so good to me?" she asked.

He stared at her, confused. "Should I not be?" he asked.

"Not after what I did last night," she answered.

"What you... did?" he replied, still confused.

"I fell asleep!" she cried out, miserably.

"Ah," he said, beginning to understand at last, then finding himself confused once again. "But you were fatigued," he reminded her. "Does one not sleep when one is tired?"

"Data! I fell asleep while we were making love!" she roared back, incredulous at his response - or, more accurately, his lack of response.

"I am cognizant of the events, Andile - but as I stated previously, you were fatigued. In such a state..."

"Data, I don't care if I was dying! You're not supposed to fall asleep in the middle of making love! It's... it's... it's insulting!" she finally managed.

He stared at her, curious. "It is? Why?"

It was her turn to gawp back at him. "Why?" she echoed incredulously. "Because... Because it's like saying your love-making wasn't exciting enough to keep me awake! It's an insult to your abilities, to your virility - to your masculinity!" she sputtered indignantly, furious at him for not being furious with her.

But the android seemed unaware of the emotional response he was expected to deliver; instead, he looked at her calmly. "Andile, you are using a human standard by which to assess my behavior - but I am not human. My sexual abilities are programmed into my neural net, allowing me to access over seven thousand different styles, techniques and positions which may be altered, amended or combined in response to my partner's desires, needs and responses.

"But regarding my masculinity... Andile," he said gently, "I am not masculine. I am not feminine. Indeed, I have no gender, simply the appearance of one. You cannot insult me for lacking something that I do not, and have never, possessed."

"But..." she began to protest.

"I was not insulted," he continued, interrupting her before she could argue further. "Indeed, I believe I was... complimented," he decided at last, a smile crossing his face as he came to a decision.

She gawked at him, astounded - and disbelieving.

"Complimented?" she roared. "You felt complimented - because I fell asleep?"

"Indeed," he agreed, then adjusted his position, pulling her closer to him, only to feel her pull back - but only far enough to be able to look in his eyes, searching out the truth.

"I don't understand," she said at last.

"Andile, you once stated that it was not in your nature to trust others - myself included," he reminded her. "It was, therefore, one of my goals has been to engender sufficient worthiness in your estimation to earn that trust. I believe your actions of the last few days have demonstrated that, on at least some levels, I have begun to merit that honor," he added, a little proudly.

"What are you talking about? What actions?" she said - then a worried expression crossed her face. "Data, if you're talking about what happened last night..."

"Last night," he began, "did indeed indicate a level of trust you had not previously demonstrated - but I refer specifically to your actions on the evening of the shuttlebay accident."

She stared at him, confused. "I don't understand."

"You slept in my quarters," he replied.

"I was under orders..." she began to protest - but he silenced her with a single shake of his head.

"You," he reminded her, "were not under orders. I was - to watch over you. This did not obligate you to fall asleep - and yet you did," he reminded her.

"I was tired," she argued. "It had been a long day - and the accident..."

"The causative factors are not relevant, Andile; what is relevant is the fact that you did fall asleep."

"But..."

"During sleep," he continued, "one is indefensible against one's enemies. This is a fact of which I am certain you are well aware; it is, I suspect, one of the reasons you have not slept well or thoroughly since you came aboard the ship; you do not feel 'safe' here; you do not trust us to protect you from your enemies.

"However, on the night of the accident, you did fall asleep - in part, I believe, because despite your protestations, you did, at least at a fundamental level, believe you could trust me to watch over you. And indeed, the moment I left my quarters to obtain your uniforms, you woke - and became extremely distraught."

Startled, she gave him a terrified look. "I did? Data, did I ... say anything?" she asked worriedly.

He looked at her, surprised by the question - and by the terror in her voice. "You inquired after Ensign Cho's health," he replied after a moment's hesitation.

"That's all?" she pressed, worriedly.

He hesitated again - then decided that lying to a fellow officer was inappropriate - and that lying to someone he loved, even to preserve her feelings and sense of self-esteem, was even less appropriate.

"You inquired... vociferously," he admitted reluctantly.

She studied him a moment longer - then realized he was telling the truth. Relieved, she fell against him once again.

Finding himself relieved as well, Data went on, "But once I reassured you that the ensign was doing well, you allowed yourself to return to sleep - again, reaffirming that you did, indeed, trust me, both to tell you the truth and to watch over you while you were defenseless. I take great pride in having earned that honor, Andile," he added solemnly.

"And last night..." she pressed.

"Last night, you further honored me by showing your trust once again, first in allowing me to grant you sexual pleasure - and further by falling asleep at a time when most humans would consider themselves most vulnerable."

That was an understatement, Andile thought to herself as a vision of the previous night filled her mind, stark naked, her legs wrapped around his hips... She shook her head. It was amazing, she chided herself harshly, how stupid you can get when you're getting off; you lose all control, all judgment...

But I've never lost control before, she realized soberly - and I've never lost my judgment before. And I didn't last night.

Data's right, she realized with a start; whether I realized it or not, I did trust him - to please me, to not hurt me... and trusting him, I let go of that control.

And promptly fell asleep, she reminded herself brutally.

What a fine 'thank you' for all his efforts, she added bitterly.

She nodded soberly. "Data, you may be right - about me trusting you. I hope you are," she added. "But don't confuse what happened last night with what happens between most lovers. Lots men and women have sex - but that doesn't mean they trust one another," she pointed out - gently. "Sometimes they do it just to get off."

He gave her a puzzled look. "'Get off'?"

Andile reddened. "You know... Um... Have fun. Pleasure... Get their jollies," she tried lamely.

Comprehension lit in his face. "Ah! Achieve orgasm," he replied.

Her face turned crimson in embarrassment. "Urr, yeah," she mumbled - then met his gaze again. "People get each other off all the time - but that doesn't mean they really trust each other. It's just mutual gratification," she tried to explain.

He considered her explanation. "Though I have not observed sexual encounters in others, I believe that you may be correct," he agreed after a moment's thought. "However, I suspect the degree of fulfillment is in direct correlation to the degree of trust; the more open the level of trust, the more one may permit themselves to experience, knowing that their partner has nothing but the highest of intentions and aspirations for their sexual pleasure.

"I can therefore assume, based on the number of orgasms you experienced last night..." he continued - only to be interrupted by an angry cry.

"The number? You mean you were counting?" Andile gawked, moritified. "What were you doing? Keeping score?"

He stared at her, perplexed at her outrage. "An assessment of your physical response to my lovemaking techniques is requisite if I am to know whether to amend those techniques, and, if so, to help determine which other programs I should implement in order to better satisfy you. Observing the number and intensity of your orgasms seemed the most propitious manner in which to make that determination," he explained.

"Well, don't!" she snapped. "Don't make that observation. If you've got the energy to keep count - then you're not putting everything into that you should!" she snapped - then instantly calmed herself. "Look, Data, technique doesn't matter. Style doesn't matter. For that matter, it doesn't matter if I get off five times or a hundred times - or not at all - as long as we're both having fun..." She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wide in concern. "You did... have fun - didn't you?" she asked worriedly.

He considered for a moment. "My previous experiences with 'having fun' have been limited to playing games..." he began to explain.

"I meant," she growled in interruption, flaming red as she did so, "did you... you know? Finish?" she added, her face glowing crimson.

Data looked at her, confused - then suddenly, he understood what she meant. "You had fallen asleep, Andile. My studies of human relationships have indicated that such behavior would be grossly inappropriate."

Her face fell, devastated by realization. "You mean... Oh, gods, Data, I'm so sorry! You should have... I mean..."

He interrupted her, stopping her with a gentle touch of his hand. "Andile," he said softly, "you must not apologize. It was sufficient that I was able to bring you pleasure," he insisted.

"But we're both supposed to..." she began to protest.

"Andile," he repeated, silencing her once again, "despite the fact that I wish our relationship to emulate those of other humans, you must remember: I am not human; I am not driven by human physiological needs. I do not need to achieve..." He hesitated, remembering her discomfiture of a moment earlier, "...sexual climax to enjoy making love with you."

"But... then you're not... disappointed?" she asked anxiously.

"I am not disappointed," he assured her.

Andile sighed in relief, content at his announcement - then pushed back from him, looking up at his face once more. "But... Data, if you weren't upset with me, why did you leave?" she pressed.

He hesitated - hesitated long enough that she began to wonder why - and the truth came crashing in on her.

He was hesitating because he was doing something that was unfamiliar to him - preparing a lie.

And a moment later, when it came out, she knew she was right.

"I... I had other obligations, Andile," he said.

She stared at him, studying his face - then pushed herself back, free from his arms, shaking her head furiously. "No. No, you didn't have 'other obligations', Data - we talked about the work we both had to do - and there was nothing last night for either of us! You didn't have bridge duty, you said your report could be completed in the morning... You didn't have an 'other obligations'! Oh, gods, Data, I may not be able to read you - but by the gods, I can still tell a lie when I hear one! Please, please, please, just tell me the truth! If last night was that bad, please don't try to hide it in words like 'trust' and 'honor' - or in lies of 'obligation'! Just tell me the truth!" she cried.

"Andile, last night was not 'that bad'..." he began.

"Then why did you leave me?" she cried.

He stared at her, stung by the terrible pain in her voice - then blurted out unhappily, "I had to feed Spot."

For a minute, she said nothing, staring at him, studying his eyes, his mouth, his lips, searching out another lie... then whispered, "Your cat?"

"I have an obligation to her, Andile," he said, apologetically - but insistently. "Had I known in advance that I would not be in my quarters for the evening, I would have made arrangements for someone to feed her and play with her - but our liaison was unplanned; I could not let her needs go unattended..." he tried to explain.

"Your... cat," Andile repeated hollowly. "You left me to feed your cat."

"I had thought to explain the situation to you - but I did not wish to wake you," he admitted uncomfortably.

"You could have left a note," she said flatly.

"I thought you might be... insulted that I had left you in order to attend to her needs," he said.

The woman studied him for a long time, no hint of an expression on her face - then shook her head. "Dearest, make me a promise?"

"If it is within my abilities..."

"Please don't sell your watch to buy a comb for my hair," she said.

Data stared at her for a moment, perplexed. "I do not have a watch," he said, confused. "My integrated internal chronometer..." Then his eyes widened in understanding. "Ah. The O. Henry story. The Gift of the Magi. The young couple so in love that the wife cuts her hair and sells it to buy a watch fob for her husband's watch, which he has sold in order to purchase a comb for her luxuriant hair. A story of two great loves?" he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

"A story of dearest intentions and great miscommunications," Andile countered. "Dearest, do you really think I would have been insulted because you left to take care of Spot? I like Spot – and she likes me, I don't want her to get mad at me – and haven't I always said that we had an obligation to fulfill our duties first - and that our friendship had to come second to that?"

He considered. "I know you have stated this on many occasions - but Geordi has explained that some humans - females in particular - are not always to be assessed by their avowals of behavior," he informed her. "That you would place duty ahead of personal pleasure does not always means that you wish others to follow the same standard of behavior."

She sighed. "True enough - but then again, Geordi is probably not the most expert reference when it comes to women," she reminded him - then gave him a worried glance. "You talked to Geordi - about us?" she asked.

There was worry in her voice, he realized - and for a moment, he was tempted to alter the truth - not to lie, he insisted to himself - but to alter it sufficiently to abate her concern.

But had she not just begged him to tell her the truth - even when he feared it would harm her? he reminded himself. "No," he said at last. "But I had intended to do so. I wished to discuss my feelings about what happened last night with my friend - but when I finally did encounter him, I... did not."

"I'm glad. Not that I'm ashamed of what happened," she added hurriedly, reaching up to caress his face, "but it's probably better that he doesn't know. In fact, Data," she added, her voice growing grim, "in view of the fact that I'm now the chief suspect in the sabotage of this ship, it's probably a good idea if no one knows what we were doing last night. I wouldn't want your reputation sullied because of me."

"It would not," he insisted.

"It could be," she insisted, "and I care for you enough that I don't want that to happen. In fact, it might be a good idea if we were to put this relationship on hold until this mission in over; I don't want anyone thinking you were swayed by your personal feelings when it came to your follow orders about watching me," she reminded him.

"Andile," he said softly, "neither of us can be responsible for the reactions of others to what we do. We can only behave in accordance with our beliefs in the Federation, and in our personal responses to our duties."

"But you _can_!" she protested. "You can turn off your emotions, and live your life to the letter of Federation regulations! You can be utterly free of any conflict of interest between what you feel and what your duty is..."

"But you have stated that I should not turn off my emotions - that I should learn to incorporate those feelings into my existence..." he protested.

"But not in a case like this! Data, if word got out that we were fucking last night, who do you think would believe you in anything you said about me?" she cried.

"Andile," he interrupted her sternly, "it is inappropriate for you to utilize that term."

She looked at him, confused. "What term?" she asked.

"'Fucking'," he replied. "It is vulgar..."

"Gods, Data," she interrupted angrily. "We're talking about your future in Starfleet - and you've got nothing better to do then read me the regs on inappropriate language?" she roared.

"... and it is incorrect," he continued, ignoring her outburst. "We were not 'fucking'..."

She gave him a bemused look. "Oh? Well, I don't know about you, slim, but I sure as hell was..."

"We were making love," he continued smoothly.

She stared at him. "It's the same thing!" she protested.

"It is not. 'Fucking' is intercourse for the purpose of individual gratification; making love is the physical manifestation of two peoples' desire to grow closer. Making love is an act of physical and spiritual union. Making love is step in the pathway of two people trying to become closer to one another. Making love is... is..." He fumbled for a moment, thinking, then looked at her solemnly. "Making love is what we were doing," he concluded.

Caught in mid-argument, Andile fumbled to a halt, chagrined - and touched. "Oh," she said meekly.

"And as for who would believe me," he went on, "anyone who knows me would believe me: Capt. Picard, Cmdr. Riker, Geordi, Dr. Crusher..."

"Would Cmdr. Worf trust you?" Andile interrupted sharply.

Data hesitated, considering. "I do not know," he admitted a moment later. "I have not served with the Commander in a number of years - but there was a time we considered each other to be friends," he added. "I do not believe that that estimation has altered."

And Klingons count their friends few, far between - but utterly faithful. Still...

"All right," she conceded, "they would trust you - but that's because they know you. But would anyone else? Data, you have to be honest with yourself about this," she informed him soberly. "You have to ask yourself this: If this comes down to it, would a board of inquiry trust you?"

He paused for a moment, cocked his head to one side, staring blankly at the wall beyond her, obviously considering the question - then looked back at her. "I cannot state what others would do, Andile," he answered. "But I have learned that I cannot live my life based on how others interpret my actions. All I can do is to continue to grow, to learn, to develop as a sentient being - and continue to function within the belief structure that I have adopted. And those beliefs include fulfilling my duties: to Starfleet, to the Federation..." he said firmly.

"And to fulfill those duties we have to end this," she interrupted.

"... to my crewmates, to my friends..." he continued, ignoring her remark - then reached for her hands, "... and to the people I love. If I could abandon one of those duties, Andile," he said softly, "could not my commitment to all?"

She stared at him, astounded - but heart-touched - by his reasoning - then sighed and shook her head, knowing the argument was a lost cause. Arguing with Data was like... like... like arguing with me, she admitted ruefully. "I assume, then, that you're not about to give up on this relationship?" she sighed.

"You assumption is correct," he said - then gently disengaged himself from her. Rising to his feet, he added, "However, there are significant changes that must be made to this association if it is to continue."

Stepping past her, he moved to the dresser, and took the neatly folded uniform from atop it and handed it to her. "Please get dressed," he ordered her.

She stared at him, then at the clothes - then said hopefully, "You're letting me go back on duty?"

He shook his head, surprised at the possibility. "Andile, my reasons for removing you from duty were as I stated at that time; you are tired. You must rest. You should eat. But I have other obligations as well; obligations that I cannot fulfill from your quarters. Therefore, you must come with me."

She stared at him - then nodded, confused. "All right - but I really do need to take a shower first... if your responsibilities can wait that long," she added with a teasing grin. "I promise it will only take a few minutes."

"I can wait," he conceded, "but I do believe it would be more efficient - for both of us - if you were to do so when we reach my quarters," he said firmly.

"Your quarters?" she repeated slowly. "Why are we going to your quarters?"

"As I stated, I do have obligations - to you, to Spot, to the ship, to the captain - and I cannot fulfill them all while watching over you from your quarters. Therefore an accommodation must be made - and you, I regret to say, will be the one to make that accommodation," he informed her. "Would you please get dressed?" he added – then turned away.

Andile smiled to herself, surprised - and a little touched - by the android's sudden burst of discretion. Last night he had evinced no such politesse - but then again, one tended not to need such discretion in the midst of being seduced.

"And that accommodation is...?" as she began to step into the uniform, then stood as she began to slide the skin-tight garment up her body.

"You must take up residence with me," he replied.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

Andile stopped in mid-move, her uniform half up her body. "I beg your pardon?"

Data turned back to her, all pretext of modesty gone. "You must reside with me," he repeated, stepping close to her once again. "This will allow me to fulfill my duties to Spot without having to leave you - which would conflict with my orders regarding observing your actions - while giving me access to my modified computer station, allowing me to complete the other responsibilities I have to the captain and the ship."

Andile stared at him for a second, then pulled her uniform up the rest of the way. "Any other reasons?" she asked blandly as she slid her finger up the center seam, closing the molecular seal.

"It would permit me to ensure that you do not fatigue yourself excessively by allowing me to monitor your rest periods as well as your dietary intake," Data explained, "as well as permit me to ensure that you are not depriving yourself of basic comforts - such as bed linens, towels, the basic accoutrement of standard living quarters," he added.

Andile frowned as she considered the room beyond. "I guess this place is a little spartan," she admitted.

Data opened his mouth to argue the understatement - then closed it, understanding, at last, her lessons in not debating pointless matters. Instead, he nodded, seemingly agreeing with her. "Such deprivation is not consistent with a healthful lifestyle - but as Geordi has reminded me, the process of giving one's room a personal ambience requires both time and energy. If you will remember, however, the captain's orders also stated that I was to ensure your safety as well as observe you - and allowing you to exhaust yourself by depriving yourself of basic comforts or in expending excessive amounts of energy in decorating would not be ensuring your safety," he explained. "Having you reside in my quarters would facilitate the utilization of those comforts without an undue energy expense on your part."

She nodded, then glanced across the room. "Boots, please."

Data followed her gaze, then hurried to retrieve the footwear, quickly gathering up the soiled uniform at the same time. Returning to her side, he handed her the boots, then watched as she sat back on the bed.

"So my moving in with you is really for my benefit," she murmured as she pulled the boot onto her foot.

"Indeed," he said, watching her adjust the pants leg over it.

"And there's no other reason you're doing this," she continued as she put on the second boot. "You want me to live with you simply because you're currently assigned to watch over me - and its more efficient for you; so fulfilling your responsibilities to me doesn't interfere with your responsibilities to the ship," she continued, more than a hint of anger in her voice - and in her manner as she snapped the pants leg over the top of the second boot.

Data stared at her, taken aback by the disapproval in her voice - then quickly said, "You have often promulgated your belief that efficiency is essential to the proper functioning of the ship."

"Yes, I have," she agreed. "I assume, then, that we'll have separate beds."

"That will not be necessary," he replied evenly, "One bed will be sufficient."

She glared at him. "That's pretty damned presumptuous, Data! Just because I slept with you once doesn't mean I'm about to... "

"Lieutenant," he interrupted her gently, "I was not suggesting that you had a sexual obligation to me because I have recommended that you reside in my quarters; one bed will be sufficient - because I do not sleep. The bed is yours - alone."

She looked up at him - and he was surprised - and confused - to see the hurt in her eyes. "And that's what you want?" she asked softly.

"Under these circumstances, it would be appropriate," he replied.

Under these circumstances, she thought to herself unhappily. I'm a suspect in the sabotage of the ship, he's my immediate superior and my watchdog. Of course, asking me to live with him is the logical - and efficient - plan of choice, she reminded herself... but there are times that I wish neither of us valued logic and efficiency quite so highly.

But what else did I expect? she added miserably.

"That is what you wished me to say, is it not?" he added a moment later.

Andile stared up at him. "Pardon?"

"You stated last night that you did not believe that I loved you and that you were not capable of returning that love," he replied. "Therefore, I have framed my arguments in terms of efficiency and duty, two attributes you have often rated highly and should therefore be most effective in convincing you of the validity of my decision."

"And I do rate them highly," she conceded.

"So you profess." He glanced at her, studying her posture and pose in a split second, then returned his gaze to her face. "Your body language, however, indicates that you would have preferred other, more... emotional arguments," he said, studying her face.

"No!" she insisted - then murmured, "yes. Yes, I know it's stupid, it's illogical, it flies in the face of everything I believe," or told myself I believed, "but yes... I wanted to hear something else. I wanted to hear..."

"That I love you," Data concluded, reaching for her hand.

"Yes," she whispered.

"That I wished you to reside with me, not out of my sense of duty and responsibility, but because I care for you, because I wish to share as much of my day - and my night - with you as is feasible." He thought for a moment - then drew her against him.

"Yes," she murmured.

"Because I would like to forward our relationship as other humans do, from being friends, to lovers, to... co-habitors," he added, wrapping his arms around her slight body, holding her tightly to him.

Andile gave a soft chuckle. "I don't think 'co-habitors' would qualify in the lexicon of romantic phrases, dear - but yes, that's what I wanted to hear," she agreed, giving a contented sigh and laying her head against his chest.

He looked down, studying her for a moment - then gave a sigh of his own - a distinctly unhappy one.

Hearing the disappointment in the sound, Andile pulled back, looking up at him. "But Data, please don't say those things, not if that's not the way you feel..." she began.

"It is," he countered.

"Then why do you look so unhappy?" she asked.

"Andile, we have been acquaintances for several months, friends for several weeks, involved for several days - and lovers for several hours. And yet we have not come to know each other well enough for each of us to intuit the others feelings," he said miserably - only to find himself rewarded with a smile from the tiny woman - a smile he did not understand.

Or perhaps she did not understand his point. "Logically, Andile," he hurried to explain, "based on our knowledge of one another, these things should have gone without needing to be said."

"Data - my dear, sweet Data... When it comes to love and sex, it never goes without needing to be said. Even after a thousand years, I'll still want to hear you say it," she said sweetly. "Though it may take a thousand years before I'm able to believe it," she added, a little sadly.

He considered for a moment. "My current power supply has been estimated to last in excess of ten thousand years; an investment of ten percent of that period in an effort to convince you that you are loved by me seems a practical investment of my time," he decided. "Are there any other things you wish me to say?"

Andile thought - then grinned mischievously. "You could tell me what you would have done if I _had_ stepped out of the shower, naked, wet, dripping, cold..."

He contemplated the idea for a moment, then replied, "As you did not have a towel, my first action would have been to replicate one for you - and to offset the effect of the air temperature I would have ordered the replicator to warm the towel to approximately forty-two..." he continued - then stopped abruptly at the frown on her face. "A description of this nature is not what you desired," he realized.

She shook her head. "Not exactly."

"You would prefer something of a more... intimate nature?" he tried.

She shrugged. "You're getting warmer."

After three months of working - and learning - with the woman, it only took him a moment to realize she did not refer to his body temperature. "Ah," he said, understanding. "You wished me to describe the acts of foreplay I would have initiated."

"It... would be nice," she agreed, a little shyly.

He studied her for a time, then asked, curiously, "Why?"

Andile grimaced, her embarrassment growing. "Data, sex is only partly physical. A lot of it's mental. If I can't go to sleep in your arms, at least I can fall asleep thinking about it," she said.

"Ah," Data replied - then cocked his head to one side. "I do not believe I understand," he added a moment later.

"About sex being mental as well as physical?" she said, surprised that he hadn't confronted that aspect of human sexuality. "Well, people think more about sex than they..."

"I did not mean that," he interrupted. "I am cognizant of the psychological aspect of human sexuality. I meant, why can you not go to sleep in my arms?" he asked.

Andile gawked. "Data - we just agreed! It's a conflict of duty! You're supposed to watching me!"

"Making love might be construed as a conflict of interest, Andile," he agreed, "but allowing you to sleep in my arms would not be," he decided. "Indeed, it would be fulfilling my orders, as I would know with absolute certainty where you were, what you were doing - and that you were receiving the necessary rest you require."

She stared at him, astounded, then shook her head and gave a low chuckle. "There would be those who disagree with you, dearest."

"I would be willing to argue my point," he replied.

By the gods, you would, wouldn't you? she thought, astounded. You could probably even find a way to justify making love, if you really wanted to, she added.

"I appreciate the thought, dear - but, in view of the situation, I think I would sleep better if I knew you weren't wasting your time doing nothing," she said.

"Ensuring you are properly rested is not a waste of time, Andile," he insisted.

She gazed up at him, touched; reaching up, she caressed the angle of his jaw, then pulled his head down to hers, kissing him lightly. Releasing him, she pulled back, whispering, "That, my dear, is the sweetest thing you've ever said. But... I'd still feel better if I knew you were trying to get this ship back into one piece."

"As you wish," he agreed amicably.

"Which doesn't mean you can't tell me what you would have done while we're on the way," she added as she took the old uniform from his hand. "So let me just get the rest of my stuff together - what there is of it..."

Data interrupted her, raising a hand to reveal her carry-all - already filled, she realized.

She gave the android a suspicious look. "For a man who says he's never been in a relationship, Data, you're pretty damned confident. How did you know I would agree to move in with you?"

"I did not _know_," he admitted. "But I believed that you would yield to reason, logic and your sense of duty..." He hesitated.

She heard the slight break in his voice - then studied his face, sensing there was something more, something unsaid, something the man, so new to emotions, was uncertain of.

"And something else?" she whispered, pressing him gently.

"And... I _hoped_ you would," he replied softly.

She stared up at him, astounded - and touched - by the need in the man's voice. "Data," she said softly, "I was wrong. _That_ was the sweetest thing you've ever said." Her hand reached up to caress his face for a moment, then drew it down towards hers, their lips meeting, gently at first, then with a growing hunger, until, at last, Andile pulled back, staring at him with a renewed sense of awe.

He stared back, then asked, almost anxiously, "I am still unfamiliar with the appropriate terminology for describing my experiences, Andile. Tell me: Was that... nice?"

"That wasn't just nice, dearest," she answered softly, her heart still pounding from the touch. "That was very nice. Very nice, indeed."

For a moment, the android did nothing - then an immensely self-satisfied smile began to cross the man's face.

It lasted only a moment - then he hurriedly followed the woman out of the tiny bathroom, out of her quarters, and toward his... no, he corrected himself, _their_ quarters.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

Will shrugged uncomfortably, then tugged at his collar. What was it with uniform designers, he asked himself, that they always insisted on having high collars, decorated with some form of braid - the scratchier, the better - on all dress uniforms? By God, if there was a time when a man wanted to feel comfortable, it was when he was about to face a room full of admirals or delegates or politicians or whatever group Starfleet deemed worthy of entertaining - and of course, that was the same time when Starfleet regs would decree the most uncomfortable set of clothing they could create.

He snorted, wondering if the rumor about Lt. Andile showing up for the Council President's inaugural ball four years before, dressed in a grease- and coolant-covered uniform were true. Possibly, he decided - even probably; one, he doubted she owned any clothes aside from her uniforms, and two, she probably worked right up until the moment she was supposed to attend. And three...

And three, she probably greeted the man with one of those bone-crushing handshakes of hers, getting the man filthy in the process - and then spent the balance of the night chatting him up about everything under the sun, pouring that exquisite Scotch of hers into him, making another of the boring and tedious functions which would fill his nights for the next four years into one of the few he would truly enjoy - and somewhere down the line, securing the approval - and the financing - for her next ship.

This ship, he added, glancing around the transporter room.

Another great tale in the Andile pantheon of outrageous stories - as would be the one about her being suspected of being a traitor and a saboteur.

He chuckled to himself – then grew grim as he tugged his collar once more, only to realize that he was the subject of the intense scrutiny of the woman beside him.

He looked at her quizzically.

Deanna smiled back. "You could always grow your beard back," she reminded him.

"The collar would still itch."

"Yes, but you could leave it unfastened - and no one would notice," she replied.

Will shook his head, grinning. "What, and have you say 'yuck!' every time you kiss me? No; a man can bear almost any discomfort - if he knows such pleasures await him," he said with mock severity - but his eyes twinkling with delight at her.

_Imzadi_, he thought, watching her blush - then heard the name echo in his mind as she answered him silently, a wash of warm pleasure rolling over him.

He grinned at her - then looked back to the platform, as if there was some way he would miss the arrival of the Cardassian delegate.

Not possible, Deanna knew; even if the delegate transported over unannounced, there would several seconds between the time the materialization began and when it ended - and there was little chance that a diplomat would transport over without the requisite fanfare.

And, she added, there was no way the Captain would have permitted that arrival until he had reached the transporter room himself - which he had not done, she added, glancing at the chronometer.

Sensing her concern, Riker smiled at her. "Don't worry. The captain has never missed greeting a visitor - and he's not about to start now," he added confidently.

As if on cue, the doors opened as he finished his remark, revealing a somewhat harried and hurried Picard, nattily attired in his dress uniform.

Or almost dressed, Deanna thought to herself, watching as he, too, made a final adjustment to his own collar.

"My apologies," he said to the two. "Cmdr. James was making her feelings about the computer repair known," he added by way of an explanation.

"To you?" Will gaped.

Picard raised a weary brow in acknowledgement.

Will sighed and shook his head. Sandra James had spent no less than two hours the day before explaining to him every reason why Biji's plan shouldn't be implemented - every argument of which, Will thought, boiled down to the fact that now that Andile wasn't ranked as ship's designer, she was no longer qualified in matters pertaining to the ship's computers - whereas less than a week before, the same Cmdr. James had deferred a critical decision in the computer's installation to the woman without comment or objection.

Was Cmdr. James that bound up in the trappings of rank and station that she had no grasp of simple common sense? Will wondered to himself. Didn't the fact that the plan, which was no more radical than dozens of others that had grown out of other, equally desperate times on this ship - and far less crazy than a few things they had dreamt up - didn't the fact that the plan had actually worked, and that the ship now had a completely operational computer system mean anything to the woman?

Apparently, not, he thought to himself - or why else would Sandra James have continued to protest - and directly to the captain himself, he added with a disgusted shake of his head.

If nothing else, it was bad form, Will thought; Starfleet's regs - and ship's policy - held that an officer on this ship brought their problems and complaints their direct superior first, then, if necessary, to the first officer second - but never, never to the captain directly. Jumping that chain of command was not a way to put one's self in good stead with either of the two commanding officers - and Sandra James was already in deep enough without adding this breach of etiquette to her list of failings. Glancing back at Picard, he saw that the man's expression contained an unspoken - but unequivocable - order.

Will nodded, understanding at once. "I'll talk to her as soon as we're done here," he assured the captain.

"Good," Picard replied tersely - then sighed. "Not that it will help," he added a moment later, the disappointment clear in his voice. "What Cmdr. James really needs is time - time to develop as an officer and as an individual." He sighed, then shook his head. "I understand the necessity of Starfleet giving her the rank of lieutenant commander - but she really isn't ready for it, neither in experience or training. I'm not entirely sure she's even officer material," he added bluntly.

"Perhaps not," Will agreed, "but we should give her - and Starfleet - the benefit of the doubt," he advised, knowing that on another, less stressful day, the captain would be the first to recommend the idea. "After all, taking her through the officer's training program won't hurt – though ideally, I'd put her under the tutelage of a more experienced officer - someone who can demonstrate day after day what it takes to be an officer," he added, his voice carefully controlled.

Too controlled, he realized as Picard gave him a sideward glance. "It sounds as if you have someone in mind, Number One," he said.

Caught out, Will nodded. "I was considering Lt. Andile, sir," he said, quickly adding, "She's been in Starfleet for eighty years, sir; that's a lot of experience and knowledge for the commander to learn from..."

"Will," Picard interrupted quietly, "she's still a suspect in the possible sabotage of the ship."

Riker stared at the first officer, astounded. "Excuse me? I thought that after what she just did..." Will stopped, seeing the slight flare in the older man's eyes, and quickly reminded himself who he was addressing. Drawing a deep breath, he chased back his personal feelings, and quickly re-framed his argument using logic and reason. "I beg your pardon, Captain - but I thought you no longer considered her a suspect," he said. "In view of the fact that the ship's problems seemed to be related to the installation of the ship's computer, and that she was instrumental in resolving those problems," he reminded the man, "I thought she had been cleared of suspicion."

My God, he added silently, she worked hard enough to merit that vindication, covering five full shifts with only three hours sleep - and that only because Data had pulled her off duty and made her sleep, he added, instantly thankful he hadn't been the one who had to fulfill that responsibility.

But the captain had stood those same five shifts with little more sleep than she had, Will added, seeing the dark circles beneath the man's eyes - and realizing the worry that filled those eyes came from something more than a lack of rest.

He had wanted to see her vindicated as well, Will realized - but what the captain wanted and what the realities of the situation were, were worlds apart.

But if Andile was the saboteur, she might well have done what she had done to resolve the problem only to allay suspicion only so that she could carry out some other, far more subtle destruction to the ship. And if that were her intention, he had been ready to play right into her hand, Will thought, a part of him growing cold at the possible manipulation.

Picard sighed unhappily, as if agreeing with the first officer's unspoken concerns. "While the glitch that has caused our problems does seem to be resolved, Will, we have to remember that this mission is still critical to the survival of the Federation. We have to continue to work under the assumption that there may be a saboteur on board - and that that saboteur can and will make an attempt to prevent us from fulfilling our mission. And," he added grimly, "that of all the crew members aboard, there are very few as capable and able to bring about the destruction of the ship single-handedly as Lt. Andile."

"May I ask, then, Captain," Deanna interjected, "why you released her from being under surveillance?"

Picard turned to the empath, sensing she had found her own answers to that question - and hating the fact that, at least in part, her beliefs were accurate.

But being aware of them, he was determined not to overcompensate for them in the opposite direction, either. "The use of Mr. Data to perform a round-the-clock surveillance on Lt. Andile was to enable the ship to benefit from her knowledge while minimizing any potential damage she might cause while she was working on the computers. As she is no longer in such a sensitive position, the surveillance no longer necessary."

"But you're continuing to investigate her," Deanna said softly.

"Mr. Worf," Picard corrected her firmly, "is continuing to investigate _every_ member of the crew," he corrected her.

"In that case," Will interrupted, "I'll arrange to oversee Cmdr. James' training myself," he said. "Data's busy overseeing the engine installation and the computer upgrades," he explained at Deanna's surprised look, "and putting her in Engineering with Geordi would isolate her from the total ship almost as completely as the computer core would," he added. "She needs a taste of the ship as a whole... unless, of course," he added with a look at Picard, his eyes twinkling, "you'd rather oversee her training yourself, sir?"

Picard raised a brow at the first officer, clearly unamused by the playful taunt. "I think not, Commander," he replied sourly.

Will grinned back, enjoying the rare opportunity to tease the senior officer. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "I'll make the arrangements to have her begin just as soon as the memory transfers are finished and the computers on line. And who knows? Maybe she'll turn out to be the next captain of the Enterprise," he added.

Picard gave the first officer a suspicious look. Was that it? he wondered. Was that what had been troubling Will these past few days? Had he been offered another posting? Something better than the center seat on this ship - though what that could be, Picard admitted he didn't know - and wasn't sure how to tell his captain? "Oh? I thought that was your next position, Number One," he replied evenly.

Will kept the Machiavellian smile on his lips - but deep within, he felt a surge of relief fill him. Then the captain didn't know, he thought to himself.

Somehow, that little piece of knowledge made him feel better: that the one true friend he had in Starfleet, the one man he respected utterly and completely hadn't kept that career-ending news from him. It wasn't much, he reminded himself - the realization that they both had been kept ignorant of the truth - but a drowning man holds tight to every piece of flotsam he can, Will thought.

"The Cardassian ship is hailing us," the transporter tech announced, interrupting them all.

"Send them our greetings," Picard replied, "and inform them that we are prepared to receive their delegate at their leisure," Picard said.

"Yes, sir," the tech replied. "Sending them our coordinates," he said, running his hands over the board.

Several moments later the familiar hum of the transporter filled the room a moment later as a thin shaft of pearly light coalesced into a single shape, accompanied by several smaller shapes, topped with what appeared to be...

"Oh, no!" the woman said as the books perched upon her bags fell to the floor.

Hurriedly - or at least as hurriedly as she was capable, Picard realized - she bent to her knees to retrieve the fallen tomes. With a quick and easy step he bounded onto the dais, picking up two of the books as Will and Deanna scrambled to retrieve the others - then extended a hand to the elderly Cardassian woman. "Ambassador...?" he said.

Grateful, she took the hand, letting him help her to her feet, then turned a slightly darker shade of green - blushing, Picard realized. "I am sorry... Captain? It is Captain, is it not? I am afraid my knowledge of your language is not as well as it should be - and I know your military ranks even lessly well." She sighed and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I suppose I should have been studying your language during our journey here - but it has been so many years since I have had a chance to read without interruption..." she admitted, gesturing at the books the Federation officers were holding.

"I quite understand, Ambassador..." Picard tried again.

She gave him a quizzical look - then she laughed again as comprehension dawned, a soft, delicate laugh, well-aged in a melodious tone. "My apologies again. I am Zumell."

"Welcome aboard, Ambassador Zumell. I am Jean-Luc Picard, captain - as you correctly identified," he assured her, "of the Federation starship, Enterprise. May I present my first officer, Commander William T. Riker, and Ship's Counselor Deanna Troi," he said, gesturing to the two in turn.

"Counselor?" the woman asked, looking suspiciously at Deanna. "You are a... lawyer?" she asked, suddenly worried.

Deanna smiled back, reassuringly. "No, ma'am. I counsel people about various personal matters, not legal ones."

"But my lessons on your language said that a counselor was a lawyer," Zumell protested.

"It does - but our language a word may have more than one meaning, or more than one use," Deanna explained.

"How amazing!" she said, genuinely astounded, then added, "But is that not confusing?"

"It can be," Picard interrupted, gently guiding the woman down toward the steps leading down from the platform, then carefully helping her down as well. "But it makes it more interesting as well," he added.

"Ah," Zumell said, not understanding, but willing to accept their word - then suddenly seeming to realize where she was - and what she was doing. "Oh! I am on a different ship!" she gasped, breaking free of Picard's grasp to slowly turn around, staring at the transporter room in which she now found herself. "One moment I am on my ship - and now I am here! Oh!"

Picard smiled again, unable to keep himself from feeling delighted by the obvious - or at least carefully contrived - innocence of the elderly Cardassian. "I take it that you do not travel often, Ambassador?" he asked.

She continued to look about the room, her dark, coarsely woven robes whispering as they followed her around the circle she turned - then looked back to Picard. "No - and I am not ambassador, Captain. I am Tar - Tar Zumell."

"Tar?" Will interjected, vaguely recognizing the honorific. "Doesn't that mean 'teacher'?' he asked.

The aged Cardassian smiled back approvingly. "It does. I am pleased to see I am not the only one who is learning another language. The High Council was so insistent upon my using a Universal Translator - they did not seem to understand that a language has many levels, many deeps and tastes that a mechanical translator cannot provide - and for me to understand what you are saying, really saying, I must be able to understand your words, your meanings - even the movements of your bodies!" she said.

Picard raised an eye, amused. "I believe your grasp on our language is quite admirable," he replied - and probably far more complete than you are about to let on, he added. "But it is interesting that you should mention the subtleties of non-verbal communication, Tar; we happen to have an expert in body language aboard. Perhaps you can meet with her sometime," he added.

"Indeed!" the woman replied, clearly impressed - and awed. "This must be a large ship indeed for you to have a person aboard for just that reason!"

Will grinned. "Actually, she's an engineer. It's just a field of interest for her. But you are correct, ma'am; this is a large ship, about triple the size of the ship that brought you here. Didn't you have a chance to see her during your approach?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. "I am afraid that as Tar, I... imitate?... the crew," she said, trying the word.

"Imitate?" Deanna asked, puzzled.

"Make them feel unconfident," Zumell explained.

"Intimidate," Will corrected her.

"Ah! Intimidate. Thank you," she added, giving him a second, approving smile. "I intimidate them. As Tar, I think they think I will report their transgression to the cotan... the headmaster of the school," she explained with a knowing smile. "They kept me to my quarters until we arrived here - then hurried me to the transporter room. I didn't even have time to pack my books," she added, gesturing at the volumes in their hands, holding out her hands to take them back.

"We'll take them for you," Deanna said as Will handed her the books he held, then reached for the luggage.

Zumell opened her mouth to object, then stopped, disappointed - but nodded understandingly. "Of course. But... please be careful. They are quite old, and the bindings quite fragile..."

It took Picard a moment to realize what the woman was suggesting. "You misunderstand, Ambassador... Tar Zumell. We're not taking them away from you, just taking them to your quarters for you. In any case," he added, " 'the greatest danger a book presents is not in what in can conceal - but in what it reveals'."

Zumell's eyes widened and her mouth dropped fraction. "B'Shranti! You know the words of B'shranti! Oh, would that I had you in my classes!" she gushed. "Please, tell me where you learned of B'Shranti. And what of Uran? Do your people study Uran? And M'Kto?"

"We encourage our people to study as many topics - and as many worlds - as interest them," Picard informed her.

"As you study B'Shranti - and your engineer studies the language of movement," Zumell replied, growing impressed - then frowning, shame-faced. "I did not know," she said mournfully. "I was told... I was told you were barbarians."

"In many ways we are, Tar Zumell," Picard conceded. "But we like to think that we're becoming civilized - especially in our treatment of our guests," he added. "Quarters have been prepared for you..."

"Quarters?" Zumell answered, confused. "Small coins?"

"Your rooms," Deanna offered.

"Indeed?" she murmured, astonished. "Another word that means two things! Rooms and coins? A most remarkable language."

Picard grinned to himself, finding the woman's naiveté and openness refreshing - and finding himself looking forward to having the opportunity to talk with her again before the conference began.

If it began, he thought, reminding himself that their mission was far from over. Turning from the Cardassian woman, he tapped his commbadge. "Picard to bridge. Inform the Cardassian ship that we have received the ambassador. Then set in our new heading and engage, warp one." Satisfied, he looked to the Cardassian, smiled politely, and offered his arm to her. "Shall we?" he asked.

"Captain, may I ask..." the Cardassian began as she accepted the captain's arm, "You quoted B'Shranti. Then you can read Cardassian?"

He gave a rueful smile in reply. "Not well," he admitted as he led her from the room, the two white-jacketed officers following behind. "And unfortunately Cardassian, like many other languages, does not translate well - not without fully understanding the cultural nuances inherent in the language. I regret that I've had to limit myself to those translations..."

It was a leisurely walk, set at a pace suitable for the grey-haired Cardassian, with much time spent pointing out the features of the ship and brief visits to several of the rooms they passed, all to the delight and astonishment of the new ambassador.

But even at the slow pace they had taken, the Cardassian was visibly tired by the time they reached her quarters, her age and the effect of the long travel taking their toll upon her. "I think it was a goodly thing that I retired from teaching when I did. I no longer have the energy to keep up with adults, let alone with the little ones I once taught," she sighed wearily as Picard escorted her into the huge room.

"How, then, did you become an ambassador?" Deanna asked.

"It was not my choice," the woman replied. "I would have been content to spend my last years at home, reading. But after the war there was too much to do, too many problems to resolve - and too many people who wanted to resolve them as they saw fit. Civil wars threatened us within almost every week. We came to realize what we needed most was not another leader, but a strong hand to tell those leaders to sit down, pay attention and behave themselves. And who better to discipline naughty children than a teacher?" she asked. "And I had served as Tar to many of the children of our upper classes, the ones who are now in power - so when the war ended, and they needed a strong hand once again, they came to me," she sighed, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "If the truth was known, they are still little more than naughty children, each wanting all the toys for themselves," she informed them. "I think they sent me because they know I will make them all share."

Picard smiled widely, then touched the keypad by the door, showing the Cardassian ambassador how the device worked. "I would not, however, recommend that you leave your room unattended," he added. "The ship is quite large..."

"... and you would not want me to get lost," she added with a knowing smile - and ancient eyes.

Will studied the teacher for a moment, his amusement at her refreshing naiveté fading. She was charming, he thought, delightful - but she was not innocent, he realized; despite the civilized pretenses they all maintained, she was well aware this was a military ship - and a military mission.

"Quite," Picard agreed, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "I will have someone stationed outside your door," he added, "in case you would like a tour, or need assistance."

"That is very kind of you," she agreed.

"Not at all. It is a courtesy we extend to all our guests," he replied.

The wariness in Zumell's eyes faded as she realized she would not be the only delegate subjected such restrictions; the looming insult thus eradicated, she smiled - charmingly - once again. "Then I am honored - but as magnificent as your ship is, I hope you will not be insulted if I spend my time reading. It has been many years..." she added wistfully.

"I understand," Picard agreed whole-heartedly. "We do have an extensive library on board, however, should you find yourself in need," he added.

"Indeed?" she replied, now truly impressed. The thought of a library on a starship - even one that likely existed only in the memory of a computer - was one she had never encountered before. Certainly not on a Cardassian ship. But the Federation people were not the Cardassians, she reminded herself - and neither were they the monsters the Cardassian ship's captain had insisted they were.

But then again, first impressions could be quite deceiving, even if these people could quote B'Shranti, she reminded herself.

"Indeed," Picard murmured in agreement. "If you care to visit it - or any other areas of the ship - please don't hesitate to ask," he insisted. He gestured to the open door, then followed the elderly woman into the room - and smiled as she gasped at the view of the starfield displayed in the wall spanning windows.

"Am these stars?" she asked, clearly surprised by the long, cloudy streaks that passed the window. "They are so different from the ones I saw on our ship."

The difference between standard warp and temporal warp, Deanna thought as she followed Will and Picard into the room, sensing the woman's puzzlement at the sight - and sensing a sudden flare of suspicion in Picard's emotions. Instantly cautious, she hurriedly amended the answer she had been about to give. "The appearance of the stars is affected by the... speed of the ship," she said warily.

But her concern - and Picard's suspicions - faded as the woman nodded blandly at the answer; she stared at the stars for a moment, then turned, smiling, to her escorts. "Then I hope we shall always travel at such speeds. They are quite lovely," Zumell whispered, clearly more enthralled by the sight of the stars than by their manner of appearance. "And the suns of Cardassia Prime?" she asked, looking back at Deanna. "Can I see them from here?"

Deanna smiled. "No, Tar; we're too far away - and that system is to our starboard side. But I can show you the approximate location on a starchart..."

"Perhaps later, my child," Zumell sighed. "Now... Now I am an old woman who needs her rest. Thank you, Captain, Commander, Lawyer..."

"Counselor," Deanna corrected.

"Counselor," Zumell tried again - then shook her head. "Words that have more than one meaning," she murmured to herself. "I have so much to learn," she sighed.

"Then we will leave you to your learning," Picard said.

"Thank you," she replied, turning away.

But rather than reaching for one of the well-worn tomes, Picard watched as she stared at the windows, her eyes locked on the stars outside, a beatific smile on her face.

Confident that this first meeting had gone well, he gestured for the others to leave the room. The last out, he waited until the doors closed, then tapped his commbadge. "Mr. Worf," the Cardassian ambassador is in her quarters. Please have Security report to her room; I want someone assigned to her at all times."

"My men are on their way," Worf agreed.

"Man," Picard countered.

"Sir?"

"I think one guard - at all times - will be sufficient," Picard replied. Intellectually, Tar Zumell might well be able to challenge half a dozen of Starfleet's finest - but physically, he thought to himself, she was still an elderly schoolteacher.

"Aye, Captain," Worf growled in puzzled disapproval.

Picard waited a moment for the connection to end, then gave the two officers an apprising look. "Opinions?"

"If I closed my eyes, I'd almost swear that was Ms. Monaghan, my kindergarten teacher. Same voice, same attitude..." Will mused.

"Except this woman has the power and authority to represent the entire Cardassian government, Will - and the strength of will to use it," Picard cautioned.

"So did Ms. Monaghan," Will countered with a grin.

Deanna smiled, relieved, again, at the resurgence of Will's good mood. He was still troubled, she could feel, and much of his seemingly good spirits were simply acting - but he was trying, she knew. Hard as it was, and as painful as it was, he was trying - almost desperately, she added to herself. As though he had to prove something... to himself, if no one else.

Picard smiled back at his first officer. "Nonetheless, I suspect that the Cardassians chose her carefully for this role; it would be easy to underestimate someone who appears so fragile..."

"... and equally easy to play into her hand," Deanna said, cautioning the two. "I don't think I'd want her at our poker games," she added. "However, I can sense nothing but good intentions in her, Captain; as far as I can sense, her motivations are much the same as ours: to find a peaceful and profitable resolution for her people. She's dedicated, determined... but I sense nothing duplicitous in her."

"In her, perhaps not," Picard agreed. "But let us not forget that the Cardassians are not above using their own people to achieve the goals they want."

Will gave him a worried look. "You suspect she may be connected with our saboteur?" he asked, doubtfully.

"If there is a saboteur," Deanna added, idly rubbing the bridge of her nose as she spoke.

"If there is a saboteur," Picard agreed tiredly. He been over this point a hundred - a thousand! - times in his own mind, wondering time and again if he was simply working on a vicious circle: they had proven that the damage to the computer was simply a programming problem, not sabotage - but did that mean that there was no saboteur? He gave a shake of his head, as much to chase off the dull throbbing in his temples as to stem the seemingly unending flow of answerless questions.

"But for the sake of this mission's success, we have to assume there could be," he continued, as much for her sake as for his own. "However, I don't think it would be likely that the any of the ambassadors would be directly involved; they'll be under scrutiny throughout their stay - and they must be aware that one of their first contacts when they reach the ship would be our counselor, whose abilities as an empath are well known," he added.

"While I appreciate the compliment, sir," Deanna argued, "an empath is not a telepath - and even if I were fully telepathic, there are races who completely unreadable - not to mention any number of individuals in any race who could block my attempts at reading them," she reminded him bluntly.

"But anyone who came up as such an emotional 'null' would be as obvious," Will protested, "and as suspect as someone who came through radiating feelings about destroying the talks."

"Which means our saboteur - if one exists," she hedged, "probably knows enough to keep his emotions in check."

"A feat not many people could manage," Picard said. He raised his hand to rub at his neck, then sighed. "Bearing that in mind, there would be fewer still who could be capable of acting as an assistant to that person - if they knew that was what they were doing."

"You're suggesting then that whoever might be helping the saboteur wouldn't know it?" Will asked incredulously.

"Then even all our meetings with the crew and officers might not help us ferret out the saboteur," Deanna realized. If there was a saboteur, she repeated silently, her head beginning to ache at the thought. She sighed. We're seeing criminals everywhere - but we're not even sure there's been a crime! she protested silently, idly raising a hand to massage the back of her neck.

"And that means that one of the ambassadors is as likely a suspect as anyone else, Counselor," Picard replied.

"And with no evidence to link the two, the governments involved could claim they didn't know what the ambassador - or the saboteur - had done. Plausible deniability, they used to call it," Will murmured.

Picard nodded. "It's for that reason, as well as for the safety of the ambassadors, I want them watched at all times, no matter where they go on this ship. Who they meet with, who they talk to - no matter how casually or innocently..." he said.

Will nodded. "I'll have Worf review the protocol with his department," he assured the man.

"Good," Picard said, rubbing his neck once again, then rolling his head to stretch the over-tight muscles. "And Number One? Would you inform him that I want him to repeat the weapons and shield diagnostics?" he said. "I know that the computer is functioning," he explained, seeing the curious expression in Will's face, "but I want to make sure that glitch that caused the sensor outage was just that - a glitch - and not a problem with the system itself."

"Yes, sir," Will replied, forcing back a grin.

Picard gave the man a suspicious look. "Did I miss something?" he asked, glancing from the counselor to the first officer.

"No, sir - it's just that that's exactly what Lt. Andile suggested when they finished the memory reconstruction; it's already been scheduled for oh-one hundred hours tonight." So much for Biji being our saboteur, Will thought to himself.

Picard raised an eye, impressed - against his judgment - by the woman's efficiency - and troubled by it as well. "And I presume she's overseeing it?" he asked, keeping his voice as calm as possible.

But not his emotions, he realized as he saw the Betazoid suddenly look at him.

"No, sir," Will replied instantly. "Biji... Lt. Andile was on duty for the better part of five consecutive shifts; she has been removed from duty at Data's order - and will remain off duty until she's caught up on her sleep," he added, wondering whether Data had had to lock her in her quarters or sedated her - or both - to achieve that goal.

"As should you, sir," he added, watching the lines on Picard's face deepen. "I'll take the watch until Data comes on duty."

Picard started to voice a protest - then thought the better of it as his the pounding in his head began to increase. "Thank you," he muttered, nodding, then looked at the two, grateful that he had such competent officers aboard his ship. "Thank you - both," he added, then turned and strode down the hall.

Deanna waited until the man was out of earshot, then turned to the first officer. "That was sweet of you, Will," she said softly.

"Not at all," he argued. "The Captain's exhausted - and his headache isn't going to get any better until he gets some sleep - which he wouldn't do until he was certain he could. I just let him know his chief worry - Biji - wasn't something he had to worry about - at least not for tonight - and that I'd be on the bridge - his second worry - until Data comes on." Smiling at the woman, he offered her his arm, then slowly began walking down the corridor with her

But after only a few paces she stopped and looked up at him, suddenly curious. "Will? How did you know the captain had a headache?' she asked.

Will gave her a mischievous grin. "Biji's not the only one who pays attention to body language, Deanna."

Deanna's eyes widened. "I'm impressed. What was it you noticed? When he rubbed his neck, or rolled his head...?"

Will shook his head, a little embarrassed. "Actually, _Imzadi_, it wasn't the captain's body language I noticed. It was yours. You were rolling your head, rubbing your neck..."

Taken aback by the announcement, Deanna thought back - and realized she had been doing just what he said.

"You're right - but how did you know I wasn't the one with the headache?" she pressed.

"Because you never do that when you get a headache - you tap the side of your head," he reminded her, tapping the plexus just behind his ear in demonstration. "When you're picking up someone else's pain, you react as they do - and the captain does all the things you were doing," he said with a grin.

"And so you realized I was sensing the captain's discomfort rather than my own," she said, admiringly. "Will, that was really quite perceptive of you."

"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?" he teased her.

"Well, honestly..." she began hesitantly.

Will's eyes widened in pretended insult - then grinned again. "Actually, I've been noticing it for some time - how many people, not just empaths, can pick up on the moods of others around them." He shook his head and gave a sigh. "The whole time Biji was in the holodeck yesterday, teaching those first two teams the technique for rebuilding the computer circuits, the entire room was electric; she was tense - and so were they. Actually," he added, thinking back, "now that I think about it, people usually pick up on her moods - though, thank goodness," he added, relievedly, "most of the time she's in a good mood. Another day like yesterday, though, and I think half of engineering would be tense enough to chew neutronium," he admitted.

"Still," Deanna objected, "it was perceptive of you - and you handled it nicely," she added; telling the captain it was time to rest - or eat, or go on vacation, she added - was a delicate task. Usually either she had to hint daintily around the point until he realized it for himself - or have Beverly announce the cold and hard facts. Neither woman enjoyed the task - so having Will step in this time...

"Don't praise me too highly, _imzadi_," he sighed, seeing the admiration in her eyes, and knowing that the truth would eventually out - and invariably at the worst possible time. "It wasn't entirely altruistic. I realized that until the captain got rid of his headache, you would be suffering, too. And I just didn't want to have to hear you say, 'Not tonight; I have a headache'."

Deanna's eyes widened in amused outrage, then narrowed again in delight. "That won't be a problem with that, Will..." she began.

He began to grin hungrily.

"Because you'll have to stand watch until Data comes on duty," she reminded him. "Unfortunately, he has to finish his report on Andile's surveillance before he can assume his duty on the bridge - which means he'll be late - and I have early conferences with more of our new crewmen - which means I'm going to bed early," she added exultantly, grinning as his smile faded. "So thank you for your kind effort to relieve my pain and the captain's - and I'll see you in the morning," she added.

Then she, too, turned, following Picard's path down the hall, leaving the first officer to confront a suddenly developing headache of his own.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

Beverly Crusher studied the screen of the tricorder as she passed the scanner across the neck and shoulders of the man seated in the chair, then gave a sigh and clicked off the device.

"You've got a classic tension headache, Jean-Luc," she announced as she placed the instruments back in her bag.

Picard gave a soft growl of disapproval as he rolled his head to one side, attempting to ease the pain, then looked up at her. "Thank you, Doctor," he grumbled bitterly. "Your grasp of the obvious is impressive."

Beverly dismissed the sarcasm quickly, knowing it was generated by the relentless ache in his head, and appreciating how severe that pain must be: Jean-Luc Picard did not admit to personal discomfort, did not admit to illness, even when it was obvious to those around him - unless he thought it threatened his ability to safeguard the welfare of his ship, his crew and his duties.

But even then, there were limits to how far he would go - and Sickbay was one of those limits. Not that he had a personal antipathy toward the medical center; he entered it easily enough for meetings with his CMO or to visit a sick or injured crewman - but he would never voluntarily go there for his own needs: Jean-Luc Picard would rather die a thousand deaths than risk his crew seeing him succumb to a common virus or infection - or, Beverly added, an even more common headache.

Which also explained why she, Beverly Crusher, the ship's CMO and, more importantly, the captain's best friend and closest confidant, had been summoned to his quarters at this late hour, and not Sickbay's doctor-on-call.

Beverly knew all this - knew it, and understood it, as she had understood it throughout the many years she had served with the man. That didn't mean, however, that she was about to make this any easier for him.

"Well, if you knew what it was, why are you bothering me?" she asked sharply.

"Damn it, Beverly," he growled. "I don't have time for this kind of game..." he began, turning his head to look up at her -

- and drew in a sharp breath as a new spasm of pain tore through him.

A grimace contorting his face, he turned away from her, lowering his head into his hands once more, fighting the sudden surge of nausea as his stomach knotted, rebelling against the pain, threatening to empty itself - as though there was anything in it he could vomit up.

There wasn't; even the simple meal he had ordered for himself had seemed revolting when the replicator produced it - and now, hours later, seeing it sitting on his desk, cold, untouched... He felt the nausea welling up in him again - then felt the touch of a cool hand at back of his neck.

Startled, he looked up at the physician, the disapproval in her eyes gone, replaced by genuine concern.

"I didn't realize it was that bad, Jean-Luc," she said worriedly, sinking down beside the chair. "You should have told me..."

"I didn't think..." he began.

"I know," she answered for him, staring into the weary and worried eyes before her. "You thought it was just a simple headache. You thought if you ignored it, it would go away. You thought it wasn't that bad. You didn't want anyone to know. You didn't want to bother me. You thought you could handle it by yourself," she continued. "Any of those sound right?" she asked.

Picard forced a smile to his face. "Guilty as charged," he admitted.

Beverly sighed, then pushed herself to her feet and reached for her medical bag. A moment later, Picard felt the cold touch of a hypospray as she pressed it against his neck, then heard the hiss of the device as it delivered a dose of medication under his skin. It was, as always, icy cold; he raised his hand to massage away the bitter chill, then looked up at woman, nodding gratefully.

"Thank you," he said, slowly rolling his head from one side to the other as the pain began to ease, then began to rise to his feet, ready to escort the physician from his quarters - and to return to his work.

Beverly, however, was going to have no part of his plan. Planting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed him firmly back into the chair, then turned it to face the desk once again.

"That was an analgesic, Captain; it'll take away the pain - for a while - but it will be back as soon as the medication wears off - unless you do something about the cause," she told him sternly.

"Can't you just give me something for that?" he replied.

"I'm going to - two things in fact," she added.

Picard nodded, then braced himself for a second injection, only to feel something completely different pressed against his neck - her hands.

Startled, he began to turn to her, only to feel her grasp on his shoulders tighten, pushing his head down as her thumbs began to press gently on the over-tightened muscles. It took him a second to realize what she was doing - and a second longer before he relented to suffer the touch.

"I know," Beverly said empathetically, feeling the changes in his muscles as he silently rebelled then relented. "You'd rather I just give you an injection of a muscle relaxant," she said softly as her fingers began to work the knotted muscles of his neck. "But a hypospray won't stop the headaches from coming back."

"And this will?" he replied.

He could feel her smile as she answered.

"No - which is why I said I was going to give you two things for your headache. This is the first; the second is some advice," she said gently.

"I know, Doctor. Get some sleep and eat something," he said, repeating the long-prescribed - and long-ignored - admonitions.

"No."

Startled, Picard turned to look back at her - only to have her plant both hands about his head, turning it back, firmly, to face the desk once again. "Don't move," she reminded him.

Chastened, he let his chin drop against his chest, then felt her fingers return to their task, slowly smoothing out the constricted knots in his neck.

For a moment, she worked in silence, kneading out the worst of the tied-up muscles in his neck, then letting her hands move down his back, and beginning to ease the cramped muscles there.

For a few minutes, Picard deigned to suffer her touch in silence - then gave an unwitting sigh of relief as she loosed a particularly recalcitrant knot between his shoulder blades.

"Too much pressure?" she asked at the soft sound.

"No," he said, "Not at all," he admitted. "I just..." His words dropped off.

Beverly smiled, understanding. "It's just you didn't realize how much it had been hurting - until it stopped," she concluded for him.

Chagrined, he started to nod, only to feel her hand stop him once again.

"You don't have to answer, Captain; just relax - and let me do my job," she said.

Picard smiled. "You do this for every crewman who comes in with a headache?" he teased softly.

"No. Most crewmen have the good sense to come see me _before_ it gets this bad," she answered, almost as playfully, only a hint of rebuke in her voice. "Only starship captains seem to think they have to work when they're in such pain," she added.

Picard sighed, then drew in a sharp breath as she found another contorted muscle - then let out the breath as she began to ease that knot as well.

"It's not that, Beverly," he answered. "I'm not a masochist. But there is always something that has to be done..."

"And no one else on board can do it?" she asked. "Fourteen hundred people aboard - and you're the only one who can do everything?"

He smiled then started to give a shake of his head, only to remember her admonition. "No - but it is my ultimate responsibility..."

"Yes," she agreed. "It is your responsibility. To make sure this ship is running correctly, to make sure she's performing as you want her to. To make sure her crew is safe, to make sure our mission is completed.

"But to do that, Jean-Luc, you need to be well - physically, which means rest, and food - and relaxation," she added, forcing yet another muscle to yield to her ministrations.

"But being well also means that you've tended to your emotional needs as well," she reminded him.

She felt the muscles beneath her hands suddenly tighten once more as the reminder - and the memory - of the last few months surged over him. Angry, he pushed himself up from the desk, turning to confront her.

"Doctor, now is not the time..."

"Jean-Luc," she interrupted softly, "now is the time. _Now_ is the only time we have in our lives - but our nows are based on what has happened to us in the past. What happened with Anij has affected you - and you can not dismiss that from your present by simply ignoring it. Ignoring it won't change it - but the doubts and the questions it brought up can - and are - affecting you. And I think you know it," she added.

He gave her a suspicious glare. "Oh?'

She nodded. "Jean-Luc, you've been prone to these headaches for as long as I've known you," she reminded him. "It's part and parcel of your position - and of who you are. When you're worried you tighten the muscles in your neck and shoulders - and you get these headaches. But usually, you have the good sense to go to your ready room, take an analgesic, put your feet up for ten minutes and have a cup of tea - and for you, that's enough to keep the headache at bay. Today, you didn't," she reminded him.

"Today was not most days," he argued. "The computer repair, reestablishing weapons and sensors, the arrival of the Cardassian ambassador..."

Beverly smiled gently at him. "Will is seeing to the needs of the ambassador, Cmdr. James and Lt. Andile handled the computer repair, Worf took care of ensuring the weapons and sensors were functioning..."

"They still need to undergo diagnostics," he interrupted.

"And Worf isn't capable of doing that?" she asked him pointedly.

Picard hesitated. "He is, of course..."

"But you don't trust him?" she continued.

He glared at her, outraged at the accusation. "Of course I trust him!"

"And you trust Will to watch out for the ambassador?" she pressed.

"Will _is_ my first officer," he replied simply.

Beverly nodded, knowing it was answer enough for him. "Then you don't trust Lt. Andile or Cmdr James?" she pressed.

Picard hesitated. "They're both new..." he hedged.

"But you do trust Data to watch over them?" Beverly continued.

He nodded. "Of course."

"Then the things that are worrying you most are being seen to by people you trust," she concluded. "So why are you insisting on carrying the weight of their responsibilities as well as your own?" she asked.

"Because it is my responsibility..."

"... to make sure the functions of this ship are fulfilled, and that her mission is accomplished," she sighed. "But that means trusting your people to do their jobs."

"I do!" he insisted vehemently.

She stared at him, perplexed, then reached for a second chair, drawing it close to his. Sitting down beside him, she took his hands in hers, then met his eyes. "Jean-Luc, we've been friends for more than twenty years - and I've been your doctor for fifteen. I think I know you as well as anyone - and probably better than you would like me to.

"You're not a man who gives his trust readily or lightly - but once that trust has been given, you give it completely," she said. "So if you tell me you trust Will, and Data and Worf, I can believe you.

"But after all these years," she continued softly, "I also know the one thing that one thing that consistently triggers these tension headaches is doubt - you're worried, you're not certain about someone or something. Who is it, Jean-Luc? Who is it you aren't certain you can trust? Is it Lt. Andile? Cmdr. James? Admiral Czymszczak?" she asked.

Picard sighed, shaking his head slowly as he stared at the floor. "No. I mean... No, I can't trust Lt. Andile or Cmdr. James - not yet, at least, not fully - and God knows only a fool would trust Thaddeus Czymszczak," he added.

"Then who?" Beverly pressed, tightening her grasp on his hands, aching to know the source of his pain. "Who are you worried about?"

He raised his eyes to her. "Me. It's me, Beverly; I'm not certain I can do this anymore."


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48**

Beverly stared at him for a minute, stunned into silence - then shook her head, refusing to accept what he had said. "Jean-Luc, you're just tired," she insisted. "Coming back to the Enterprise the way you did - in the middle of a leave, and after so many long months of trying to resolve the post-war negotiations..." she argued. "It's fatigue, Jean-Luc..."

"It's not fatigue, Beverly," he interrupted - then gave a shake of his head. "Or yes, it is fatigue - but there's more to it than that. I've been thinking about my place in Starfleet for a long time, wondering if this is where I want to be..." He paused for a moment. "I kept telling myself it was - but something Lt. Andile said yesterday started me wondering."

"Wondering about what?" she asked. "What did she say?"

"She asked me if I really knew what my duty was," he admitted.

Beverly gawked. "_She_ asked _you_ if you knew what your duty was?" she repeated, stunned - and furious for the man. "How dare she?" she seethed.

But her ire wasn't echoed in the man. "She dares, Beverly, because she's right," he said quietly. "I have forgotten where my duty lies. And until I can rediscover it, I shouldn't be the captain of this ship - and God knows I shouldn't be leading this mission," he said firmly.

"Don't be absurd, Jean-Luc..." she began.

He stopped her with a shake of his head. "I'm not being absurd, Bev - I'm being honest. A starship captain doesn't have the luxury of self-doubt; he can't grant himself the privilege of uncertainty, of questioning himself with each decision - he had to know he's making the best possible decision for the best possible reasons each time - and lately," he sighed, "I've made some bad decisions. Anij, the Briar Patch, the Borg, Q..."

The Borg? Beverly thought. Q? We haven't encountered either in years... but the captain's self-doubt extended back years as well, she reminded herself as she listened to him continue to list his failures.

"... the Stargazer, Maxia Zeta... Jack," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper as the name of his old friend passed his lips once again.

Jack.

Beverly shut her eyes, clenching them against the sting of tears she knew would come, then shook them - and the anticipated pain - away. There had been ample time to grieve over Jack - and to grieve for herself, she reminded herself harshly, and there would be time later; Jean-Luc was here, now - and hurting.

"Jean-Luc," she said softly, "What happened with Jack... It wasn't because you made the wrong decision..."

"I gave the order that resulted in Jack dying," he countered, refusing to shirk the responsibility, even now, twenty years after that disastrous day. "I made the wrong decision that day - and my best friend died."

He stopped, his eyes closing as he thought back on that day, and the long days that followed, the nights of self-doubt and self-recrimination - and the realization that those nights would become more and more common if he chose to continue the path he was taking.

But that was part of being a starship captain, he reminded himself - the need to constantly examine one's own actions, to ensure he had done the best he could in a situation, rather than assuming his actions had been correct, simply because he was the captain. He had seen that before - and seen the devastation that resulted from that unmerited hubris.

Beverly had seen it as well - but she had also seen the results of Picard's long days and nights of self-examination; some introspection, she told him silently, was a good thing - but too much, and he could grow to the point where he grew incapable of making any decision - or exhaust himself with guilt over the ones he had.

Most captains, she thought silently, would avail themselves of a friendly ear, someone on whom they could voice their doubts, their worries - and Picard had had that, she reminded herself; a friend in whom he could trust to listen to his woes and worries - and to deliver a swift kick in the rear when the self-pity grew out of proportion.

He had had that friend - up until the day Jack Crusher had died.

He had lost his friend that day, she thought - but he had lost something more; a shoulder to lean on, a trusting ear to listen to him... but more importantly, he had lost the courage to risk that type of friendship with anyone he had to command.

Not that he didn't talk to her - to Deanna, to Will... but it wasn't the same, Beverly knew; the day Jack Crusher had died, a part of Jean-Luc had died as well.

And was continuing to die, she added, watching for the umpteenth time as the uncertainties of a thousand decisions tore at him as he strove to always make the best decision - the right decision - for his crew, his ship and for Starfleet.

And always, always, wondering if he couldn't have done better.

"Jean-Luc..." Beverly began - but he cut her off with an upraised hand.

"And since then, I've made a hundred more bad decisions, and each time, I've found myself wondering, questioning my own abilities, asking whether or not I can do this job - whether I can make the decisions that decide the fates of a thousand people..."

"... and deciding that you can," she answered confidently. "After all, you are here," she said.

He looked at her - then shook his head. "I'm here because I was ordered here. I responded automatically, out of habit, out of routine. I didn't think; I didn't question whether I was capable of returning to this post and doing my job the way it should be done - I didn't bother to ask myself if what had happened in the Briar Patch - and what has happened in the last two years - has affected my ability to be a captain! Those were questions I should have asked - but I didn't! I blindly, unthinkingly, followed my orders," he admitted, his voice empty as the truth he had discovered came home once again.

"But this isn't an assignment where blind obedience and rote decision-making applies," he added.

"What assignment is?" Beverly asked him softly.

Picard stared at her for a moment, as if he had forgotten she were present, then nodded slowly. "True enough - but this time, the lives of every person in this quadrant are at risk! If I make a mistake..."

Beverly shook her head. "Jean-Luc, that's a risk you take on every mission; we never know the full consequences of any mission - or any decision we make throughout our lives, whether it's in Starfleet or not! We can never know how one change, one decision, so minor we might not even realize we've made it, can cascade into something that affects everyone - not just us!"

"Beverly, it's not the same thing!" he argued, rising from the chair, stepping to face the long windows that lined his quarters. "The decisions I make on this mission can have a direct - and potentially lethal - effect on not only this crew, but on Starfleet and the entire Federation!" he protested.

He half expected a protest of confidence and reassurance from the woman - a protestation he was ready to counter - but when it was not immediately forthcoming, he turned to look at her - and found himself confronting a cool and calculating expression.

"It must be nice to be that powerful," she said coolly. "It must be nice to have the power to make the decisions for a billion others, knowing they have absolutely no input into their own fates."

He stared at her blankly for a moment, then shook his head, apologetic as he realized the incredible presumption that had been in his words. "That's not what I meant..." he began, but she shook her head.

"But it's what you're feeling," she replied, sensing the truth that had come from him in that unguarded moment. "The problem is that isn't how life goes. Yes, you could make the wrong decisions here - and the conference could be a disaster - or worse, it might never happen! Or you could do everything 'right' - and it might still fail. Or it could succeed - and the governments reject the proposals. Or they might approve them - but the populations disapprove. Or, the people might simply grow tired of having someone else decide their fate for them, and find their own resolution! Or, or, or, Jean-Luc," she said. "You can't begin to guess the results any single decision will yield - not on yourself, let alone on a billion others. You're not a god, Jean-Luc; none of us are.

"So what do you do? Give up? Or do you have faith? Faith in yourself to try to make the best decisions possible - and then have faith in those around you to execute those decisions as best they can?"

He glared at her, furious at her for quashing his tirade of self-pity - then gave a slow shake of his head. "_Mea culpa_, Doctor," he said contritely. "_Mea culpa maxima_."

She gave a single nod of her head. "That's better. This self-pity doesn't suit you, Captain - and the fact that you're wallowing in it only tells me how truly tired you are. Now..." She reached out a hand to him, expectantly.

He stared at it, then raised his eyes to hers questioningly.

"Bed time," she said firmly.

"Beverly..." he started, gesturing toward his desk and the dozen of padds that covered it.

"No arguments, Jean-Luc," she interrupted. "You look like death warmed over - and while you may trust your crew, they're not going to be any too sure of someone who looks as worn out as you do," she said. "Come on," she repeated, stretching out her hand a little further.

He stared at it a moment longer - then reluctantly reached for it, letting her guide him into the bedroom - only to have her stop him before he could collapse on the bed.

He gave her a puzzled look - and was rewarded with an embarrassed grin.

"I haven't said this to anyone since Wesley was a child but... Put on your pyjamas," she said with a smile then gestured at the bureau. "Go on," she repeated, adding, "Sleeping in your uniform is no more restful than sleeping at your desk."

He gawked at her for a moment, then meekly replied, "Yes, ma'am."

Stepping to the bureau, he opened one of the drawers, retrieved his nightclothes and headed into the bathroom to change.

And firmly closed the door behind him.

Beverly smiled to herself. For all his brashness, for all his boldness, she thought, Jean-Luc could also be a terribly shy man; he could virtually get dressed in front of her every morning - but undressing was another matter entirely.

Or maybe it wasn't, she added, a realization coming to her suddenly.

She shook her head, astounded at her own obtuseness.

Despite the way it may have appeared, his morning routine of dressing while she was in his quarters wasn't an act of intimacy, she realized, but rather its complete opposite. Indeed, for him, dressing - especially putting on his uniform - was as impersonal an act as the man was capable of performing; it was his way of building a layer of protection between himself and the world outside, a way of stepping out of being Jean-Luc Picard, fragile human, and becoming Jean-Luc Picard, Starfleet captain.

But to reverse that process? To undress while she was present? she asked herself. To make himself more vulnerable than he already felt by stripping off the guises of uniform and command? Never! Even the solidly closed door between them now was not enough, she understood suddenly, realizing how uncomfortable he was going to be the moment he emerged from the bathroom, sans uniform - and sans persona.

Her grin fading, she called out to the computer, "Reduce room lighting by eighty-five per cent."

Watching the room lights lower, she nodded approvingly, moving the pillows from the bed, pulled back the bedclothes careful, neatly... professionally, she insisted. No hint of intimacy here, she decided, nothing to make the already-skittish man even more nervous, she insisted.

In some ways, she thought as she moved a chair to one corner of the bed, it was almost funny; if there was a man alive who shouldn't have been nervous about having a woman in his bedroom, it should have been Jean-Luc...

... and yet, she knew, what should have been and what was were often two completely different things.

But I am not here as a woman, she reminded herself firmly as she settled into the stiff-backed chair she had chosen; I am here as his physician, she insisted, fixing a no-nonsense look in her eye as she locked her gaze on the bathroom entrance.

"Here," she said firmly, pointing to the bed as he emerged a few minutes later, her voice even, emotionless... professional, she insisted. "Lie down," she ordered, tapping the corner of the bed nearest her chair. "Head over here and face up."

Whatever awkwardness the moment might have caused for the two was gone as she barked out the orders; relieved, Picard obeyed, stretching out his lean frame diagonally across the bed - then hastily sitting up and spreading the blanket over the lower half of his body.

Beverly bit her lip, refusing to let herself smile at the man's modesty. "Comfortable?" she asked instead, watching as he settled himself into place.

"Not really," he admitted instantly. "I usually sleep with a pillow..."

"No," she interrupted. "Usually you sleep in your chair, or at your desk or at your couch. The few times you bother to make it to the bed, you might use a pillow - but the times you actually make it to bed are getting to be less and less often, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "Now close your eyes," she ordered.

Despite the order, he stared up at her for a long moment, but finding no reprieve in her expression, sighed and reluctantly closed his eyes, bracing himself for the cold jet of a hypospray filled with a sedative...

...only to feel the warmth of her hands as she reached beneath his head. Startled, he almost pulled away - then feeling the slow caress of her fingers against his neck, realized what she was doing.

The muscles that she had massaged while he was seated at the chair had been stretched taut by the position he had been in. Here, now, lying back, those same muscles were relaxed, ready to be manipulated, kneaded back into compliance...

Beverly worked her hands beneath the man's shoulders, easing her hands between his body and the mattress, letting his greater body mass do much of the work of the massage for her, especially as his tension gave way and he began to relax into her manipulative fingers.

Feeling his shoulders relax, she slowly worked her hand up the back of his neck, his tension fading as she carefully worked the knots loose. Sliding her hands move to the sides of his head, she watched as the deep lines that creased his face began to fade and his breaths grew more even, more regular.

The pain - this pain, at least - was beginning to fade.

But there were other aches, she knew, other pains, that reached more deeply into the man than even her fingers could reach, pains that no medication could ever help ease.

Which did not mean she couldn't still help him - but as with any treatment, there was a risk.

A risk to them both, she reminded herself.

She drew a deep breath, then eased her long fingers behind the man's shoulders once again, making sure the muscles there were still relaxed, then slowly worked them back up his neck and onto his face.

His eyes flickered in surprise, then closed again as a soft groan escaped his lips.

Beverly smiled. "I used to do this for Jack," she said softly. "There were nights back in San Francisco, when he would come back from Starfleet and just fall onto the couch we had, with me massaging his head and neck... I should have been studying," she added, ruefully, "but Jack insisted that rubbing his head _was_ studying, that I was gaining an intimate knowledge of the facial muscles," she added with a laugh - then sobered.

"I miss those days," she said softly.

Picard's eyes opened. "Beverly..." he began.

"Don't," she interrupted. "Don't apologize, Jean-Luc. I miss those days, yes - and I miss Jack. But those days would have ended in any case, even if Jack hadn't died."

"You don't know that," Picard protested.

"Yes, I do," she argued softly. "Everything changes - or rather, everything _should_ change: that's what life is about. And even then, things were changing. Jack was up for a promotion to lieutenant commander - and he was beginning to spend more time at Starfleet Command - or with you. I was in my last year of residency - and Wes had come along... Everything was changing, even then."

"And then Jack died," Picard remembered, the pain as fresh in his mind as it had been that first moment, when he realized his best friend was gone - and that he was responsible. He felt the old ache welling up in his soul again. As raw and painful as it had been that day.

"And then Jack died," she echoed.

For a long time there was silence between the two - then Beverly spoke again.

"Jack died - but you didn't kill him."

"I gave the order," Picard insisted.

"I know," she answered. "You gave the order - the order that the best qualified person had to do what he had been trained to do, what he had volunteered to do, what he had recommended had to be done, to save the ship and the lives of the rest of the crew. To save his friends; to save what he believed in, and what he cared about. To do what he had come to Starfleet to do.

"And Jack died doing just that."

"Because I ordered it," he answered hollowly.

"No. You ordered him to do his job, Jean-Luc - not to die," she countered. "Jack was no martyr; he didn't go out there believing it was a suicide mission. He wanted to live as much as you wanted him to - but he knew there was a risk involved. But it was a risk he thought was acceptable - a risk he might die, against the very real possibility that the crew would live and the ship would be saved."

Picard said nothing; he had gone over this in his head a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, telling himself that what had happened to Jack had been a horrible twist of fate, a terrible accident - but everything that happens to a captain's ship and crew were ultimately the responsibility of the captain; try as he might, Jack's death - and the deaths of a hundred others - were his responsibility.

Seeing the shame on Picard's face, Beverly felt a pang of regret - then steeled herself. Sometimes a physician had to cause pain in order to heal a greater hurt, whether it was lancing a boil - or cutting out a tumor before it destroyed the entire body.

And Jack's death... Jack's death was a cancer that had been eating away at Jean-Luc for too many years, she told herself, chewing away at his self-confidence, his faith in himself, poisoning his soul with doubt, with too many 'what-ifs' and 'could have beens'.

As if he heard her thought, he growled, "I could have gone. I could have been the one," he hissed angrily.

Beverly nodded, silently agreeing. "Yes; you could have gone out there. You could have done it as well as Jack - but that's not what a captain does, Jean-Luc," she whispered, "and we both know that. A captain has to make the hard decisions, to decide where his crew will go and what they will do. He has to allocate the ship's resources, include its living ones - but a ship's captain is always the most valuable resource a ship has. I know that it's difficult for you to accept that; you're not a man to believe that one life is more important than another - and you're right, no one life is more valuable than another.

"But the roles we play do have different value, Jean-Luc; you are the one who has been trained to make the decisions about your ship and your crew," she reminded him. "No one else has been trained to do what you do, has had the experience you've had. If something were to happen to you, the rest of the crew would suffer, maybe even be lost entirely. If you had gone out there, you might have died instead of Jack - and the rest of your crew might have died as well. No, you made the right decision.

"But you haven't learned how to live with the consequences," she added.

His eyes opened once again, glaring up at her. "What do you think I've been doing all these years? I've never tried to hide from the fact I was responsible..."

"Accepting the responsibility is a world away from accepting the consequences, Jean-Luc!" she replied. "Yes, you accept that you gave the order - and Jack died. But the consequences? You've hidden yourself from them for almost twenty years, Jean-Luc - and it's time you start facing up to them!" she announced angrily.

He sat up, turning back to face her, the anger in his eyes visible even in the room's low light.

"I haven't hidden from anything!" he snapped back.

"No? Then what do you call how you've spent the last years of your life? Hiding in your ship, cowering behind the title 'Captain' - and using every responsibility as a reason for denying yourself the pleasures of life!"

She glared at him. "Do you want to know what really sabotaged your relationship with Anij? You did! You knew how Anij felt about leaving her homeworld, what would be involved if you really wanted a relationship with her - resigning from Starfleet, preparing yourself to make a life doing something you enjoy on a world that doesn't have the technological advances you're used to. You knew that, you knew what you'd have to do - and yet you did nothing to ready yourself! And do you know why? Because you were scared! Scared that if you loved her, you might lose her - and you couldn't face losing someone you loved again."

She looked at him, seeing the fury - and the pain - hardening his expression - and tearing at her heart. Aching for him, she let her voice drop, yearning to reach for his hand to console him - but stopped herself from making that attempt, knowing he would reject the touch - and the consolation it offered to them both.

Maybe he was right, she admitted to herself; this wasn't supposed to be easy; if it was, she would have done it years ago.

When she should have. She should have told him this years ago, sparing him all this pain, giving him the chance to move ahead with his life...

But I didn't. God forgive me, she thought; I didn't say anything.

Please don't let it be too late now, she prayed silently.

"I know what it feels like, Jean-Luc," she continued a moment later. "I was scared, too. After Jack died, I was terrified to let myself feel anything for anyone for a long time, terrified of that pain - and wondering if I could survive it again.

"And I hid, too," she admitted. "I hid in Wesley, then in Starfleet, then on this ship... Did you know I almost turned down this assignment when it was offered?" she asked.

Startled by the question, Picard forgot his anger for a moment. "I thought you might; I thought... I thought that you might not want to answer to the man who was responsible for your husband's death," he said quietly.

She shook her head. "That wasn't why, Jean-Luc; I never blamed you for Jack's death. Neither did Wesley," she added, watching his face as the information slowly sank into his consciousness, a hint of relief easing the lines in his face far better than any massage could.

"Then... why?" he asked.

She looked down, ashamed. "I didn't want to see you. I didn't want to see you - and find out that you'd gone on with your life. I didn't want to know that Jack's death had been easier on you than it had on me.

"But I needed this posting; Wesley was growing up - and soon enough he'd be heading off for the Academy or college - and I'd be alone with my pain once again. So where better to hide than the busiest ship in the fleet - even if it meant risking see you again?" she asked him.

"But..." Her voice trailed off as she raised her eyes to his once again. "But when I saw you, I suddenly realized that Jack's death had taken its toll on you as well as on me. The man who had been Jack's friend so long ago was gone - replaced by someone who kept every feeling under control, every emotion in such tight check, refusing to risk even the slightest hurt.

"It took me a long time to begin to understand it - and to understand you," she said. "It took me a long time to realize that I wasn't the only one who had been hurt by Jack's death - that you had been hurt too - as badly and as deeply as I had been. But you didn't have the grace of being able to say, 'I've lost my husband, the father of my son.' You were his captain, his commanding officer; all you could say was, "I've lost a crewman" - and all the pain you could allow yourself to express was so much less than you really felt.

"But your pain was as real as mine - so real, that you decided you would never feel it again - and you've spent the last twenty years, burying yourself in your work, trying to be the perfect captain, failing in those few relationships you've even bothered to try - and justifying your loneliness by insisting that it's the way it has to be.

"But it doesn't; it doesn't have to be that way, Jean-Luc," she argued softly. "You don't have to keep punishing yourself for what happened twenty years ago!"

"I ordered him out there!" Picard cried out.

"Yes - because he was the best man for the job - and the most likely to be able to fulfill the mission - and come back alive!" she insisted. "Wasn't he?" she suddenly added. "Or was there someone else, someone better qualified?"

Picard shook his head furiously. "No, no. Jack knew that equipment better than anyone else on the ship..." he murmured.

"Then if you hadn't given Jack the order, you would have given it to someone else - someone less capable, someone who _would_ have died out there - and then, then Jean-Luc, you would have been guilty of the crime you've been charging yourself with for all these years - of knowingly sending someone to his death," Beverly insisted. "But you did what you had to do, you did what a captain does - make the best decision possible - and then learns to live with the consequences.

"You've done the first part, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "Now, for your sake - for the sake of your crew - you have to learn the second part - to live, really live. Accept what happened, Jean-Luc - because nothing can change it. Accept it - and get on with your life."

She reached for his hand, then smiled at him, sadly, softly. "And if you won't do it for yourself, then do it for Jack."

He gave her a puzzled look. "For Jack? I don't understand," he admitted.

Her smile widened. "You were his best friend, Jean-Luc; do you honestly think he'd want you to remember him with twenty years of guilt and grief?"

A short chuckled forced its way out from between Picard's lips. "No," he admitted, thinking back on his long-lost friend. "He hated self-pity; knowing Jack, he would have read me the riot act - then we'd go out..."

"... and get stinking drunk," she concluded for him - then smiled at his shocked expression. "Oh, yes; he told me about a few of those adventures you two shared before he met me," she said. "The Blue Parrot..."

Picard felt a surge of heat in his cheeks.

"... Jackari's..."

The blush began to deepen.

"... The Seventh Sojourner's..."

Picard cheek's suddenly blazed red. "That was a _long_ time ago," he muttered uncomfortably. "Jack hadn't even met you..."

"I wasn't criticizing, Jean-Luc," she interrupted. "What the two of you did then was your business. What you do now is still your business - but I think that's all it is these days - business. You work, you study, you write... but you don't live any more," she reminded him.

"I still live, Beverly," he protested unhappily, "but I've come to understand that there are things that a starship captain can and cannot do..."

"I wasn't suggesting you take up dancing on the bar in Ten Forward with naked women, Jean-Luc," she said, enjoying seeing him flame red once again, a final confirmation that the tale Jack had told her all those years ago was the truth. "All I'm telling you is that you used to have a life - and when Jack died you gave it up.

"Jack wouldn't have wanted that, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "Jack would have wanted you to go on with your life - not waste it, thinking that denying yourself a life would somehow replace the one he lost. It won't. Nothing will."

"I know," Picard replied quietly, then fell silent, thinking back on his old friend.

Beverly was right, he knew; Jack would never have tolerated more than a moment of two of self-pity for what had happened; he cherished life too much to waste it... especially when neither of them knew how long a life they might have.

Jack had said life was for living - and living well - while they could - and with this mission before them, no one could guess how long that would be.

But then, no one could guess how long a life any of them would ever have. That was the greatest mystery of all - and the greatest reason to live while they could.

Picard looked at the woman before him, shamed - and grateful.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry Jack died. I'm sorry he isn't here - for both of us," he added, reaching for her hand.

"So am I," she agreed, then looked down at the joined hands. For a moment she studied them - then pulled away, patting the corner of the bed once again. "Come on; lie down. Let me finish this so you can get some rest," she said insistently.

But there was something different in her expression, Picard realized - the relief he was beginning to feel should have been reflected in her face - but instead there was a new pain, a new hurt. Surprised, he reached to her, tilting her chin up so he could look straight into her eyes.

"Beverly...?" he began to ask - but she shook off the attention.

"Please, Jean-Luc; it's late," she countered, patting the mattress once again, "and you're not the only person on this ship who needs sleep. Come on," she insisted. "Computer," she called out, "lights out."

He studied her for a long moment as the room lights faded, then gave in, stretching his lean frame out once more, feeling his body relax as Beverly renewed her gentle strokes across his face.

For a long time, neither of them said anything, Beverly's hands continuing their gentle frissage until she felt the last traces of tension fade from the man's body. Slowing her touch, she brought her hands to rest on his brow, watching him as he slowly breathed, his chest moving up and down in slow, regular movements - then let out a slow breath of her own.

Twenty years ago, you asked me to forgive you for Jack's death, she thought silently. And I said I did - I told myself I did... but...

She clenched her eyes shut, bracing herself against the memories of her own shortcomings, a wash of errors and omissions filling her mind as memories of the last thirty years filled her thoughts.

But the things I've said, the things I've done since... and the things I haven't said and done, she thought achingly... Oh, Jean-Luc, if you knew, would you ever be able to forgive me?

Beverly choked back a sob - but she was unable to prevent the escape of the tears as they began to stream down her cheek.

Hastily pushing herself away from the man's bed, she drew a hand across her face, hurriedly drying her eyes before making her way out of the room and into the deserted corridor outside.

For a long time, Picard lay, unmoving, upon his bed - then slowly, he sat up, raised a hand to his face and touched the tear that had landed there.

He studied it for a long time - then stared, unseeing, at the woman who had shed it.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49**

"I don't suppose you're going to let me look at the sensor diagnostic," Andile said as she entered Geordi's office.

The Chief Engineer looked up, startled by the early morning appearance of his new assistant - then grinned. "And a cheery good morning to you, too," he replied.

"Pardon?" Andile replied, startled.

"Good morning," Geordi repeated. "It what's most people say when they first see someone in the day. A very simple phrase, easy to pronounce. Good - morning. Now you try it," he added.

Andile wrinkled her nose in apology. "Sorry. I've never been good with pleasantries - not when there's work to be done."

"Beej," the engineer replied quietly, "there's always work to be done. Pleasantries are one of the things that make that work more enjoyable. As does coffee," he added, rising from the work station and moving to the replicator. "Can I get you some?"

Andile glanced at the half-filled cup he was holding, hesitated, then shook her head. "No - thanks," she quickly added. "I gave it up a while back. I just drink guerian root tea these days - it's a better stimulant without the side effects. But don't worry," she continued hurriedly, seeing the expression of disgust on the man's face, "I promised your staff that I won't drink it on duty. I don't think they like the smell of it," she added, feigning a look of befuddlement.

Geordi shook his head, sighing, still astonished by the fact that the woman preferred a mug of the foul-smelling brew to a decent cup of coffee. It wasn't that she didn't like coffee, he knew; after all, she was the one who had rewritten the replicator's program for the beverage, elevating the brew from a mere medium for caffeine into a beverage that demanded - and deserved - careful appreciation and consideration - and that translation could never have been performed by someone who didn't understand - and thoroughly relish - the mysteries of a cup of excellent coffee.

And yet he had never seen her indulge in a cup of that hot, black bliss, insisting instead on a mug full of an herbal tea so vile-smelling that it sent at least half a dozen people to Sickbay in the first few days she had been aboard.

But then there was much about Andile that defied explanation - and after three - no, he amended, almost four months of having her aboard, he had ceased to try to understand the woman.

Andile was Andile, he thought; a force of nature, driven by things no man could ever fully understand.

With a sigh, he ordered a fresh cup of coffee, then took a sip, savoring the rich flavor - and silently praising the engineer once again.

"So how about a look at the diagnostics result?" she pressed, ignoring the look of bliss that momentarily crossed his face.

Geordi gave the woman a cynical look. "How do you even know we ran the diagnostic? We didn't get started until after one this morning - and you were supposed to be sleeping," he added accusingly.

"I was!" she protested.

Geordi frowned at the protestation; Andile's face was drawn, the circles under her eyes darker than they had been in days - if she had slept...

"Well, I was asleep... for a while," she amended, chastened. "But the changes in the pitch in the power transfer conduits woke me up - and I knew the diagnostic was running.

"And knowing that," she grinned, "and knowing that the results would be the first indicators that the computer rebuild worked, I couldn't get back to sleep. But I did stay in bed until it was time to get ready for my shift, per Cmdr. Data's orders," she said loftily.

Geordi grinned. "I think he meant that you were supposed to sleep until then, Beej - not stay up trying to calculate the diagnostic values from the pitch changes," he teased.

"Don't be absurd!" she snorted. "That's not possible - not from crew quarters, at least," she added. "Give me credit for designing the ship with better acoustic insulation than that, Geordi!"

He bowed his head to the woman, repentant. "My apologies, ma'am."

She nodded regally. "That's better."

"So what _were_ you doing?" he pressed as he straightened.

"Writing that report you wanted," she answered with a knowing smile. "I'm about a third of the way through..."

"That's all?" Geordi interrupted worriedly.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I've never tried to write out all the things you usually learn by experience. I mean, how do you describe the sounds of a coil going out of alignment? How can words explain the feel of a correctly synchronized quantum generator? You can't; writing the training manual is one thing, but trying to turn experience into a computer disc is completely different." She sighed, frustrated. "Gods, every time I think of something, a hundred other thoughts come to mind - and once I start writing those down, a thousand more come up! It's the damnedest thing... Sorry, I shouldn't have said 'damn'," she interrupted herself, shaking her head contritely.

Geordi smiled tolerantly, appreciating the woman's effort in curtailing her profanity - even if those efforts were not yet completely successful. "'Damn' is acceptable," he told her, "in its place, on occasion," he added - then grinned. "Even the captain says 'damn' - sometimes," he admitted. "It's the other words you use that are the problem."

Andile's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I've never understood that about you Earthers; 'damn' - which means you're asking the gods to send your soul to eternal punishment - is vaguely acceptable, but fu... The 'f' word," she quickly amended, "which means sexual intercourse - a very pleasurable wish to grant to someone else - is not. Why is that?"

Geordi shook his head. "You've got me, Beej - but then again, I'm an engineer, not an etymologist. Why not invite some of the folks from the xeno-linguistics team to your next talk and see what they think?" he asked.

"That's a thought," she murmured, considering the idea, then frowned at the engineer. "But I'm not having any more evening talks until I get this report done - and I can't get this report done until I'm sure that the engines weren't one of the causative factors in the computer failure."

"The reinitialization of the memory ruled out that possibility," Geordi replied.

Andile gave him a quizzical look. "It did, did it? That's a remarkable conclusion to make from one sensor diagnostic, Commander," she added pithily.

"Well, we implemented your repair," he reminded her, "And the problem went away."

"Yes, but why was there a problem in the first place?" she replied. "After all, there were no problems of this nature noted in the trial studies on the computer redesign - and if you'll remember, the computer failures didn't start until we went to full power on the temporal generators."

"Because we didn't finish the installation until then, Beej," he reminded her.

"So you're saying it's coincidence? That the synaptic interfaces just happened to fail to meld - and that there just happened to be a zero point zero three variance in the quantum engine power output?" Andile asked skeptically.

Geordi shook his head "I'm just saying coincidences do happen," he reminded her.

"Only in bad novels, Commander," she replied. "No, there's something going on here - and I'm going to find the cause. And looking at the results of the diagnostic might help. Unless, of course, I'm still considered to be a risk to the ship," she added grimly.

Geordi sighed sympathetically. "The captain's lifted the restrictions on your activities, Beej - and personally, I never thought you were a risk," he reminded her, hearing the hint of pain deep in her voice. "If you had wanted to blow up the ship, you could have done it a long time ago," he added jokingly.

But the humor in his words was lost on the engineer; she faced him, a look of grave solemnity in her eyes. "Geordi, considering the sheer number of people who were on and off this ship in those last few days, anyone who had wanted to blow up this ship could have done so at any time they wanted to - and there was nothing either of us could have done to stop them. If that was their intention," she added.

Geordi felt himself struck dumb by the worry in the woman's voice. "Meaning what, Lieutenant?"

"Meaning..." Andile hesitated. "Meaning we're looking for the obvious; we're thinking sabotage equals destruction - when their motives might be something else entirely."

"Such as?"

She shook her head. "I'll have a better idea, Geordi, when I find the cause of that synaptic failure - and the cause of this zero point three zero variance. And that diagnostic might give me a better clue as to what that cause is," she added, holding out her hand hopefully.

Nodding his agreement, he handed her the padd, then watched as turned, already intently studying the results.

"Beej?" he called after her a moment later.

She turned, eyes still locked on the padd, then looked up at him. "Yes, sir?"

"You know, it could be that there is no saboteur," he reminded her.

"Then how do you account for the zero point zero three variance?" she asked.

He hesitated for a second; there was no easy way to do this, he reminded himself - but nonetheless, he had to do it, even if it meant incur the wrath of the designer. "The installation was rushed," he said, trying to phrase his thoughts as nicely as possible. "During those last few days..."

To his surprise, however, the woman didn't react with the fury he had expected. Instead, she smiled tolerantly at him. "Geordi, I've got a lot of faults - but imprecision isn't one of them. I signed off on those engines - and I'll stake my reputation on the fact that there was no variance when we left dock."

"A lot of things have happened since then," he reminded her soberly. "A lot of equipment was installed, temporary pieces removed..."

"True. But all of those things have been logged into the maintenance records, Geordi - and someone's checked them to make sure they were done right. There was no variance after any of the known equipment installations. But that doesn't mean that everything that was installed was logged in, Geordi - and that's what I'm worried about. That's what I'm trying to find. And when I find it, maybe I'll know what they're trying to do," she said determinedly.

Geordi shook his head. "You're looking for a needle in a haystack, Biji - and you don't even know if the needle exists," he replied - only to see her shake her head soberly.

"It's worse than that, Geordi: I'm looking a for a needle in a haystack made of needles - but I'm hoping this," she held up the padd with the sensor diagnostic results, "will at least let me narrow down the search."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then..." She hesitated - then looked at the man pleadingly. "Then I'm going to ask you to approach the captain about resuming the conduit check."

There was an earnestness - and a terror - in the woman's eyes that Geordi couldn't deny; Andile believed what she was saying, he knew - and her concern for the ship and the crew was as sincere as his own.

But that didn't mean that the captain would agree with her worries, he knew equally well. He had worries of his own - both about the woman and the engines she had created.

"He's going to want you to complete the report first," Geordi answered. "If something were to happen to you..."

"Geordi, if someone is trying to sabotage the ship, in any way, shape or form, that report is going to be meaningless, because all of us - me, you, Mr. Worf and the captain - are all going to be dead - or worse!" she protested.

"Worse than dead?" he asked, trying to force a moment of levity into the heart of the overly-serious engineer.

But his effort failed; Andile paled at the remark, took a step back as if she had lost her balance - then gave him a cold look. "There are a lot of things that are worse than dying, Geordi. I know," she added grimly.

But before he could apologize, she continued, "But I could dictate the report into a tricorder as I worked; that way the captain would get his report - and I could find out what's happening to my ship!"

Geordi sighed. "Biji..." he began.

"Please, Geordi," she begged - then stopped, drew a deep breath, and started again. "Geordi, I'm a perfectionist - but I know I'm not perfect. I've made my share of mistakes - but I've always owned up to them. If there was a power variance in the engines when we left dock, I would tell you that - but there wasn't. My engines met my specs... then. They don't now. And I need... we all need to know why.

"And I think we need to know - now," she added.

Geordi's eyes widened at the escalating worry in the woman's voice; four months working with the engineer had taught him that she wasn't a person given to unwarranted or unreasoned anxiety. So if she was worried...

"I'll talk to the captain," he assured her. "I can't guarantee what he'll say, though," he added, not wanting her to get her hopes too high. The captain's concerns had to be for the overall safety of the ship and their mission - and the odds that a minor power variance could affect that mission were, at best, extremely remote. And the odds that he would be willing to remove a top engineer from the working staff to ferret out the secrets of that anomaly were remoter, yet.

But Andile seemed not to take those possibilities into consideration. "Thank you, Commander," she sighed, relieved. "And don't worry - I know he'll agree."

"Then you know the captain better than I do," Geordi replied.

"I don't know the captain at all," Andile contradicted. "But I know he cares about his ship and his crew - and I know he won't let anything happen to either of them. Not if he can help it."


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50**

Picard read through the padd for a second time, making sure he understood the proposal completely, then looked at Geordi and gave a sigh.

"Your proposal is valid, Commander," he admitted, "but whether or not it's necessary is another question. Unless you're now telling me that you believe this power variance is a real problem," he added, giving the engineer a questioning look.

Geordi knew that look; he'd seen it often enough in the past when someone on the ship had made proposed some wild plan to get the ship or one of the crew out of trouble. He knew it - and knew equally well that he was going to have to present some damned good evidence to support the proposal before the captain would buy it.

Evidence I don't have, he added uncomfortably. Admittedly, every piece of information Andile had provided him supported her argument - if, he reminded himself cautiously, one first accepted her basic contention. Contentions, he amended quickly; one that there was a saboteur - something that even Worf's fanatically thorough search had failed to confirm, and two - and this was going to be a far harder point to support than the first - that the unknown saboteur was not out to destroy the ship - but rather to...

To what? Geordi asked himself, wondering - and worrying. After all, if all they wanted was to prevent the mission from being completed, destroying the ship would be the simplest and easiest way of accomplishing that task. So either preventing them from completing their mission wasn't what they wanted to do - or they wanted to do so - but without harming the ship.

Either way, convincing the captain was going to take a hell of an argument - and debate had never been Geordi's forté.

He drew a deep breath, preparing himself to beginning the contest - then let it out in concession. "No, sir, I don't believe it is. It simply isn't possible for a variance that small to have caused the problems the ship had - and it couldn't have been the cause of the synapses failing to integrate."

Picard considered the man for a moment, then held up the padd. "Then why come to me with this?" he asked.

"Because... Because I think Lt. Andile might be right - or at least on the right trail. I've studied the records, sir - and Biji's right; there was no power variance at the time you came back to the ship; when she signed off on the final approval, this ship met her criteria. But by the time we left spacedock, less than a day later, the variance was there. Something happened between those times, sir - and I don't know what it was," he said. "More importantly, neither does Biji."

Picard considered the point for a moment, then nodded somewhat sympathetically. "I empathize with the lieutenant's desire - and yours - to put an end to this quandary, Commander, and I appreciate the dedication both of you are showing - but in all honesty, I can't see that it's necessary. Moreover, I don't believe that using the lieutenant to track down the cause of such a minor anomaly is a practical application of her skills and abilities," he added. "Right now, I can't afford to have her off on a wild goose chase - especially when she's the only one who believes there even is a goose," he said, a tiny smile crossing his lips.

Geordi, however, knew the attempt at levity was less a reflection of the man's sense of humor and more his way of trying to ease the blow that was about to fall.

And true to form, Picard glanced at the padd one last time, then set it down. "I think, for now at least, until I see some hard evidence to the contrary, that the lieutenant's skills are better used elsewhere."

"Yes, sir," Geordi replied glumly, turning to leave Picard's ready room - then stopped.

"Was there something else, Commander?" Picard asked, unused to seeing any uncertainty from his Chief Engineer.

"Yes, sir," Geordi said - then hesitantly added, "Permission to speak freely, Captain?"

Picard raised a brow at the request. It was not that he objected to his officers voicing their opinions - he fully supported hearing the often dissenting opinions of those with whom he served - but Geordi was one of the few officers who rarely took advantage of that freedom.

So what was it that was so troubling the Chief Engineer that he found himself about to break his usual silence and confront his captain? Picard wondered. Curious, he nodded. "Granted," he replied quietly.

Geordi stared at the senior officer, running over the words he had practiced a hundred times, trying to find a better way to phrase what he needed to say - but words had never been his strong point, he knew. Better then to do it the best way he knew - short, blunt and to the point.

"Sir, I think you're treating Lt. Andile unfairly," he blurted out at last.

Picard's eyebrow raised at the accusation - then lowered back into its usual place. "Indeed?"

"Yes, sir," Geordi continued, his confidence bolstered. "Captain, Biji is, without a doubt, the finest engineer I've ever worked with."

Picard nodded. "I'll not argue that point with you, Commander - not while we're sitting in a ship she designed," he agreed, "and especially not while we're using these new engines of hers," he added, glancing out the ready room windows at the softly elongated clouds of starlight that slowly streamed by.

"That's what I mean, sir - here she is, Starfleet's premiere engine designer, our top ship designer - and you've got her writing a report!" he railed. "Excuse me, Captain, but if that isn't a waste of her abilities, then I don't know what is!" he insisted.

Picard gave him a curious stare. "And tracking down an anomaly that is well within Starfleet tolerances is a good use of her time?" he replied.

"No, sir, of course not - if it really is an anomaly," Geordi added. "But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" Picard prodded gently.

"The point is... She's Starfleet's top engine designer, sir; dismissing her idea about the power variance as simply a bit of slip-shod - but tolerable - work is, well... insulting," he said at last. "Biji never let an installation go by her the entire time she and I have been working together, sir; when she signed off on something, she was signing off that it was done right."

The captain smiled tolerantly at the engineer. "But even as vigilant as the lieutenant may be, she couldn't have overseen every installation that occurred while she was aboard."

"Not directly, sir - but at some point, she had to sign off the final approval on every part of the engines - and I can swear, sir, that she didn't do that without checking over every single step involved," he said emphatically. "Captain, if Biji says that something's wrong - then I believe her," he insisted.

"Over the opinion of the experts at Starfleet?" Picard asked skeptically.

Geordi shook his head. "Sir, even the experts admit they don't fully understand these engines. Only Biji does."

"Which means she should be writing that report, so that she won't be the only one who does," Picard replied firmly.

"Yes, sir," Geordi agreed. "But it also means that when she says something's wrong, we should believe her."

Picard began to nod his understanding of the engineer's argument - but Geordi could see he hadn't been swayed in his decision. For a moment, he felt a surge of anger rising - then quickly choked it down. Arguing with the captain would do nothing to change his mind...

But damn it, he was wrong!

"Captain," Geordi continued, cutting the man off before he could start to turn him down, "I don't know what you've got against Biji - but I know that that there has to be something. You're not the kind of captain who judges people ahead of their actions - so I know Beej... Lt. Andile... must have done something to you, sometime." He shook his head sighing. "And you're not alone - she's managed to tick off half of Starfleet - and most of the Admiralty - but, sir, you have to believe me, she's no traitor. She's as loyal, as dedicated, as determined as... as..." He hesitated, thinking - then stared at the man seated behind the wood desk. "She's as loyal to Starfleet as you are, sir," he concluded. "And whatever you may have against her personally, you have to know she would die before she let anything happen to the Federation, this ship, or this crew."

Picard stared at the engineer, taken aback by the unexpected change in the man. Geordi had always been a relatively quiet man, filled with a certainty that his expertise in his field had granted him - but, Picard knew, sometimes more than a little lost in the world outside. For him to confront Picard about Andile was out of character, and unexpected change in the man - but...

But, Picard admitted, change and Lt. Andile seemed to go hand in hand.

And, he admitted, equally reluctantly, the change in Geordi was welcome. Not that he wasn't a good engineer - but he needed a level of confidence about the world outside the Engineering Bay, a confidence that, until two minutes earlier, Picard had doubted the man would ever develop.

Score one for the lieutenant, he thought.

But helping Geordi develop a new sense of self-assurance didn't mean she was right about the engines, he reminded himself gruffly. Chief designer or no, chasing down a minor power variance was a waste of her time.

"I appreciate your input, Commander," he said firmly. "Please inform Lt. Andile that I would like to see the first draft of her report - as much as she has completed - on my desk at oh-eight hundred hours tomorrow."

Crestfallen, Geordi stared at the captain. "Sir..." he began to protest.

"Geordi," Picard interrupted, "Lt. Andile - along with ninety percent of the people on this ship - is still an unknown on this ship. Until I can confirm that she is no threat, she will be treated as any other crew member in these circumstances - and that means she cannot have access to secure areas without a Security escort. And tracking down the power conduit would necessitate having access to those areas.

"Unfortunately, I do not have a Security officer who is trained in performance of these conduit checks..."

"Sir, I could train someone..." Geordi interrupted.

Picard silenced him with a caustic glare.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Geordi said a moment later. "I was just trying..."

"...you were just trying to support one of your officers, in whom you believe," Picard concluded. As should I, he added silently, seeing the changes in the engineer that he had hoped would someday develop.

And they are developing, he reminded himself - but not from my actions.

I should have been more supportive of my people, he thought to himself; I shouldn't have just help guide them into being better officers, but to expand themselves into becoming something more than they were.

But I didn't, he added hollowly, refusing to allow himself the luxury of an excuse, as legitimate as it would have been. And worse, I let my personal feelings blind me toward the abilities and skills that a new crewman could bring this ship - all because of something that happened fifty years ago.

Something that, he added with a wry mental smile, that the woman probably didn't even remember; it was a landmark in my life, he thought - but how many thousands of applications had she turned down in her long tenure at the Academy?

Hubris, he reminded himself. Overweening pride - and an inflated sense of self, he added scornfully.

Geordi was right; he hadn't been fair to the engineer.

He thought a moment longer, then met the Chief Engineer's gaze again.

"All right, Commander. Since you believe in the lieutenant's theory - and in the lieutenant herself, I am assigning you the responsibility of training a Security officer to oversee the lieutenant's investigation of the power conduits," he concluded. "And as that will take the better part of the day, the lieutenant will continue her work on the report until tomorrow morning - when she will begin a complete investigation of the power variance she detected."

Geordi's eyes widened in thankfulness - and appreciation. "I'll let her know, sir..."

"And make sure she understands that that report is still a priority," Picard insisted, looking back at the padds sprawled over his desk.

"Yes, sir!" Geordi said, a grin cutting across her face. "And Captain?"

Picard looked up.

"Thank you. You're not going to regret this," he added, then hurried from the ready room.

Picard stared after the man for a moment, then shook his head. Famous last words, he thought ruefully; famous last words.

But he had told Geordi that the lieutenant could pursue her conviction - and premonition aside, he was not about to go back on his word.

That didn't mean, however, that he had to welcome trouble with open arms.

He stabbed the comm button on his desk. "Cmdr. Riker? Mr. Worf?" he called out. "Would you join me in my ready room?"


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51**

Will glanced at the padd before him, then at the Klingon seated next to him before he turned back to Picard.

"Yes, sir," he said, finally answering the question that had been put to him some minutes before. "I do agree with Worf. At this time, based on the information we have available, I think allowing Lt. Andile to proceed with this conduit check does place the ship in unnecessary danger," he announced.

"Crawling around through the access tunnels of the ship isn't like going through the Jeffries tubes. There's hundreds of kilometers of access tunnels interlaced through the decks of the ship - even through the hull itself - and there is no way that we could possibly trace all of her actions in those passages - even with a Security guard with her! For that matter," he added, glancing at Worf, "I'm not even sure there is a guard small enough to fit through half those passages. After all, they were designed for maintenance robots, not people," he reminded Picard, unnecessarily. "If she decided to use those tunnels to plant a bomb, we might never be able to access it."

"If sabotage was the lieutenant's intention, Commander," Picard interrupted, "she could have done so by now - and none of us would be the wiser for it. Instead, we would be dead. No; while I do not fully trust the lieutenant, I am not ready to act on your suspicion that she is, indeed, our saboteur - unless you have evidence of which I'm not aware," he added, looking at Worf.

The Klingon grunted uncomfortably. "Not... _evidence_, per se, Captain - but there are numerous discrepancies in the lieutenant's personnel file, sir," he added insistently.

"What sort of discrepancies?" Picard pressed, curious.

"Nothing overt, sir," Will offered. "But she was logged as taking a leave on Risa on stardate 38015.6."

Picard shook his head skeptically. "Commander, while I agree that Lt. Andile's personal history doesn't seem to indicate that she's the type to take leave on Risa, I'll not damn her because of her choice of locations. After all, it is a popular leave site..."

"It is not the site that aroused my suspicion," Worf interrupted. "It is the date."

Picard looked at the man, wordlessly prompting an elucidation.

"38015.6 was the beginning of the Risan new millennium, sir," Will explained. "The celebration is a social and religious event for the Risans - and one to which off-worlders were not invited. It is the only time on record when Risa was closed to starships. Lt. Andile couldn't have been there then."

"Then there was an error made," Picard said. "It wouldn't be the first time..."

"Yes, sir - except... there was no error. The time logs are encoded to ensure that they are entered in sequence - and that sequence is correct. Andile was away from her duty post - but she was not on Risa," he said.

"When we made that discovery, we began to check her other leaves," Worf continued.

"Other leaves?" Picard said. "From what I read in her file, the lieutenant rarely takes leave at all, let alone multiple ones."

"Perhaps not officially," Will agreed. "But there are gaps in her file, periods where she isn't registered as being on duty anywhere. It's as if she disappeared - only to reappear at a post days or weeks later - with no explanations given," he said.

"And no questions asked?" Picard pressed, his skepticism obvious. "Number One, Starfleet does not allow it Chief Ship Designers to just pick up and leave whenever they feel like it; if she was AWOL, then there would be a record of an investigation - or investigations - in her file. Are there?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Will looked from Picard to Worf, then back again, and shook his head. "No, sir."

"Then there is probably a logical and rational explanation for the omissions," Picard said firmly.

"Yes, sir," Will replied - but Picard could tell from his tone that he didn't agree with the man.

And neither did Worf, Picard knew as he looked to the Klingon, his face poorly hiding the frustration he felt at his captain's refusal to indict the woman on the evidence he had found.

"Gentlemen, I appreciate your efforts to keep this ship safe - but at the same time, I cannot have accusations made against any member of my crew without some solid evidence to back up those charges. Understand me: I am not telling you to stop your investigation - into Lt. Andile's history or that of any of the members of my crew. If there is a saboteur aboard, it is imperative that we learn who he - or she - is. But I will not tolerate a witch hunt," he added, his voice growing hard. "If you want me to act, then there will be evidence - evidence that is strong enough to support the charge against that person until such a time as a proper trial may be held.

"But not innuendo, suspicion - or omissions," he added - then drew a deep breath, brushing off the surge of anger that filled him. He turned back to Worf. "Have Security arrangements been made for the Federation ambassador?" he asked the Klingon.

"Yes, sir. Quarters have been prepared on deck fourteen..."

"Fourteen?" Will interrupted, surprised at the distant location.

"Yes, Commander. As none of the ambassadors are known to us," Worf explained, "there exists the possibility that any of them might actually have been sent on a suicide mission, rather than coming to represent their government's position at the negotiation table. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of locating their quarters as far apart as possible, to reduce the risk that they could harm one another, while placing them areas where any such attempt would have minimal effect on the ship."

"That's rather pessimistic, Worf," Will observed. "After all, if the ambassadors don't work out a solution, the odds are that most of them - or us - aren't going to survive the coming war. Why suicide now?"

"I had thought the precaution justified," the Klingon countered. "A war is not always destructive to everyone," he added. "The Ferengi and the Orions would both profit from the sale of materiel and weapons to all sides, should negotiations fail and a war break out - and Federation Security reports indicate there have been an increased level of supply ships moving to and from the Ferengi and Orion home worlds."

"Moving from where?" Will asked. Neither world manufactured weapons, he reminded himself - but they both frequently acted as brokers, he knew equally well. But for whom? The Cardassians? The Romulans? He shook his head, unable to accept the idea that either race would risk a war solely for financial profit; they had both been hurt as deeply by the Dominion War as the Federation had, and both now needed the stability of a treaty - if only to give them time to prepare for the next big war.

But if not them, Will wondered, then who?

The same idea seemed to have run through Picard's mind. "Does Starfleet intelligence indicate where the supplies are coming from?" he asked Worf.

"No, sir," the Klingon replied, "but a long range scan of one of the supply ships showed traces of ruthian particles."

"Ruthian particles?" Picard echoed, the ominous feeling he had been experiencing since his return to the ship suddenly welling up. "There's only one type of weapon that emits ruthian particles."

"Yes, sir," Worf agreed.

"Which means the Ferengi and the Orion are trading with..."

"Yes, sir," Worf replied, interrupting the man. "The Breen."


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52**

Fifteen minutes later, the entire senior staff of the Enterprise E, along with two of her newest officers, were gathered around the table in the observation lounge, their eyes locked on the display panel, before which Worf stood.

"In the two years since the end of the Dominion War," the Klingon explained, his deep voice as ominous as the information he was dispensing, "Starfleet Intelligence has had no indicators that the Breen have made any encroachments into Federation space since the retreated at the end of the war. Black market weapon sales have fallen to zero. For all practical purposes, they have retreated to their own space once again," he informed the gathering, then glared at Andile, who was shaking her head, almost imperceptibly. "You disagree, Lieutenant?" he asked pointedly.

Andile looked up from the padd on which she had been taking notes, startled by the comment. "I'm sorry, sir?" she said.

"You were indicating that you disagree," Worf repeated.

"Yes, sir... I mean, no, sir," she amended, growing flustered as the others turned to look at her. "I mean..." She stopped, drew a breath to try to calm herself, then said, "My apologies, Commander. I was just thinking. I didn't mean to interrupt you."

Worf scowled at her, then turned back to the panel, only to be stopped by an upraised hand from Picard. "One moment, Mr. Worf. Lt. Andile?" he said, looking back at the engineer.

Andile met his eyes, more than a trace of anxiety in her expression. "Yes, sir?"

"You're new to these meetings," he said patiently. "You should be aware that they are used to share information and knowledge that each of us may have, as well as to entertain ideas and options that may resolve whatever situations we are encountering. Therefore, if you feel you have a contribution that may be beneficial to this ship or her mission, please feel free to speak up," he informed her gently - and was met with an expression of astonishment.

Picard carefully held back a smile, knowing that the open forum of his meetings was a far cry from what officers and crew found on most Starfleet vessels. Not that other captains didn't accept the input of their officers and crew - but it was usually given in private, where differing opinions and ideas could be entertained and even embraced without damaging the captain's position, authority, or - and often more importantly - his image.

But image doesn't stand for much when your ship and your crew are at risk, he reminded himself. If one of his officers had a better idea, he wanted to hear it - even if it was from officer he didn't entirely trust.

Data, who had been sitting beside Andile, lay a hand on her arm. "You can speak your mind," he assured her quietly.

Andile looked at the android, her face riddled with uncertainty - then seeing the encouragement in his eyes, drew a deep breath and nodded. She glanced at her padd, then looked back to Worf, a growing confidence in her eyes - and in her voice.

"I was just going to point out, sir," she said quietly but confidently, "that the Breen did not pull back to their territory at the end of the war - but rather two months before."

Worf held back a growl. "A minor detail. They saw the way the war was heading and chose to leave before suffering a defeat..."

"Excuse me, sir," Andile interrupted, "but you were on the front lines. You saw the way the battles were heading - and it wasn't toward a defeat of the Dominion," she reminded him firmly. "They had an advantage on us, and by all rights, they were about to win the war - until the Breen pulled out, leaving Dominion and the Cardassians unsupported. That's the only thing that kept them from winning. Sir," she added hastily.

"Admiral Czymszczak's analysis of the Cardassian warships weaknesses..." Work protested.

"...was a lagniappe," she interposed, her face growing dark. "At best, it kept the Cardassians from expanding their efforts - but coming as late as it did in the war, it was not the turning point - nor were any of the Federation's other efforts," she added, giving the Klingon a knowing look.

Too knowing, Picard thought, wondering just how much classified information her position had given her access to - or whether she had learned it from other, less well known sources.

For a moment, his suspicion about the woman soared - then fell again as the reality of the woman's history reared in his mind.

She had been hospitalized during the last few months of the war, he reminded himself - along with hundreds of others, wounded in battles across the quadrant. Despite the diagnosis the doctors there had given her, it was entirely possible that she had been far more aware than they had thought - and her mind far more capable of retaining and processing the tales - and the rumors - that were streaming back from front - including details that should have been kept secret from anyone but those involved.

But an organization the size of Starfleet kept few things completely secret, and in the chaos of those last months... He shook his head. Whatever she was, Andile was not stupid; ill, injured, unable to do anything but lie in a hospital bed, she would have had ample time to put together the bits and pieces of the tales she heard, and using her lifetime of knowledge and experience, be able to string them together into a fairly accurate, if not entirely complete, telling of the events at the front line.

And, he admitted, she might well be right. Despite the Federation's formal boasts of their superior forces, the end wouldn't have come as easily or as quickly - or perhaps not at all - if the Breen hadn't withdrawn, suddenly and unexpectedly, leaving the Dominion and the Cardassians understaffed and undersupplied.

Though why they had suddenly abandoned their partners, no one knew.

"The end of the war and the events leading to it are a topic for another one of your debates, Lieutenant," Picard interrupted. "At this time, however, the question we need to explore is whether the presence of transports carrying Breen weapons is a sign that they have designs on Federation space once again. If they ever did," he added quickly, seeing the objection in Andile's eyes.

"Your point is well taken, Captain," Deanna said. "Without understanding Breen culture, we cannot attempt to understand their motivations or their actions - not, at least, if we are to attempt to use those motives to analyze their current actions," she added.

"Based upon that same premise, Counselor, we can also not hope to fully understand their involvement in the Dominion war, either," Data reminded her, "which I believe was Lt. Andile's point; we do not know why the Breen participated in the war - nor why they left - and without that understanding, we cannot hope to understand their current activities," he said, looking to the woman at his side for confirmation.

With a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks, Andile nodded. "Yes, sir," she said softly. "That was what I was trying to say," she agreed.

"Then again, we're not sure they are involved," Geordi reminded the gathering. "After all, the Breen were selling weapons long before the war began - maybe they've just returned to their old ways. After all, wars are expensive; maybe they're just trying to recoup some of their losses."

"By selling weapons on the black market," Worf growled disapprovingly.

"They're not part of the Federation," Will countered. "They're not obliged to follow our rules - and most of the buyers are more concerned about the risk of being under-gunned than the penalties they'll suffer if they're caught."

Picard nodded. "And right now, the Federation doesn't have enough ships or people to adequately patrol the borders - which makes it an ideal time for the Breen to be selling their goods."

"Except they're not," Andile said. "I mean... Mr. Worf said that the ships carrying the weapons are Ferengi or Orion - not Breen."

Picard looked at her, then shook his head. "I'm not following you, Lieutenant."

"Sir, if we assume the Breen's intention is to make a profit, then they're not going to want to sell their goods to a broker, like the Ferengi. No, they'd want to get as close to the buyers as possible, selling directly to them, maximizing their profits by eliminating any intermediaries. If they know the Ferengi or the Orions can get four thousand credits for a pulse disruptor on the market, they could take them to market themselves, sell them for half that price - and make twice as much as they are doing now."

"And if I remember correctly, sir," Beverly added, "the Breen don't even sell directly to the Ferengi - but rather through weapons brokers. That means they are even further removed from the buyers."

"Protection," Worf said gruffly.

"From whom?" Deanna asked. "Us? As Cmdr. Riker pointed out, Worf, we're not in a position to defend our borders right now - and even if we were, we can restrict the purchase of Breen weapons - but we can't stop them from trying to sell them - at least not in their space." She stopped suddenly as a thought came to her. "Except..."

Picard stared at her, realizing a thought had suddenly come to the empath. "What is it, Counselor?" he asked.

"Except the Breen don't allow people into their space," she reminded the others. "Every attempt we've made to contact them has ended with silence - except when we've attempted to enter their space. That ship disappeared with no explanation - which is why no one has attempted to enter Breen space since... When? Fifteen years ago?" she asked the others.

"Sixteen point seven four years ago," Data offered. "The starship H'tor, with a crew of thirty-four was assigned to engage in a first contact scenario with the Breen. It was reported to have entered Breen space - then nothing further was heard. It had been assumed that the ship was lost with all hands."

"Shortly after that," Geordi continued, "came the first appearance of Breen weapons on the black market."

"But wouldn't that support the idea that the Breen are selling arms for profit?" Sandra James interrupted. "If the Breen captured the H'tor, and learned about humans, they would realize they had a new market for their weapons."

Beverly Crusher shook her head. "I think that idea was fairly well accepted before the war, Commander; we thought that the Breen were a small race, clustered around a few systems. That would have explained why there were only a few weapons available at any one time - low production, perhaps, or maybe scarcity of materials. That, plus the assumption that the Breen are an insular, maybe even xenophobic, species, would have explained the relatively small numbers of weapons brought into the marketplace and the Breen's use of brokers to get those weapons out.

"But the Dominion War revealed the true number of Breen was thousands of times greater than we had ever imagined," she reminded them all. "They brought thousands of ships to aid the Dominion during the war, they gave them millions of troops... For the first time, we learned that the Breen were as large a single species as the Klingons, Federation and Romulans combined. Perhaps larger," she added with a worried look at the others. "What we don't know about them is a thousand times greater than what we do know."

"We do know they are humanoid in shape," Worf agreed. "Bipedal, two arms, one head - but all those that have been encountered have been wearing environmental suits," he added.

"They don't breath oxygen?" Geordi asked, surprised.

"If they breathed oxygen," Worf replied, "the e-suits would have been unnecessary."

"And there are far more planets that do not have oxygen atmospheres than those that do," Data added. "That would support their greater numbers."

"Yes - but far fewer of them support sentient species than class M planets," Deanna reminded the two.

"Fascinating as this subject is," Picard interrupted, "I believe it would be better suited for another time and another day. For now, we need to focus on the question at hand: Are the Breen involved in the current state of unrest in the Federation? More importantly, is there any evidence that they are, in any way, responsible for the current state of this ship or this mission?" He looked at those gathered before him. "Thoughts? Ideas?"

"As has been said, sir," Deanna replied, "without understanding the Breen's motivations for their actions in the war, it would be impossible to guess at whether they are involved in our current predicament - or whether the presence of Breen weapons on Ferengi and Orion ships is simply coincidental."

"However, the Breen have shown themselves to be cunning and clever warriors," Worf opined. "If they were directly involved, they would not be so foolish as to let the presence of their weapons be made so apparent by allowing Ferengi and Orion ships to transport them openly, knowing we can detect their radiation patterns."

"Unless they were doing so in order to conceal a second, covert plan," Data suggested, "to lull the Federation while subverting a member of another government into acting on their behalf."

"One of the ambassadors?" Sandra James asked, speaking up at last, the doubt in her voice obvious.

"It would be conceivable," Data said.

"Conceivable," Picard disagreed, "but unlikely. The Breen could not have known that the three governments involved would all agree to a conference using new representatives. If they had infiltrated any - or even all - of the governments, they might have corrupted a few of the delegates on the hope that they could affect the outcome of the talks - but it is extremely unlikely they could have corrupted them all. That was one of the very reasons that new, untried delegates were to be sent to this conference: to be free of the possibility of any taint by outside influences."

"But it would explain why we're now finding Breen weapons being transported," Worf argued. "If they can not affect the meeting through subversion of the participants, perhaps they will do so through force."

Picard assessed that notion, then looked at Will. "Are any of the transports you detected moving toward... our final destination?" he asked, suddenly amending his words, recalling that two of the officers in the room had not been made privy to the location of the conference.

Riker shook his head. "Both the Ferengi and the Orion ships we noted were moving along their usual trade routes."

"Which doesn't mean they can't change directions," Picard mused.

"To where, Captain?" Andile posed.

Picard gave her a suspicious glare, but the woman shook it off.

"I'm not asking for privileged information, sir; I'm just pointing out that only a few people know where the conference is going to be - and the sheer logistics of first getting that information, then relaying it to the Breen, then preparing weapons and troops, arranging to have transports move the arms and then arranging to have their troops moved to that site..." She shook her head. "Sir, it can't be done. Just as you say it would be almost impossible for the Breen to have successfully bought out all the representatives from three worlds governments, it would be equally difficult for them to be planning to disrupt the conference by force. It leaves far too much to chance - and from what I've heard of the Breen and their tactics in war, they do not strike me as a species that leaves this much to luck. They're..." She hesitated for a moment, thinking, "...planners, sir. Methodical, detail oriented... They may accept lucky breaks when they fall into their hands - but they don't plan on those breaks."

Picard contemplated the evaluation - and to his surprise, found himself agreeing with the tiny engineer. "Then you're saying that the sudden reappearance of the Breen at this point in time is simply coincidental?" he asked.

Andile shook her head. "No, sir; I don't believe in coincidence. The Breen are where they are - now - for a reason. But, as Counselor Troi pointed out, because we do not understand the Breen, we may not be able to fathom out that reason. But we don't have to."

"Oh?" the captain replied, startled - and once again, wary of the woman.

"No, sir. Simply assume the worst - and prepare for it."

Once again, Picard reviewed the woman's words - and once again, found himself agreeing with her. He gave a nod, then looked to his first officer.

"Place the ship on yellow alert, Commander," he instructed the man, "but... quietly. I do not want to alarm our guest. Mr. Worf, begin putting the crew through battlestation drills. If something does happen, I want this crew, new as they are, to be ready."

As he watched the two men nodded; turning his gaze to the Betazoid beside the first officer, he addresses her next. "Counselor, I'd like you to continue your interviews with the new crew members - and I'd like you to re-evaluate any staff of whom you were uncertain. This change to yellow alert may bring about an unexpected reaction from our saboteur - heightened concern, increased worry - added suspicion," he suggested.

Deanna was about to reply when Worf cut her off. "Unless the saboteur understands why we are doing what we're doing," he said, staring pointedly at Andile.

For a moment, silence filled the room - then was replaced by the icy chill of the engineer's voice.

"Even if he or she understood it, Commander," she replied, her tone brittle, "his or her emotional response would alter - and the Counselor could detect it."

"Unless the saboteur can hide those feelings. That is an ability," he added bitingly, "that comes with age to some human beings."

Irate, she started to rise from her chair, only to be stopped by the pressure of Data's hand on her arm - and by the intervention of the captain between the two adversaries.

"Lieutenant! Commander!" he barked sharply at the two. "This is not the time or the place for this!" He glared at them both. "Now sit down - both of you!" he growled.

Andile and Worf glared at each a moment longer, then, without taking their eyes from the other, they both slowly sank into their chairs, both wary, both ready to jump to their feet once again at the slightest provocation.

Picard drew a deep breath, damping back his own anger - and his displeasure with his Security officer... with both of his officers, he quickly amended, still finding it difficult to think of Lt. Andile as one of his people.

But she was, he reminded himself quickly; she was as much one of his officers as Worf was - and like Worf, he was going to have to learn to make some accommodations to her temperament as well as her talents.

Just as she was going to have to make some adjustments to serving aboard a ship full of others, he reminded himself, a wave of doubt washing over him at the thought.

Doubt, he quickly chided himself, that was neither deserved nor fair.

After all, Worf had had the luxury of time; time to come up through the ranks on this ship, time to get to know the individual quirks of personality and person that were part and parcel of any large ship's contingent - but Andile would have neither.

And neither, he reminded himself soberly, would they.

He gave a sigh, reminding himself that her stay aboard was going to only be a temporary one - and resolved to try to make the adjustment - for himself, his crew, and the engineer - as easy as possible.

But looking at the fury in her eyes, he suspected that 'easy' was not going to be the appropriate adjective to apply in this case.

Nonetheless, it is going to happen, he growled at himself.

"Lieutenant, how long will it take you to complete your analysis of the power conduits?" he asked.

Andile gave a final glare at Worf, then turned her attention to Picard. "Under normal circumstances, three days. Based upon my work time constraints, and the fact that I'll have to have a Security officer accompany and inspect my work at each step, it will be far closer to nine days."

Picard opened his mouth to immediately halve the time quote - then closed it again, remember the engineer's avowal of scrupulous honesty in her estimates. If she said nine days...

She must have seen the disappointment in his eyes, for she quickly added, "I could cut it to five, sir - if you give me permission to work double shifts - and can find a second Security officer who could cover the second shift," she added with a glare at Worf.

Picard looked to the Security officer, who shook his head. "The space limitations in the accessways is too severe for most of my men, sir," he admitted unhappily. "Finding one person for Cmdr. LaForge to train was the best I could do," he conceded.

Picard looked back to Andile, who shook her head. "Then nine days it is, sir - unless you'll give me permission to check the power conduit in non-secure areas on my own," she added. "That - and letting me work around the clock - and I should be able to finish it up in four days," she announced.

Picard glanced at Beverly Crusher, who immediately shook her head. "Not round-the-clock, Lieutenant," she replied. "Two shifts per day - maximum," she announced firmly.

Data chimed in. "I will ensure that the Lieutenant does not exhaust herself," he said - rather happily, Picard thought.

Not that that was a surprise, he added, belatedly realizing that the android had never removed his hand from where he had placed it on the woman's arm at the beginning of the meeting.

Ignoring the subtle hand-holding of his second officer and his assistant chief engineer, he looked at Will Riker and Worf. "Any objections to the Lieutenant's plan regarding non-secure areas?" he asked the two.

Will considered the idea for a moment, then shook his head - but Worf's agreement was far slower in coming.

"I do not object, sir - but I do not see the point of this meaningless search for an inconsequential anomaly. It is a waste of effort - and time!" he grumbled.

I agree, Picard thought to himself.

"Well, at least you'll know where I am," Andile retorted, "and what I'm doing," she added. "And that should be worth it, just for the peace of mind it will give you, Mr. Worf."

He glared at her - and found himself being glared back at in return.

But only for a moment, as both officers quickly turned their attention back to the ship's captain.

"Then proceed, Lieutenant, and keep Cmdr. Riker apprised of your actions and findings," he added.

For a moment, he expected the woman to balk at the addendum, preparing himself to explain that the order was a standard request when any investigatory action was being performed on the ship, rather than an accusation against her directly.

But to his surprise, she took no umbrage at the order; rather, she gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, then made a note on her padd.

"Cmdr. James," he said, looking at the blonde computer chief, "I'd like you to review the sensor analysis with Cmdr. LaForge; there are still discrepancies in the forward sensor array..."

"The one we replaced?" Andile interrupted, worry heavy in her voice. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

Picard gave her a cautionary glance. "We don't know that there is anything wrong with it, Lieutenant, but there was a discrepancy in the values of the diagnostic we ran last night," he replied evenly, then turned back to the computer chief, who was looking at him blankly.

"I'll review it sir," Sandra replied, "but I don't know anything about sensors."

"I know that," he said patiently. "What I'd like for you two to do is determine if the discrepancy is real or simply a miscalibration of the computer."

A pensive looked crossed her face. "That is possible," she mused. "When the first dropouts occurred, we did realign the system. If it hasn't been reset..." Her voice drifted off as she mulled over the idea.

Picard nodded as the idea sank into the tech's mind, then turned to the other two women. "Beverly, Deanna, I'd like you to find everything you can on the Breen; if you're correct, Counselor, understanding what motivates the Breen may be key to keeping ourselves one step ahead of them."

The two women looked at each other, silently signaling their understanding and agreement, then turned back to the captain.

Picard studied the faces before him, drew another breath, then let it out slowly. "We're facing a situation that is not only unknown to us," he reminded them, "but it has the potential of being unknowable. Therefore, we need to keep alert, and open for anything unexpected, untoward, that might be the signal of something about to change - and at the same time, keep from assuming everything unexpected is a harbinger of trouble. Keep alert - but keep your wits about you."

He studied them all once again, then nodded. "We'll meet again at three hundred hours tomorrow morning. We rendezvous with the Federation ambassador's ship at oh four hundred hours, and I'd like to be able to integrate what we've learned with whatever information he - or she - may have discovered since we left Earth regarding the situation with the Breen, the Ferengi and the Orions.

"If there's nothing else...?" he added, looking at the gathering.

When no one said anything, he dismissed them with a nod of his head, then added, "Dr. Crusher? If you'll wait a moment?"

She gave him a troubled look, but nodded, keeping her place at the table, her eyes focused on the padd before her.

But before he had a chance to be alone with the physician, Picard realized that the room hadn't quite emptied yet. Andile - accompanied by Data - had held back, waiting for the others to leave, then stepped up to Picard.

"Captain..." she began.

"Lieutenant..." he countered.

She stopped, startled by his response, then started again. "I... wanted to thank you for letting me continue the conduit repair. I know it was a difficult decision for you - and I know you're not doing it as much to find the answers I need as you are so I'll stay busy and keep out of your hair - no offense intended," she added swiftly, staring at his bald head as if seeing it for the first time.

Despite himself, Picard found himself smiling in reaction to the comment - and, he realized, in response to the woman's near-infectious good humour.

Then again, he reminded himself, that was one of the reasons he had wanted to enroll in her class, he reminded himself; not only was she brilliant, but she had managed to take a topic that could be dry unto the point of being dust - and infuse it with enough of her vibrant personality to make the subject come alive.

Alive enough to enthrall a seventeen year-old cadet into thinking that engineering by be the field for him.

Of course, he reminded himself, there had been other reasons as well.

He glanced down at himself, as surreptitiously as possible, hoping that some aspect of body language hadn't given away that last thought - but Andile had plunged ahead in her speech, apparently unaware of the transient memory.

"I wish I could tell you that when it's all over, I'll know the answers," she continued smoothly. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. But I appreciate you having the faith in me to allow me to pursue this inquiry," she said.

"Or at least," she added a moment later, seeing a flash of chagrined reluctance in his eyes, "having the faith in my ability and knowledge as an engineer," she amended, seeing the real reason behind his final approval of the idea.

More than a little chagrined at having been caught in the doubt, Picard gave a curt nod. "I'll look forward to hearing your findings," he answered.

She nodded. "I'll make sure Cmdr. La Forge has the preliminaries in time for your meeting tomorrow," she agreed.

Picard gave her a disapproving look. "Lieutenant, it is the policy of this ship for an investigator to present his or her own findings. I expect you to be at that meeting," he corrected her.

"But... Geordi is the Chief Engineer!" she protested, astounded.

"And you are the ship's designer. Who better to present the results of an inquiry into the design of the ship?" he asked.

"But..."

"More importantly, Lieutenant, I want you present at that meeting because you, of all the people aboard, understand this ship as it was intended to be understood - as an integrated whole, rather than as a gathering of components. You, alone of all the people on this ship - and perhaps in the quadrant - may be able to see some flaw in the whole of these reports that we are missing when we see our individual areas."

Her eyes widened, then contracted once again. "Is that faith in me - or my skills?" she asked softly.

He deigned not to answer the gentle jibe.

Andile turned to leave, then stopped, turned back to Picard and raised her eyes up to him once again.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

"You weren't standing behind the chair," she informed him.

Confused, he furrowed his brow.

"After you told me to report my findings to Cmdr. Riker," she explained, "you were thinking that I would take the order as a personal insult - but at the time you gave the order, before you even considered how I would react to it, you were standing next to your chair - not behind it. You didn't think you needed to be protected - which meant that was a standard action on your part, rather than one directed at me personally. Just in case you were wondering," she added with a smile.

A knowing smile, Picard thought as he watched the woman turn and leave the room with her android companion; she knew the question was nagging at the back of his mind - and knew he was aching to know the answer.

But now, he wasn't sure he was happy knowing what he knew - not because he wasn't still fascinated by the idea that humans - perhaps many species - telegraphed a huge amount of their inner thoughts and emotions via their body movements - but because he wasn't certain he enjoyed knowing that he could be that easily read, even if it was by only one person.

Finding himself as troubled by the knowledge as he had been by the lack of it, Picard watched the door for a moment, thinking over - once again - the enigma that was his new engineer - then gave a sigh and turned to the remaining officer, still seated at the table.

"Emergency in Sickbay?" he asked gently.

Beverly looked at him in puzzlement.

"You missed breakfast," he explained. "You don't usually do that - unless there's an emergency in Sickbay," he added.

"Or unless I'm very tired," she countered, then looked at him with an expression of mock accusation. "I had a late night," she reminded him.

"Not that late," he replied, then took the chair beside her. "Beverly, about what happened last night..."

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Jean-Luc, what happened last night was simply a matter of the ship's Chief Medical Officer trying to help the ship's Captain to think through some of his problems and come to grips with some of his self-doubts - and trying to come to terms with a few self-doubts of her own. Nothing more," she added, a forced smile on her lips.

"Nothing?" he pressed, wanting to believe her - but suspecting - no, he corrected himself, knowing - there was something more, something much deeper that she wasn't telling him.

"Nothing," she insisted.

He studied her a moment longer, then sat back, relieved. Not that he completely believed her - but there were areas of the personal lives of his crew, even his friends, that he hated to enter, hated to get involved in - even with those he held closest and dearest.

He smiled at her. "In that case, about dinner..."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm on duty this evening," she interrupted.

On duty? he asked himself. Now that was a surprise. Taking the night shift was as almost as uncommon for the ship's CMO as it was for the ship's captain.

"Dr. Matthew's again?" he asked worriedly. "You still don't trust him?"

"No - but I'm determined to give him a chance - even if that means sitting up with him on a few late shifts, teaching him how I want my Sickbay run. He may be technically brilliant, but I don't like him going off cock-sure with a member of this crew - especially one he doesn't have a health history on - and one he hasn't even examined..." she sighed.

Picard nodded, understanding. "You're talking about Lt. Andile," he said.

"I'm talking about all my patients, Captain," she countered, then added, "but..." She sighed and shook her head, "but yes. I am worried about her. I didn't like the way Greg dismissed her injury in the shuttlebay last week - but more to the point, I don't like the way she's been looking since then."

Picard glanced toward the closed doors, recalling the woman who had stood there moments before. "Oh? I hadn't noticed anything different about her," he replied.

Beverly's eyes raised in disbelief. "Hadn't noticed...? How can you say that, Jean-Luc?" she railed. "You just saw her - she looks like hell! If I hadn't been monitoring the computer records to make sure she's actually been eating, I'd suspect she's lost another kilo since we saw her the other night - and she can't afford to lose a gram, let alone a kilo. And if those circles under her eyes get any deeper..." she railed.

"Beverly," Picard interrupted, laying a soothing hand on her arm, "She's under a lot of pressure," he reminded her. "It's not easy being a suspect in a sabotage case - and at the same time being expected to help determine if there is any sabotage in the first place. And trying to make sure these new engines are performing at peak efficiency - and writing the training manual all at the same time - not to mention her determination to find out if the power anomaly is anything more than just that," he said with a smile - only to find it countered by the physician's frown.

"Do you hear yourself, Jean-Luc?" she asked him. "Any one of those tasks would be enough for a single crewman - and she's being expected to do four of them - at the same time - and deal with the emotional pressure of being suspected of treason!"

Picard stared at her, suddenly aware of the work load that had been allowed - that he had allowed, he chided himself - to build up for the engineer once again.

And yet...

"You're right," he agreed with a sigh, then looked at the worried woman. "And yet, Bev, it's hard to argue with the fact that for the first time since you - since we - tried to help her by reducing her workload, she seems, well... happy."

Beverly stared at him, astonished - then realized he was right. Andile looked horrible - too thin, too tired, face pale, her thin skin stretched too taut over bones that protruded too far - and yet, there was no mistaking the joy that emanated from her dark brown eyes.

She gave a low growl of disapproval, evoking a second smile from Picard. "I think you're just going to have to accept that some people do better, feel better - even thrive - under pressure, Bev," he informed her, then quickly added as he saw the flare or rage in her eyes, "which doesn't mean that she's fine. I agree with you there; Lt. Andile may well have some underlying health or emotional problems. I just don't think they're affecting her quite as much as you do," he argued.

"Maybe they aren't - now. But they will. Somewhere and sometime. Of that I can assure you, Captain," she warned him.

He met her disapproving gaze, understanding all too well her concerns - but knowing there were concerns of his own that had to take higher precedence - even over the health and well-being of a single crewmember. "I believe you, Beverly - but right now, that's a risk I'm going to have to take. I'm simply not in a position to take Lt. Andile off duty to undergo a physical just because you're worried about her - not unless you can prove to me she's unfit - or until I know she's our saboteur. There's just too much riding on her, and the knowledge that she alone possesses."

"And when we lose her," Beverly replied solemnly, "what do we do then?"

He drew a deep breath, asking himself the same question.


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter 53**

Captain Jean-Luc Picard yawned widely - then snapped shut his mouth, sternly reminding himself that he was, indeed, a starship captain. The dress uniform helped; the stiff collar and scratchy braid chewed at his neck, irritating his skin just enough to keep him from drifting off as he stood before the transporter platform, awaiting the arrival of the new Federation ambassador - but it was not quite enough to offset the fact that he had been awake - for the second time in three days - for almost twenty-four hours straight.

Not for the first time he found himself envying Andile.

How does she do it? he wondered. Work almost around the clock - and then show up at conference at oh-three hundred hours, as wide-eyed, bright-smiled - and as mentally quick and sharp - as if she had spent the intervening hours sleeping, instead of churning out another fifty pages on the training manual, as well as a preliminary report on the power conduits she had checked.

Which were, he reminded himself, all negative - as Worf had predicted they would be.

He sighed, wishing the reports would have been more definitive - even if definitive meant she had found a problem. As it was, however, he found himself no more certain about the engineer now than he had been since their first meeting days before. Instead, he found himself wondering if the absence of a problem meant she truly hadn't found anything amiss - or if it was simply a pretense to continue her investigation until she found the opportunity she needed to sabotage the ship.

But then again, he argued with himself, if she was not the saboteur - if there even was a saboteur - it was highly unlikely that she would find the damaged circuit in the first few searches she made; after all, there were thousands of power conduits on the ship; the odds against finding the one malfunctioning one on the first try was...

Was...

He tried making the calculation in his head, but found his mind drifting instead, thoughts of numbers dancing through it, threatening to lull him into a doze...

He shook his head sharply, chasing off the chill of the room and the fatigue of the early hour - than yawned again.

"I'm sorry, Captain," the transporter technician apologized uncomfortably. "I notified you when the Federation vessel said the ambassador was ready to transport over - just as you ordered - and _then_ they suddenly said there would be a delay. They said it would just be a few minutes," she added, seemingly miffed at the foul-up on the part of the delegate's ship.

"No need to apologize, Ensign..." His voice trailed off as he tried to recollect the woman's name from his sleep-deprived brain.

"Figueroa," she replied, seeming to take no offense at the slight. Indeed, Picard added, she seemed amused by the realization that her captain was just as vulnerable to human failings as she was. "Ensign Rachel Figueroa."

"No need to apologize, Ensign Figueroa," he repeated. "You were following orders - correctly."

It was the ambassador's crew that had failed to follow their orders, he added sourly and silently; Starfleet had made it perfectly clear and utterly unquestionable that this rendezvous were to be as brief as possible, to further reduce the possibility that an enemy might be able to forecast their intended destination by analyzing their route. The idea that they had reached the rendezvous point, then signaled the Enterprise - and _then_ decided they had to wait - was exactly the kind of mistake that might make them vulnerable to discovery by an enemy ship.

But Federation ambassadors weren't bound by Starfleet regulations - and more than a few of those same ambassadors felt they weren't bound by any regulations at all. Had they done so, had they felt as dedicated to the good of the Federation as well as the good of the alien worlds to which they traveled, the Federation, indeed the entire quadrant, might not find itself in the dire straits that now held them.

That, he railed silently, was the problem with ambassadors; they were head-strong, self-obsessed... They did what they wanted, when they wanted, for the reasons they wanted... They didn't know what rules were for, and they didn't know how to follow them.

What the ambassadorial division needed - really needed, Picard mused, were a few good, ex-Starfleet officers, men and women who understood the need for compliance with rules - and yet were capable of thinking on their feet, and acting equally swiftly.

But, he added, grumbling to himself, those same Starfleet officers weren't about to be asked to join that diplomatic province; the very traits that made them estimable ambassadors in his mind's eye would have made them 'loose cannons' in the sight of the Federation's Diplomatic Corps. The last thing the Corps wanted was people who could and did think for themselves.

No, those officers were good men and women - they simply were not politic.

He was still musing over the idea - and the injustice - when Ensign Figueroa interrupted his reverie with the announcement that the ambassadorial ship had once again transmitted their readiness to transport the delegate to the Enterprise. Grumbling the requisite approval, he drew a deep breath, preparing to meet the delegate - and to move him through the standard greeting and introduction just as quickly as decorum - and his own exhaustion - would permit.

Forcing a plastic smile to his face, he stood at attention as the soft shimmer of lights began to form on the pad, then slowly coalesced into the form of a tall, lanky, human male...

Before he could stop himself, Picard felt his jaw drop - then happily bounded onto the transporter pad, a hand extended in welcome.

"My God!" he roared. "Jay! Jay Tillerman! What the hell are you doing out here?" he boomed, his joy at seeing the old and familiar face erasing every trace of formality - and fatigue - from his mind and his body.

The tall human took the proffered hand, shook it hard, then drew the smaller man against him in a smothering bear hug, pummeling Picard's back fiercely as he did so.

"Johnny!" the man shouted back. "Johnny Picard! So this is where you finally wound up!"

Rachel Figueroa bit her lip, refusing to let herself smile at the idea of the captain being called anything besides 'Jean-Luc Picard'. Turning her attention back to the board, she busied herself with its controls, studiously avoiding seeing or hearing anything else.

For a moment, the two men continued with the mutual back-thumping - then pulled apart, each beaming at - and studying - the other.

Time had been good to his old friend, Picard realized quickly - better than it had been to him.

Where his hair, what little he had left, had gone to silver years before, Jay's had stayed the same dark brown color and luxuriant thickness that had drawn women to him when they were roommates at the Academy - and while Jay's skin showed the wrinkles and lines that one would expect from years of exposure to the intense sun of his home planet of New Texas, there was something healthful about it, something that spoke of a life outdoors, a life in the sun and wind and weather - and not a life spent in the dark of space, under the artificial lighting of a starship.

Not that he would have changed places with the former Starfleet officer, Picard quickly added - but, he found himself forced to admit, Jay had aged a hell of a lot better than he had.

He grinned at his old friend. "My God," Picard repeated. "How long has it been, Jay? Ten years?"

"Longer than that," the other replied. "Almost twenty. The last time I saw you was back at that reception at Starfleet Command - remember? The one where you picked up the blonde with the..."

"Ah, yes," Picard interrupted, flaring red - and flashing a glance at the technician at the transporter console, who was, he was relieved to see, completely engrossed in her own work. "She had a remarkable mind," he added quickly.

"A remarkable mind?" Tillerman guffawed. "How the hell would you know? Your eyes didn't move higher than her neck the entire night!"

Picard's eyes rolled up in his head as he cheeks flamed once again, then he forced a smile to his face. "Indeed," he managed carefully, then said, "So what brings you out here, Jay?"

"I'm your new ambassador," the tall man replied.

Picard nodded. "I gathered as much - but I meant: I thought you had retired. The last I heard, you had left from Starfleet and had gone back to your family's cattle ranch on New Texas. So how did you end up here? And as an ambassador!" he added, the realization just beginning to sink into his mind.

And the absurdity of the notion. Jay Tillerman? he asked himself. An ambassador? In a crisis of this nature?

It was a notion beyond all imagination, he insisted to himself - or it was for the man he had known so many years ago.

Just, he reminded himself as he cast a second glance at the young woman looking pointedly at her transporter console, as it was beyond imagination that the captain of the Enterprise would have spent the better part of a Starfleet reception propositioning a beautiful woman.

But that was twenty years ago - and I was a different man then.

As Jay had been different.

Reminding himself not to judge his friends in the present with their actions of the past, he thumped the tall man on the back once again, then, reaching for the leather bag that had materialized beside the New Texan, gestured for him to lead the way out the doors - and out of earshot of the ensign.

"Well, there are only so many cattle you can herd, Johnny," Tillerman said as they passed through the sliding doors. "It's a good life - but it gets boring. After a few years, I began to realize I wanted something a little more. I wanted something to look forward to. When the Dominion War broke out, I tried to re-enlist - I figured a man with my experience would be good for something - but Starfleet had enough youngsters signing up they didn't need an old hand like me," he said with a disappointed shake of his head.

"The Federation, though - now there were some people who could appreciate the value of what I've learned," Tillerman continued.

Picard grinned. It was just what he had been telling himself, he thought; that what the Federation needed was a few ex-Starfleet officers, who understood the need for following orders - and who also understood the need for independent thought.

"You're going to _need_ everything you've learned, Ambassador," Picard answered, growing somber. "The negotiations ahead of you are going to be difficult - and the future of the Federation is riding on what you - and the other delegates - can work out. I don't envy you this job, Jay," he admitted.

But the rangy New Texan only grinned in response. "Oh, hell, Johnny, I've played high stakes poker before."

"But not with the stakes this high," Picard countered.

"The value of the chips doesn't change the rules of the game - or how a good player plays," Tillerman replied. "It's a matter of knowing what you're holding, figuring out what the others have - and then bluffing them into believing you have a better hand. It's not the cards and it's not the stakes, Johnny; it's the player," he reminded the shorter man.

Picard's eyes widened - but all he said was, "Indeed."

Tillerman studied him for a moment as they walked, then grinned. "You never were much for poker, were you, Johnny? Always had your head in the books, always studying... You know, I was a little surprised when I heard you'd made captain," he confessed. "I never thought you had it in you. Too much book learning - and too little of real life."

Picard forced a smile to his face in response, but he could feel the heat rising beneath his collar. "I've... gained some experience," he said at last.

"Glad to hear it, boy," Tillerman replied, thumping Picard on the back enthusiastically. "Glad to hear it!"

_Boy_? Picard thought to himself; you're only three years older than I am, he reminded the tall man silently - a fact that Jay no reminded him of countless times when they were at the Academy.

But at the Academy, that difference had made a difference; he had been a freshman, Jay a mid-classman - and the three years had been all the difference needed between the shy seventeen-year old boy and the far more worldly-wise twenty-year old man.

But that had been almost fifty years before, Picard thought; the differences in their ages now was nothing - except, perhaps, in Jay's mind.

He left his smile in place, but decided there was no reason to leave the topic there as well. Quietly changing the subject, he asked, "And your parents? How are they?"

It wasn't just an idle question; Amarie and Theodore Rubenstein-Tillerman - or Amy and Ted as they had insisted they be addressed - had been more than the parents of one of his Academy roommates; they had become a second family to the young, and very lonely, Jean-Luc Picard.

"Pretty good - for their age," Jay replied. "They retired from the ranch about ten years ago - Dad got thrown from a horse, and was laid up for two months. That's when he decided it was time to quit - and that's when I took over the place," he said.

Picard nodded - then looked up at his friend, perplexed. "But you left Starfleet twenty years ago! What were you doing in between?" he asked.

"Traveling - here, there. Ma always said that travel broadens a man's horizons - that why she wanted me to join Starfleet - so I could travel the galaxy at the Federation's expense. And what happens? I wind up at a desk!" he chortled.

"A desk?" Picard replied, puzzled. "I thought you had been given a posting on the Excalibur?" he said.

Tillerman grimaced. "I did - and I was there for a while. But Capt. Dozois and I didn't get along. I stayed for a year, got promoted to Lieutenant - then decided enough was enough, and requested a transfer," he said simply.

Picard stared at the man - then nodded, understanding at last. "_You_ requested the transfer. I see. Tell me, Jay, how many women had you proposed to this time?" he asked.

Tillerman looked back indignantly. "I didn't propose to any of them!" he retorted - then added with a wry grin, "It's just that a few of the female crewmembers thought that our relationships were progressing toward that fatal step. I thought it was time to make my escape... my departure," he amended, "before things became too serious."

For you or for them? Picard wondered. "I dread asking, Jay, but... how many is a few?" he pressed his friend.

Tillerman thought for a moment. "Thirty - I think."

"You think?" Picard replied, aghast.

"A gentleman doesn't count, Johnny," Jay intoned seriously.

"A _gentlemen_," Picard retorted, "doesn't seduce thirty women at one time! My God, when did you find the time?" he wondered. "My first posting as lieutenant, I didn't have time for anything beyond my duties!"

"You wouldn't," Tillerman chortled in reply. "Like I said, you always had your head in a book. You never could find the time to enjoy yourself. But I've got to admit, it wasn't easy; trying to keep them happy - and keep them from learning about one another..." Jay gave a shake of his head - but the grin on his face was anything but remorseful.

"It was hard work - but I managed, right up until the day I left - when they all showed up to see me off! Thank God the transporter chief was a kindred soul; he got me out of there just before the fight started," he chuckled.

Just in time to avoid the battle, Picard thought - but not fast enough for the event not to be logged into Jay's personnel file, he added, a wave of realization coming over him. Once that melee had recorded, it would have been a signal to every future captain who brought Jay aboard about the kind of person he was: a responsible officer, perhaps, but an irresponsible person.

No wonder he would have eventually wound up flying a desk, Picard thought sadly; no captain worth his salt would have been willing to risk the cohesion and harmony of a crew on the sexual predilections of a single person - and the specter that irresponsibility cast on his persona.

Fortunately, that was a long time ago, he told himself. Time and age would have slowed the man somewhat, he told himself - then glanced at his old friend and shook his head.

No; time and age might have slowed the physical responses of his friend - but it would have done nothing to alter the emotional needs his habits filled. Picard made a mental note to discretely discuss the matter with his senior staff - and made a second note to have Deanna Troi have a long talk with the man.

Not that it would help, he realized; Jay had been aware of his physical and emotional desires, even when they were roommates at the Academy. If he had wanted to change them, he could have long ago.

He simply hadn't wanted to.

For a moment, Picard felt a surge of pity for the man - then forced it back. Jay Tillerman had made his own choices in life - and he seemed unrepentant for them now. Indeed, he seemed happy enough for those choices. Trying to change that now would be pointless; worse, trying to change that now might be dangerous - both for Jay and for the Federation.

For whatever else he was, Jay was the Federation ambassador to these talks; the Federation Council had approved him, knowing what he was, despite - or even because - of those same traits.

He deleted the note to talk with Deanna - but mentally emphasized the reminder to warn his crew, the female portion in particular, about Jay's penchants.

"And your mother?" he finally said, changing the topic once again. "How is she?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"Older, greyer - happier, too, now that she's got a handful of grandchildren running around the place," he added.

Picard gaze the tall human a startled look.

"Oh, not mine!" Jay laughed, seeing the surprised expression. "My sisters took care of the folks on that one. Jess has two girls, and Martha's got two boys and a girl. Or was it the other way around?" he puzzled. "Whatever," he decided glibly, "Mom's got a houseful of them now. I haven't seen her happier than the day she adopted you, Johnny!" he added.

Picard grimaced - not at the memory of the gentle woman - but at Tillerman's use of his nickname. "Jay, about that name..." he began hesitantly.

"What name?" Tillerman asked.

"Johnny," Picard said, disliking the name as much today as he had back at the Academy. "My name is Jean-Luc. I'd appreciate you using it," he added as gently as possible.

Tillerman's eyes widened in surprise - then he shrugged. "Whatever you say - Johnny," he added, grinning broadly again.

Picard sighed. He had never liked the nickname that had been bestowed upon him by his fellow cadets - but he had accepted it, suspecting that his insistence on the use of his proper name might alienate the others, might estrange the very people on whom he hoped he would come to depend in the near and distant future.

But the bastardization of the name had always bothered him when he had been a student - but more so now, looking back on the boy he had been - and the man he had become.

Had I been that desperate to fit in? he wondered. Was I that lonely, that insecure?

And am I that different now? he wondered, curious if his insistence on people using his full name just a reflection of that loneliness - a way to explain, to justify, why so few people were close to him - and a way to keep them distant.

Rationalization, he decided, borne of the early hour - and the long day before it. He glanced down the corridor, pleased to see the two Security guards standing outside the ambassador's quarters.

Tillerman saw them at the same time, then turned to confront Picard. "Trouble, Johnny... excuse me, Jean-Luc?" he said.

"No," Picard said firmly, "and I'm going to make sure it stays that way. I'm assigning guards to each of the ambassadors..."

"Who will keep us confined to quarters?" Jay concluded.

Picard smiled. "Hardly. But they will accompany should you wish to leave your room - and my first officer will call on you in the morning to arrange a tour of the ship."

"Female?" Tillerman interrupted.

Picard rolled up his eyes. "Cmdr. William Riker," Picard clarified, giving a slight emphasis to Will's first name - and watching a look of disappointment cross Jay's face.

"I don't suppose you could send someone else..." the ambassador began.

Picard forced a smile to his face. "Rank, as one of my engineers has reminded me, has both its privileges and its obligations. As an ambassador, it is _your_ privilege to be given the tour by my exec... unless you'd rather not take the tour," he added pointedly.

It was an effective threat, Picard knew; Jay Tillerman was not a man to stay cooped up in one spot any longer than necessary. It had been that need to roam from their shared quarters as much as his excessive sexual appetite that had been responsible for his frequent escapades at the Academy - and in Starfleet, Picard reminded himself. And given the options of staying in his quarters or getting a guided tour, even if it wasn't under the auspices of a female, wouldn't be a difficult decision for the Federation ambassador to make.

"Nah," Tillerman demurred. "You know me; I don't like staying any one place very long. Besides, I want to see what kind of ship they gave little Johnny Picard." Tillerman shook his head again. "The flagship of the 'fleet, they say. Hard to believe," he added with a sigh - then gave Picard a grin. "And anyway, I know there have got to be some women on this ship, somewhere - and knowing the kind of stickler you were for rules, I suspect they'll be more than a little anxious for a little action," he added, then turned, glanced into the open doorway of his assigned quarters - and gave an appreciative whistle. "Ambassador's quarters, eh? Nice. Plenty of space for doing some personal negotiations - if you know what I mean," he said, playfully - and painfully - jabbing Picard in the ribs with his elbow.

The captain ignored the blow, a frown coming to his face. "Jay, the members of my crew..."

"I'm just yanking your chain, Johnny!" Tillerman retorted, obviously delighting in teasing the smaller man. "I thought after all these years you'd have developed a sense of humor - but I guess not," he added disapprovingly. "You're as serious - and as dull - as you were fifty years ago, Johnny."

Tillerman reached for the leather bag that Picard had been carrying, then entered the room, followed by the captain.

"If there's anything else you need, Mr. Ambassador..." he began, only to be interrupted by the tall New Texan.

"Nothing - short of you getting a sense of humor, Johnny," the man replied seriously - then gave a grin. "But I don't expect that's going to happen - so I better limit myself to asking if there's someplace I can get a drink on this ship," he said hopefully.

Picard was about to object - then silenced himself. Jay was no longer his roommate, about to violate an Academy regulation once again. He was an adult, a Federation delegate - and above all, not one of Picard's crew.

"The replicator can provide you with synthehol," he informed the ambassador pointedly, "but if you'd care for something stronger, your guards can escort you to Ten Forward - the ship's lounge," he said as evenly as he could manage.

Tillerman smiled. "And they're open this late?"

Picard nodded smoothly, deigning not to remind the man that a ship operated around the clock - and someone was always in the process of coming off duty and in need of the relaxation the lounge provided.

"Indeed," he replied. "Then if there's nothing else, Ambassador...?"

"Nothing else that _you_ can do for me, Johnny," Tillerman replied, the unsaid message blatantly obvious in his voice.

Forcing himself to ignore the remark, Picard nodded. "Then good night, Ambassador."

" 'night, Johnny," Tillerman managed just as the doors shut.

Drawing a deep breath, Picard let it out in a slow sigh - then made a quick mental note to discuss the situation with his senior officers at their morning meeting - and to discreetly get a warning out to the members of his crew as well.

Not that the women - and the men - who served aboard his ship were under his directives regarding their choice of sex partners, he insisted to himself - but somehow he doubted Jay would be as open about his intentions as his crew would be. There would be hints, suggestions of a future, perhaps even promises... Picard shook his head; he wasn't about to see any of them used unknowingly by Jay Tillerman.

Then again, he added, this was something that might not be able to wait until the morning; if Jay did go to Ten Forward...

Picard stopped, then grinned to himself. If Jay were to go to Ten Forward at this hour of the morning, there weren't too many crewmembers, male or female, who he would encounter.

Indeed, there were only two who came to mind who even might be there at that moment - and for the life of him, he couldn't imagine either of them needing his help in handling Jay Tillerman, he added, grinning at the thought of Jay's first contact with the female contingent of the ship coming in the person of Lt. Andile.

Now _that_, he thought with a grin, was something he would like to see.

Of course, he added, a bit disappointedly, they had both been on duty as long as he had - and while Data might not need sleep, Andile certainly did.

As he did, he added with a tired sigh. Turning, he left the new ambassador to settle himself in his quarters - and headed down the corridor to settle himself in his own.


	54. Chapter 54

**Chapter 54**

In one way, Jean-Luc Picard was correct; there was a conflict brewing between a man and a woman on his ship - and the woman was, indeed, Andile.

Picard would have been hard pressed, however, to have correctly guessed the identity of the man involved - for after all, even with his newly developing emotions present, Data was still not a person he would have associated with conflict - at least not a personal one.

And from all outside appearances, the conflict did not involve the android; he was calm, his voice level and uninflected as he spoke to the woman pacing the length of the quarters they shared - but there was as little room for compromise in his words as there was in the tone of her voice as she snapped back at him.

"No!" she roared, whirling around and slamming a fist against the computer desk.

Startled, Spot, the cat, jumped up from his place on the desk and dashed to the shelter of Data's bed. "I am _not_ going to bed, Data!"

"I am afraid I must insist," he countered politely, gently - but equally firmly. "Your level of physical exertion has exceeded the norms of human behavior, Andile; sleep is now indicated."

"Except for the fact I'm not sleepy!" she snapped back.

"That is not possible," he replied smoothly. "You have been conscious and on duty for over thirty hours; therefore, as your commanding officer, I must now require you to..."

"Data, you are not my commanding officer!" she snapped back.

He stared at her, puzzled and confused. "I believe you are mistaken, Andile," he finally replied. "As of stardate..."

"Data," Andile interrupted, "I'm not arguing that you are my commanding officer - when we're on duty - but we're not. On duty," she clarified. "We're off duty now - and our relationship to one another is not superior to junior officer. It's..." She hesitated, thinking for a moment. "Well, okay, I'm not sure exactly what our relationship is to each other - that is, _if_ we have a relationship," she added uncertainly. "But if we do have a relationship with one another, than we have to make sure we know what that relationship is - because if we don't, and you keep on thinking that our relationship is something that it isn't, then we're not. Going to have a relationship," she added.

He gaped at her, utterly lost. "Andile, I do not believe I understand what you are saying," he finally said.

Andile sighed. "Data, relationships - that is, relationships that work, relationships that are successful, relationships that _last_ - are built on mutual trust and respect! But when one person doesn't trust or respect the other, the relationship is doomed! And if you don't respect me, then this relationship cannot succeed - and we may as well give it up now!" she railed at him.

"But... I do respect - and trust - you, Andile," he protested.

"Really?" she said doubtfully. "You don't act like it. Every time I disagree with you about something personal, you pull rank on me! That's not respect, Data - that's bullying!"

"I disagree, Andile. I am only making decisions that are in your best interests - and I _am_ your superior officer," he reminded her gently.

"When we're on duty, yes!" she protested. "But not in our personal life, Data. There we have to be equals - or this isn't going to work!"

Seeing his stricken expression, Andile raised a hand, as much to calm herself as to keep the android quiet, then drew a deep breath and reached for the android's hand. "Come here," she said softly, then added a moment later, "Please."

Taking the outstretched hand, he allowed her to guide him around the table, then lowered himself into the chair beside her, puzzlement - and hurt - in his eyes.

"Data," Andile began gently, "I like you. I like you as a person, I like you as a superior officer... I like you as a lover. But those are three different roles - and one of the hardest things you're going to have to learn is that those roles don't overlap. When we're working together, you are my superior officer - but that means you can't be my friend or my lover right then. Fulfilling our duty to the ship, to the crew, to Starfleet, precludes that personal involvement - when we're on duty! But at the same time, when we're lovers or friends, you can't be my superior. It's not fair - to me... or to _us_."

"I do not understand," he admitted.

Andile smiled tolerantly. "I know - and if it helps, you're not alone. Most people - human and otherwise - have a hard time finding the boundaries between the roles they play, and a harder time finding those boundaries when they play more than one role with the same people.

"I can't speak for those other situations, dear, but as I see it, for us, it's a matter of... respect. I respect your superior knowledge and intelligence about this ship. I respect your expertise in those areas where you know more than I do, or where you have more experience. In those matters, I defer to you both from that respect - and because I'm sworn to obey a superior's orders.

"But when it's you and me, when we're off-duty and it's our personal relationship that we're dealing with, the respect has to be mutual - or this relationship isn't going to work. Dearest, you have to respect that there are certain aspects of my existence that I have superior knowledge and intelligence about than you do - and that in those things, you are going to have to defer to my decisions. If you don't - if you continue to try to pull rank on me about personal things, if you keep trying to bully me into doing what you think I should do, then you're going to destroy this relationship - and every other one you may encounter in your life."

Data considered the idea. "But you _are_ physically tired, and you _do_ require sleep," he added. "I was only concerned about your well-being."

Andile smiled back. "And I appreciate that. And yes, I am tired. But ordering me to go to bed? That may maintain my physical well-being - but imagine what it does to my mental health? You were treating me like a child - which made me feel as though you didn't respect me for the adult I am."

He gave her a knowing look. "But you do not take care of yourself, Andile; my order... my advice," he amended, "was taking that lack of self-care in mind..."

"... and assuming I was being a stubborn ass again," she said bluntly.

Data blanched. "I would not have phrased it in such a manner," he insisted.

"Of course, you wouldn't," she agreed. "You're far more genteel than I am." She patted his hand gently. "But I wasn't being a jackass this time, dear. This time, I was working from my personal knowledge of myself - and had you given me half a chance to explain before you ordered me to go to bed, you might have understood."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded in genuine contrition. "My apologies, Andile. I did not mean to be disrespectful of you - as a person or as an adult."

"I know," she replied softly. "You were worried about me - and that's sweet - but there are some times when you're going to have to check that worry, dearest. Like now. See," she explained, "I know my body and my mind better than anyone else - even you. I know that I'm tired, and I that soon, I am going to need to get some sleep. But I also know that I have to meet with the security officer that Worf assigned to the conduit check at oh-eight hundred hours - and that that is less than three hours away. Now, according to you, I should race back to our room, jump into bed, then wake up and hurry back to meet her. Logically, that would fulfill my physical requirements for sleep.

"But falling asleep isn't necessarily easy for humans," she reminded him. "We don't have a program that makes us sleep; we can't just turn a switch and be unconscious. We need time! Time to calm down, to relax, time to let go of what we've been holding on to all day long. Sometimes, yes, I can fall right asleep - when I'm watching over an installation, or overseeing a project where I need to be available and alert instantly - then I can drop off without a moment's pause. But that's not sleep, dear - not good, restful sleep.

"No, when I want to sleep - really sleep - I need to relax first. I might read for an hour or two, or listen to a little music, or work out a little - and then finally drift off when the edge has worn off - but today I don't have that option, Data. I have to meet the Security officer who's supposed to watch me check the conduits in three hours - and I have to be there, on time and ready to do my job. I can't relax, get a decent night's sleep, wake up and get back to doing the job properly - not in three hours!"

"You're conduit check could be delayed..." Data began to suggest.

"No," she said earnestly. "I can't let them happen - and please don't suggest that I should," she added pleadingly.

"But... why not?" the android replied, confused. "If you are fatigued..."

"Dear, I'm going to do this - on time and on schedule - even if it kills me," she insisted - then seeing the look of panic in Data's face, hurried added, "I don't mean that literally. But you have to understand: this is important to me."

"Andile, while the power anomaly you detected in the conduits is of concern to you from a designer's point of view, the implication of that anomaly on the ship's function, is , at best... trivial," he reminded her.

"Maybe," she conceded, not about to argue her intuition against his expertise. "But there's more involved in the check than just the anomaly, dear. Captain Picard's going out on a limb for me; he knows there's every chance I could be a saboteur - and yet he's willing to run the risk that I'm not - because I've told him that I may be able to find out what's wrong with his ship. I'm not about to betray that faith, Data; I'm not going to risk losing this first chance to prove myself."

Data stared at her, puzzled. "But you informed the captain that you did not believe you needed to prove yourself, Andile."

She reddened, embarrassed. "I... don't," she said after a long moment. "Or rather, I didn't - then. But that was then - and this is now. Then it was our egos fighting - his reputation versus mine. But now? Now, he's put himself and his ship on the line for me. He's shown faith in me - even if it is only in this one thing. He took this away from being a pissing contest about our reputations and made this personal, Data - and that changed everything.

"He's shown me faith, Data, and I'll not betray that faith now. I have to do that conduit check - and I have to do it right. That means being utterly and completely focused, dear - and I'm not going to risk that by trying to spend the next two hours trying to force myself into sleep - then finding myself exhausted at the exact moment I need to be at my sharpest.

"No; I'll relax a little now - but I'll sleep later," she assured him. "When I can. When I've done my job - to my satisfaction," she added.

He studied her for a moment - then gave a slow nod, understanding - a little - at last. "Thank you for explaining yourself and your reasoning, Ginger - and I apologize for my presumption in judging you regarding what appears to be a lack of self-care. I shall attempt not to be as judgmental in the future," he informed her soberly.

Andile frowned at the contrition in the android's voice; raising her hand to stroke the angle of his jaw, she shook her head slowly. "I didn't mean you had to stop caring about me, Data; it's sweet. But I am capable of taking care of myself, and I need you to trust me to do so..." She stopped, hesitated, then tightened her gaze. "What did you just call me?" she asked.

Data hesitated uncertainly, then replied. "Ginger," he admitted. "It is a nickname," he quickly added, explaining, "I have been informed that the utilization of such sobriquets is not uncommon in intimate relations."

Andile's brow creased. "No, they're not - but 'Ginger'?" she asked, more than a little perplexed.

"I thought it appropriate," Data replied.

She gave him a puzzled look.

"Ginger," he explained, "as in Ginger Rogers. The dance partner of Fred Astaire in a number of movies made during the early decades of the twentieth century," he added.

"Dear, I know who Fred and Ginger are - but why?"

"Because..." Data hesitated for a moment. "I do not wish to be indelicate, Andile, nor do I wish you to think I was not paying attention to my actions of the other evening - but I was unable to keep from noting certain... events," he explained.

"Events? What events?" she asked, confused.

He hesitated again. "When we were making love... During the points of your greatest excitation..." he continued, carefully avoiding the word that had sent her into a paroxysm of embarrassment before.

Andile reddened - but nodded for him to continue. "Go on."

"During those moments, you called me 'Fred'."

Andile blazed crimson. "I did? Oh, gods, Data..." she began, but he quickly stopped her.

"You need not explain; indeed I believe I understand - though, for a time, I thought that you were perhaps referring to another lover. However, after due consideration, I dismissed that possibility. Instead, I searched my data banks, concerning your personal history, as you have related it to me, and recollected a comment you made about your enjoyment of the ancient Earth movies involving dancing, and, in particular, those featuring Fred Astaire. Hence, I determined that you were calling me Fred in reference to that dancer - as we have been dance partners for the last three months - and therefore, I deemed that it was appropriate that I should call you Ginger in response." He looked at her uncertainly. "Is this not acceptable?" he added worriedly. "Should I select a different name?"

Andile stared at him for a long time, then slowly shook her head. "No. It's fine, Data. But... But why do you decide I wasn't talking about a previous lover?" she asked unhappily.

He gave her a curious look, as though the answer to the question was obvious.

And it is, Andile realized miserably, her stomach churning at the realization; Data was an android, yes - but even android's couldn't avoid noticing the obvious.

"I assumed you were not referring to a previous lover, Andile, because I do not believe you would engage in a relationship with a person unless you were emotionally and mentally prepared to devote the full amount of emotional energy to making that relationship satisfying," he answered her. "I would find it out of character for you to start a new relationship if you were still carrying the 'emotional baggage' from a previous one."

"Oh!" Andile said, startled by the revelation - and more than a little pleased by the praise.

But, she reminded herself grimly, it was only begging the real question, the one that would have to be asked at some time.

So why not now - before she picked up any more 'baggage' than she already had - or before she unintentionally dumped anymore than she already had on Data?

"Thank you, dear - though I think you give me more praise than I deserve. I thought..." She hesitated, drew a deep breath, then started again, "I thought you were going to say that you didn't think I had had any other lovers because... of how I look," she finished.

Data gave her a stare of pure bewilderment. "How you look?" he asked, truly confused. "But... you are beautiful, Ginger," he replied, honestly - and certainly.

Andile stared into the golden eyes for a moment - then slowly shook her head. "Data, you're an android; you don't know what human beauty is - at least not the way humans know it - but you do know the concept. And I know what I look like. This face..." She reached to her face, touching the high, sharp cheekbones that protruded too sharply beneath the too-thin layer of skin - then set her hand down. Shaking her head, she looked down, away from the android. "I know what I look like, Data - and it is not beautiful."

He reached to her, gently placing his fingers beneath her chin, then guided it up so her eyes, when she opened them again, would be facing his.

Which, he realized a moment later, she was not about to do.

For a moment, he considered asking her to do so - but then stopped himself. There were other, far more effective ways of having her open her eyes - and he knew which one would be most appropriate.

He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to hers.

Startled, her eyes flew open - and met the golden ones of the android as he pulled back from the tender kiss.

He fixed her with an unflinching stare. "Ginger, we have discussed the nature of language as it relates to emotion; what you define as joy, I might proclaim happiness; what you would call grief, I may call sorrow. But despite these differences in nomenclature, there would be no arguing that at the heart of the feeling is an emotion that is the same, despite what name we assign it. Pain is pain - and bliss is bliss.

"But I have also studied many other aspects of humanity - including beauty. I know it is subjective; I know that no two humans can define beauty in the same way. I know what artists have defined it as being; I know what poets have called it. I have read plays about it, read books about it, studied art that espouses to display what the nature of beauty is," he informed her. "Each defines it in different terms - but it does not change the nature of what beauty is.

"And it is you," he declared quietly. "No; you are not beautiful, Andile," he told her. "Rather, you are beauty itself."

Andile stared at him, the tears welling in her eyes - then forced a smile to her lips.

"Are you trying to seduce me again?" she asked. "Because if you are, this is a damned fine way to start," she advised him.

Data considered for a moment - then shook his head. "Unfortunately, that is not advisable," he replied sorrowfully.

Andile pursed her lips unhappily. "I suppose you're right; I don't want to fall asleep - and if last time was any guide, that's precisely what would happen." Andile forced a tired and disappointed smile to her face. "Thank you, dear - for being more concerned about my needs than about your own," she added hastily. "Given the chance, most men would rather just get to it when they can, and damned be the consequences," she sighed.

"Get to it?" he echoed.

"Make love," Andile explained.

"Ah," he exclaimed - then gave her a puzzled look. "But... you are back on duty in less than three hours," he reminded her, seemingly confused.

She smiled back, taken aback by the remark. "Yes? So?"

He thought for a moment. "So there would be insufficient time to make love," he finally told her.

It was Andile's turn to wear the puzzled expression. "Fred, I know I fell asleep the first time - but just how long do you think it takes?"

Data considered the question for a moment, then gave his answer. "My experiences with human sexuality are not extensive, Andile, however, based on what practical knowledge I have, and upon your responses of the other night, I have calculated that we should allow a minimum of at least five hours - though eight hours or more would permit me to obtain a greater familiarity with your responses as well as your preferences for various acts, techniques and or positions, and therefore be better able to satisfy you more completely during our future encounters."

She gawked at him, then barely managed to gasp out, "Eight... _hours_?"

He looked at her, taken aback by the tone of her voice. "If that is not sufficient," he quickly amended, "I can modify my program to extend the period of time..."

"No!" she interrupted quickly. "Eight hours is fine. More than fine," she added. "Gods, I'm not going to be able to walk for a week," she murmured to herself.

But her words, soft as they were, didn't escape the android's hyper-acute hearing.

"Andile, I was not suggest we engage in continuous physical intercourse for eight hours," he clarified.

Andile stared at him, then gave a sigh of relief. "By the gods, I would hope not..."

"The eight hours was my estimate for the time necessary to properly engage in assessing your preferences. Only after that point would we begin to actually make love," he clarified.

"You mean, eight hours of foreplay?" she echoed.

Data gave a single shake to his head. "Foreplay is for mutual arousal; in this case, I would focusing on your responses."

Andile's eyes widened. "You're going to spend eight hours just to figure out what gets me off," she repeated.

"Eight hours is my estimate - but if more time is needed..."

Andile raised her hand, silencing the android. "No, I suspect eight hours is going to be more than enough," she admitted.

Eight hours, she thought to herself, giving a shake of her head in disbelief. Eight _hours_! Eight wonderful, delicious _hours_ - or more!

She sighed, then looked up at Data again, allowing a slow smile to drift across her face. "I _knew_ there was something I liked about you, Fred," she murmured, then reached up to caress the angle of his jaw once again - then pulled her hand away and sighed.

"Unfortunately, tempting as the thought might be, this is not the time to find out if you're sincere - or all braggadocio and bluster," she murmured.

"Braggadocio?" Data replied, confused - then widened his eyes as comprehension set in. "Ah! You believe I am indulging in hyperbole," he said - then frowned. "But why would I exaggerate?" he asked her innocently.

"Because most men do," she replied.

"Why?"

"Why?" she echoed in surprise - then smiled again. "Because most men think they are better in bed than they are. Because most men think that they have to exaggerate to convince a woman to join them. Because most men are more than a little insecure about their sexual performance. And because, in reality, most men do not take women to bed for eight hours in a month - let alone in one night!" Andile replied. "And certainly not just to find out what she likes!" she added emphatically.

Her vehemence startled Data. "But if they do not assess their partner's preferences, how can they determine what are the most appropriate techniques and methods to satisfy their partners?" he replied innocently.

Andile's grin widened. "They can't. They just hope they can figure it out somewhere down the line - if they even care about that. A lot of men - and women, to be fair - are more concerned about tonight than about tomorrow." She drew a deep breath, then let it - and her rapidly mounting frustration - out. "But let's change the topic before I decide to become one of them."

Data nodded. "What topic would you prefer to discuss? I am well-versed in several hundred thousand topics, as well as having written an elaborate program for what the captain has described as 'small talk'. Perhaps you would enjoy hearing it..."

"Fred?" she interrupted.

"Yes, Ginger?" he replied.

"Actually, what I'd like to do isn't talk," she said.

He studied her, a troubled look on his face. "As I have stated, engaging in sexual intercourse at this time would not be advisable..."

"I wasn't thinking about sex, dearest. I was thinking about... dancing," she said softly, raising her eyes to meet his. "It's been a long time since we just danced."

He nodded - then cocked his head to one side, checked his memory files - and frowned. "Unfortunately, Andile, there are no holodecks available at this time. Two have been reserved by other crewmen for before-duty calisthenics, and the remaining decks have been reserved by those coming off shift shortly. And while I could claim the privileges due a superior officer..."

"Data," she interrupted, "except when you're worried about me, you'd never pull rank on someone - at least, not over a holodeck. Besides, we don't need one. We could dance here," she said, looking about the room. "All we have to do is move the furniture..."

Five minutes later, the android's left arm was wrapped around the engineer's petite waist, while his right arm held hers out a little more stiffly.

"Now just relax a little more," she advised him, "and if you can do it without counting..." she added as she heard the android's soft susurration, barely audible beneath the Strauss waltz that softly filled the room.

Data gave a brief nod, then silenced himself as he led the woman through the slow waltz step once again, turning her under his arm, then drawing her against his body once more.

"Is that better?" he asked.

"Delightful," she sighed, snuggling against his chest, her eyes closing as the slow rhythm of the dance took over control of her body. "Just delightful... Fred," she murmured. "See? I told you dancing could be relaxing."

Data hesitated at the remark; usually their dancing was anything but relaxing, especially as Andile guided him through the more elaborate steps of the samba or a tango, her cheeks flushing wildly, sweat pouring from her body - but always smiling, he realized suddenly. Despite the exertion involved in many of their dances, there was also a concomitant level of what he was beginning to recognize as pure pleasure that the woman derived from their shared activities in the holodeck.

As she was deriving great pleasure from this, he added, seeing the same beatific smile coming to her face as he led her in a slow pattern about the room - although without the profuse perspiration and gravelly panting that normally accompanied their practices on the holodeck. Indeed, he thought, this dance was quite the opposite; Andile's heartbeat was slow and even, her blood pressure lower than it had been all morning, her respirations even and smooth...

His eyes widened as the meaning of those numbers sank in. Despite his doubts, she had been quite correct: dancing, at least this slow, routine dancing, was indeed, quite relaxing for the woman! It was not a substitute for sleep, he reminded himself - but in lieu of proper rest, it was obviously having a beneficial effect on her!

Pleased - and relieved, for he had not been quite able to end his worry about her physical state, despite her assurances - he tightened his grasp about her waist and slowed his steps fractionally, hoping to encourage her to relax even further - but taking care not to let that relaxation go too far and allow her to drift into the unwanted state of sleep.

After another few minutes, the waltz steps had been reduced to little more than a soft swaying of the two bodies, Andile's head pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped about her narrow waist as he held her close to him.

"Nice," she whispered. "I could do this every night with you, Fred."

To his surprise, an upwelling of pleasure filled the android - and despite his usually recalcitrant nature, he felt a smile beginning to cross his face. He was... pleased.

Or perhaps ecstatic, he thought, wondering exactly which term best described his feelings of the moment.

And then wondering, for the first time he could remember, if the name of the feeling truly mattered. He was... happy. Andile was happy.

And this was nice.

He tightened his grasp around her, feeling her sigh contentedly as she melted further against him.

For a long time, neither said anything - then Andile pulled back a fraction of an inch and looked up at the android. "I like dancing with you, Fred," she informed him.

"Thank you," he replied. "I enjoy dancing with you... Ginger," he added a moment later.

She smiled at the nickname - but there was a flicker of hesitancy in her eyes as she did so. "Dancing's fun - but there's a limit to how much dancing I want to do at any one time, dear. I like to dance until I'm tired of it - and then I like to stop. Going on after that takes the fun out of dancing; it becomes a matter of endurance - and that's not what I want my dancing to be."

Data stared at the woman for a moment, then cocked his head to one side. "You are speaking about dancing, Ginger - but I believe you are attempting to bring up another topic and are concerned about hurting my feelings. You must not do so; you must remember that, despite outward appearances, I do not have genuine feelings. If there is something you wish to discuss, please do so. I will not be offended."

Andile stopped in mid-step, giving her lover a disapproving look. "One: of course you have feelings, Data - and I don't care if they came from a computer chip or from some bio-chemical surge in your brain. My faith taught me that feelings come from the soul - and if you have a soul, you have feelings," she said.

"But there is no evidence that I do have a soul," he replied.

She scoffed. "There's no evidence that any of us do, dear. But you do have a soul - I know it. If you didn't, you'd be nothing more than a machine. And you're many things, dearest, but you are much, much more than a machine.

"Even though sometimes I think you forget that," she added.

He gave her a troubled look. "What are you attempting to say, Andile?"

She grimaced, reluctance covering her face. "I.. Data, I don't want to hurt you -but the more I think about it, the less I like the idea of you spending eight hours - or more - just to figure out what I like."

Stricken, the android quickly spoke. "The period of time is not fixed, Andile; it was simply my estimation of the time necessary to properly determine the full range of your preferences and sexual responses to my various programs and then to create and implement a program that would recognize and utilize those preferences for your maximum pleasure!" he explained. "If you would prefer, we could implement that program over a period of days or even weeks, if you would be more comfortable..."

"Dearest," she said, silencing him with a touch, "I would be more comfortable if we weren't to implement a program at all," she said softly.

Bewildered, he looked at her for a long time, then asked, "Do you mean you do not wish to continue our sexual relationship?"

"Oh, no!" she gasped. "I didn't mean that at all! I just meant..." She hesitated, then reached for his hand once again, about to draw him to the desk once again, only to realize it was hidden behind the balance of his... their, she amended, furniture. She glanced about the room, trying to find the appropriate place for the two to talk - but there were only two options: the computer desk - and the bed.

Andile sighed. Neither was quite appropriate, she thought to herself - and yet they were _so_ characteristic of the two people who lived here: neither one of us truly has a life outside our work, she realized.

Reluctantly, she guided the android to the bed, lowering herself to the edge of the mattress, trying to make the moment intimate - but not too intimate, she reminded herself hastily.

As if sensing her discomfiture, Spot rose from her place near the pillows, then insinuated herself between the two, purring approvingly at their presence.

Andile smiled, thankful for the cat's presence - and oddly warmed by the feline benediction at her presence. Raising Data's hand to her lips, she kissed it gently, then raised her eyes to his. "Fred," she said softly, "I wasn't lying when I said I liked being your lover. I liked our night together the other night very much. It was... very nice," she sighed.

Data hesitated, remembering Geordi's sympathy when he had used the same term to describe his date with Andile - then reminded himself of that different people gave the same word complete different meanings. 'Nice' for Geordi was not the same as 'nice' for Andile; if his own reaction to her kiss - to even holding her hand - was any guide, 'nice' for Andile was something far beyond what mere words could properly describe.

He nodded. "I am gratified you enjoyed it, Andile," he began, "but by investigating your other sexual responses, I could initiate a program that would ensure your maximal pleasure each time we made love..."

"But that's not what people do, dearest," she protested. "At least, they don't do that intentionally. Not if they're hoping that the relationship is a long-term one. When humans do think beyond the moment, when they want to try to make a relationship last, they're not in a rush to find out everything about the other person the first night. They take their time. They become friends. They learn what each of them likes - not just in bed, but in everything! And in bed... in bed, they learn, slowly, through time and trial, what they both like, together - and separately. Sometimes, the sex is wonderful, sometimes it's only good... but it's not a program one or the other institutes just to get their partner off!" she said. "That's what a sex toy is for - it doesn't feel, it doesn't care - it doesn't smile when things go right - and it doesn't laugh with you when things don't work out.

"It's good - but it's not a relationship," she told him. "It's just a thing. An inanimate object.

"But you're not - and meaningless sex - even _good_ meaningless sex," she added with a smile, "is not what I want from you. And you shouldn't want it from yourself, either. If you want to explore human relationships, Fred, you should want to do it the way they do - slowly, one step at a time, with both the mistakes and the joy we have to face along the way.

"Dearest, half the joy in a relationship is getting to know the other person," she sighed. "There is no substitute for that journey that you can only make together - and trying to make the entire trip in just eight hours...? Well, you'd be missing the point of taking the trip at all," she concluded.

"Then..." Data began confusedly, "...you would prefer that your sexual experiences not be as pleasurable as possible?" he asked.

Andile grinned. "Data, all I really care about is that our experiences, sexual and otherwise, are just that - ours. Together."

He considered her words for a long time, then faced her, a serious look on his face. "I... I too would like that," he answered her, wistfully.

"I'm glad," she said softly. "But for now..." Andile stood up, then led Data back to the emptied floor. "Now, let's finish this dance before I have to go to work - and maybe we can start our exploration tonight - if that's all right with you," she added with a smile.

She didn't wait for his reply as she lay her head against his chest once more, her thoughts closed against anything but the gentle swaying of their bodies and the soft reverberations of the music as it played softly in the background.

She smiled to herself - and never saw the look of pain and sorrow as it covered the android's face.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

"Lt. Andile," Geordi said, looking at the petite - and, he thought, astounded, surprisingly refreshed-looking engineer, "this is Lt. Martha Paklix, Security. She'll be monitoring you're inspection of the conduits over the next few days. Lt. Paklix, Lt. Andile," he finished.

Andile gave the petite woman a quick study. She was human, Andile decided, slightly taller than she was - not that that was difficult, Andile thought with a smile, and at least ten kilos heavier - which, by human standards would have made her still exceptionally thin, her dark skin framed by thick, black hair that had been cropped into a short, neat skull cap. Exceptionally practical, Andile thought approvingly, realizing instantly that this was an officer bent on doing her job - and doing it as best as she was able, with the least amount of distractions.

She smiled at the woman, who returned the smile - though far more hesitantly than Andile had offered it.

No surprise there, Andile reminded herself a little sadly; after all, hadn't Geordi - and most likely Worf, as well - just spent the better part of a day training her to be wary of everything I might do and say? After all, might I not be a saboteur, bent on the destruction of this ship - and might that destruction be prevented only by the sharp eyes and quick wit of this poor kid - who obviously had never been assigned to a job of this critical a nature, she added, looking at the young woman.

At least she wasn't trembling in her boots, Andile added - though she wasn't too many seconds away from doing just that, she realized, seeing the terror in the security officer's eyes.

Wondering just how terrible a reputation Geordi had bestowed upon her, Andile flashed a glance at the Chief Engineer, who widened his own eyes in silent understanding.

"Lt. Paklix, if you'll review the gear?" he said, gesturing the woman toward the console with the equipment spread over it, then grabbing Andile's arm, pulled her to one side.

Speaking softly, he apologized. "It's not you, Beej," he said softly and swiftly. "It's..." He hesitated, trying not to laugh at the bitter irony of the situation. "Martha was picked for this project because she has some engineering background..."

"And because she's the only one small enough to find her way around the access tubes, right?" Andile concluded.

Geordi nodded.

"However, she's claustrophobic," Andile added - and was rewarded by another nod from the engineer.

"She didn't say anything about it when she was given the assignment - but she nearly collapsed when we did the run through in the holodeck last night," he admitted. "I offered her the chance to back out - but she decided she wanted to go through with it," he explained. "She's new to the ship - and she's determined to keep her berth here, even after the mission's over."

Andile gave a low laugh. "Even if it means going through hell to do it?" she asked rhetorically.

"Especially if that's what it means," Geordi agreed. "I guess she thinks she has to prove herself," he added, giving Andile a knowing smile. "I can't imagine where she got that idea."

Andile looked at him innocently. "I haven't the vaguest," she replied, then looked back to the interim engineer. "Does she know what she's doing?"

"Enough," he admitted. "At least, she knows enough to know when you're not doing what your protocol says you're supposed to be doing," he conceded. "As long as you go by the book, and follow your own procedure each step of the way, you'll both be fine - but if you find any problems, any real abnormalities, you're going to have to leave them alone, Beej. Mark them, then get out and let us get at them from the Jeffries tubes. It'll take a lot longer - but it's for your protection. I know you're no saboteur..."

"But right now, you're in the minority," she agreed.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that," he added.

She patted his arm gently. "Don't be. I've been in worse situations," she admitted.

He raised an eye at the revelation, then lowered it; Andile _not_ being in trouble with the powers that be would be the more unusual story, he told himself.

Andile turned, starting back toward the Lt. Paklix, who had finished gathering the gear and stowing it in a shoulder pouch - only to be stopped by Geordi's touch.

"One last thing," he added, a heavy layer of reluctance obvious in his voice.

Andile looked at him, her eyes wide with concern.

"I know you like to talk, Biji," he began.

"But this time, shut up," she concluded for him.

He nodded unhappily. "Yeah. I don't want there to be any suggestion that you distracted her from her duties, or that you're trying to influence her report by becoming personally involved - even on the most surface level," he said.

Andile started to give a laughing response - then stopped. "It's that bad?" she asked, instantly growing serious.

Geordi hesitated once again, then nodded. "The captain is as fair a man as I know, Beej; he's not going to railroad you if there's no real evidence - but this mission is important. Too important to risk. And Worf..."

"Does not like me," Andile said.

Geordi shook his head. "Not one bit. I don't think it's personal, Beej," he added, "but you have to remember he's Klingon; he's working from a different set of standards than we do..."

"And those standards permit any actions necessary to ensure that the Empire - or the Federation - is not harmed. And if that means sending me to the brig for the next few weeks, then so be it. Better me falsely imprisoned than the mission failed," she said.

He nodded. "You - and anyone else he finds," Geordi added.

"Except he hasn't found anyone else, has he?" she asked.

Geordi deigned not to answer; no answer was necessary, Andile thought, when the facts spoke so clearly for themselves.

She turned once again to the Security officer-cum-engineer. "Well, Lt. Paklix, I'm ready if you are. I would like to start with the conduits in section twenty-three alpha - with your permission," she added.

Martha Paklix nodded. "I have been briefed on that section of the ship, ma'am."

"Good - but if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather you didn't call me 'ma'am'. 'Ma'am' and 'sir' are reserved for senior officers - and I'm not your superior. We're both lieutenants," she reminded the younger woman, "and I think it would be appropriate if we both addressed each other that way. If you don't mind?" she added.

For a moment, there was a look of doubt on the woman's face; trying to decide if I'm trying to gain favor by reminding her that they had something in common, Andile realized - or if I'm trying not to gain favor by not reminding her that I've been in Starfleet since before her grandparents were born.

It was a no win situation, Andile told herself - but if I can't win, at least I can be comfortable. And spending the next eight hours crawling around those conduits with someone who insists on calling me 'ma'am'? Andile shuddered at the thought. If we can't be friends, at least we can be equals - or at least pretend we are.

"Yes, ma'am..." Lt. Paklix began, then tried again. "Yes, Lt. Andile," she managed.

"All right. Then you lead the way - and while we're walking, I want you to review the protocol, starting with undogging the access hatches," Andile said as the two exited from the engineering bay.

Four hours later, the two women were wriggling their way out of the latest of the narrow passages and into the larger space of the conduit junction - larger being a relative term, Andile reminded herself as she pulled herself into the tiny space.

At best, the junction where the conduit lines met was a meter on a side; there was no way that either woman, even as tiny as they were, could fully stretch their already over-constricted muscles - let alone stand up - and yet, in comparison to the excruciatingly narrow paths of the accessway, the junction seemed blissfully enormous.

And, Andile thought, if they didn't mind sitting on the conduits while they worked, they could even both manage to sit up - a welcome change after the last few inspection sites, which had required that they work lying down, the inspection sites no more than a few inches from their faces, trying to manipulate the tools in the miniscule distance between the cables and their faces.

Worse, the limited space had meant that Lt. Paklix couldn't observe Andile's actions - at least, they both had quickly realized, not in their present configuration, Martha trailing Andile through the narrow passages.

Andile had resolved that problem by crawling ahead to the next junction, turning around and crawling back so the two women could work face to face - but it had meant that she would have to continue the journey sidling backward through the narrow conduits, trying to feel her way around junction boxes and power taps without being able to see them.

For the outcroppings placed on the bottom of the accessway, it had been awkward enough - but for the ones that were attached to the walls and the top of the passage, there was no way to predict their presence - until they made sharp - and painful - contact with Andile's arms, back and skull.

The frequent blows had slowed them, just as had the need to move backward, Andile thought - but the need for Martha Paklix to observe her every movement on the open conduit junctions had brought Andile's progress to a virtual standstill.

Andile sighed impatiently. I could have been done with this corridor hours ago, she reminded herself - and halfway through the next! As it is now, it's going to take the rest of this shift just to finish this one! And at that rate, we're not going to be done until...

She began letting the numbers roll through her head, mentally preparing the modification to the timeline she had drafted for the captain - and knowing that no matter how she phrased it, Worf was going to use that emendation to find another reason for not allowing her any further access.

And the captain, she knew, was going to have to give full consideration to that recommendation, she added miserably.

Great, she sighed again; I make a huge point of telling the captain my time estimates are accurate - and the first time he gives me an assignment, I'm going to have to tell him I was wrong! What the hell else could he think but that I was spending all that time somehow secretly destroying the ship! she railed silently.

Great, she muttered to herself. Just abso-fucking-lutely great.

"Lieutenant?"

The sound of Martha Paklix's voice cut through her thoughts. Startled, Andile looked at the Security officer, instantly hoping that she hadn't made her sighs of impatience and displeasure audible. After all, the woman was doing her job as best she could; it was not her fault that the inspection was taking three times longer than Andile's worst estimate - and the last thing Andile wanted was for the woman to feel as though she was the cause of the delay.

Even though she was, Andile reminded herself with a grin.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" she answered.

"If you're ready, we can proceed," Lt. Paklix replied, gesturing to the floor of the junction.

Surprised, Andile followed her gesture - and saw the equipment spread out, the checklist already in the woman's hands.

Shame! Andile chided herself; here I am wallowing in self-pity about not making my time estimate and blaming this woman - and here she is, setting up my equipment and my gear while I'm bitching. Shame, andile - Shame!

But she forced a grin to her face as she looked back at the Security officer.

"Nice work," she said. "Everything is here?" she confirmed.

"Yes, ma'am..." Martha began, then shook her head. "I mean, yes, Lt. Andile," she tried again.

"Good," Andile replied. "Then let's begin. And as before, I want you to walk me through each check, step-by-step, and confirm that I'm doing everything, every step, precisely as Cmdr. LaForge taught you," she reminded Martha.

"You have so far," she answered. "I don't think you're about to change now."

Andile let the smile fall from her face. "No, I'm not. But there's too much riding on this for you - or me - not to want to have everything I do documented; every 't' crossed, every 'i' dotted. This mission is depending on us finding out what's causing this power anomaly - and from a more personal point of view, my career - maybe even my life - is riding on it as well."

Martha's smile faded as well. "I'm sorry?" she replied, seemingly bewildered.

Andile looked at her, taken aback by the seeming naiveté. "Lieutenant, the reason you're following my work here is because I'm suspected of being a saboteur," she reminded the woman.

"Cmdr. LaForge explained that to me," Martha began. "But sabotage...

"But sabotage, in and of itself, is not a capital offense," Andile interrupted. "However, on a mission of this nature, sabotage would be viewed by a court of inquiry as tantamount to treason. And treason is one of the few crimes in Starfleet that is punishable by death," she informed the Security officer grimly.

Martha Paklix's eyes widened in horror. "You don't mean..."

"I mean," Andile interrupted gently, "that I need you to do your job just as much as the captain needs you to do your job. By the book, by the letter - for the safety of this ship - and for my life. So don't trust me, Lieutenant," she said gruffly. "Don't assume that because I've done it right so far that I'm going to keep doing so; lulling you into a false sense of security is a standard trick, Lieutenant - and one that you should always be aware of. Good security officers trust no one - ever," she added - then looked at the crest-fallen woman, and smiled sympathetically. "Which is why you're in Sit-An, isn't it?" she added.

Astounded, Martha Paklix looked at the engineer. "Yes! I am!" she gasped. "But how did you know?"

Andile smiled again. "As I said, a hard-core Security officer never trusts others - but there are a dozen fields within Security that require other areas of expertise. Cmdr. La Forge told me you have some engineering history, so I assumed you have an analytic mind - but you didn't pursue your studies, so I had to assume that pure engineering didn't appeal to you. Talking with you, even for these few minutes, gives me the feeling that you have very strong intuitive abilities about people, and watching you review the findings of the conduits - and listening to your evaluations of our findings so far tells me that you can put data together easily and logically.

"That makes you a perfect candidate for situation analysis," she concluded. "Analytical, intuitive, and constructive."

Martha nodded, amazed. "That's exactly what my Starfleet analysis said!" she replied. "Maybe you should be in Academy guidance center!" she added.

"No," Andile answered with a shake of her head. "I spent twenty years in the Academy, learning that I'm not a teacher. I'm an engineer. Always was, always will be. I don't want to be caught behind a desk again - not even in a good cause. I like doing what I'm doing. But..." she added, cautiously.

Martha looked at her, eyes wide, ready to absorb the sage wisdom of the engineer.

"If you want to keep doing what you're doing, you're going to have to be a little more cautious," Andile informed her. "Don't become friends - even on the most basic level - with someone you're surveilling. They could use it against you - and some day, someone will. And you may never recover from that blow to your self-confidence, Lieutenant," she cautioned.

"But you wouldn't..." Martha began to protest.

"No," Andile agreed solemnly. "I wouldn't. But to do your job right - to do your duty to your captain, to your ship - and most importantly, to your fellow crewmates - you have to assume everyone, without exception - would. And will.

"And don't let yourself get distract by personal chats - like this one," she added. "You're supposed to distrust me and keep our discussion limited to the conduit check only."

Martha stared at her for a moment, then gave a brief nod of her head as he smile disappeared. "First step; remove conduit cover from area to be inspected by using..."

Andile smiled to herself, then reached for the microphaser that would cut through the cover. Oh well, she thought, this may take a little longer than I wanted - but at least the ship's going to get a better Security officer for all my efforts.

Somehow, she added to herself, I don't think Cmdr. Worf's going to thank me for it, she added - then reached for the spanner as Martha Paklix instructed her.


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter 56**

Picard didn't glance over his shoulder as her heard the doors to the bridge open.

He didn't have to: after fifteen years working together, he could recognize the footsteps of his first officer without even trying - and, he realized, he could recognize the man's emotions through those same steps.

And judging by how heavily Will was treading to his chair on the command deck, the man was not happy.

His assessment was confirmed a moment later when Riker settled heavily into his chair, his eyes locked on Picard's, waiting.

Picard returned the look, his brow raised in silent question.

"I escorted the ambassador on the tour of the ship - as you requested," Will growled.

"Indeed," Picard murmured. "And...?"

"And I think you're going to need a younger officer to accompany the ambassador if he is to tour the ship again, Captain. I'm exhausted. Tillerman kept trying to..." Will stopped, searching for the most diplomatic word, "grab..." he finally managed, "every woman he ran into - and the only way I could stop him was to jump - diplomatically, of course - between him and whoever he was reaching for - and all the time try to be as polite about the whole thing as possible," he added, then shook his head. "But ambassador or not - diplomat or not! - I kept wanting to tell him to grow up! But what really astounded me were the number of women who responded to his overtures," he added, looking at Picard in amazement.

"Not as astounded as I was at the Academy," Picard sighed. "I remembering him propositioning one of the career counselors - in front of half a dozen people - and she accepted! I was dumb-founded!"

"You knew Ambassador Tillerman at the Academy?" Deanna piped in.

Picard looked at her and smiled. "Not only knew him, Counselor; we were roommates in my first year," he said.

Deanna began to smile - then a puzzled look came across her face. "But the ambassador's biographical file indicated that he's three years older than you are, sir," she said. "Unless there's an error..."

Picard shook his head. "No error, Counselor," he replied.

"You mean he started at the Academy three years late?" she asked, surprised once again.

Courtesy of the dozens of species who were eligible for attendance at the Academy, there was no official minimum of maximum age for entrance, she reminded herself, but tradition had kept entrance to beings who were in their later, post-pubescent years and had recently completed the final secondary education - and usually before they had started any post-education careers. For humans, that meant candidates were at least in their later teenage years - but very rarely older than that, she added.

But Picard was shaking his head once more. "No; Jay started when he was eighteen. He was in his junior year when I entered the Academy," he clarified.

Will frowned. "But you said you were roommates," he countered.

"We were," Picard agreed, then smiled at the bewildered expression on his two officers' faces. "There was a clerical error at the Academy during my first year; somehow I wound up assigned to share quarters with an upperclassman - an embarrassment for him, of course, having to share his quarters with a mere plebe - but an advantage for me," he added. "I was given a fast introduction into many of those aspects of Academy life usually reserved for the upperclassmen," he explained.

Will smiled brightly, remembering the perquisites that knowing a senior student would have afforded a freshman - but Deanna found herself frowning as deeply as Will grinned.

"That must have been... difficult... for you, sir," she said quietly, seeing past the smile on Picard's face to the more troubling memories it was disguising.

He turned to her, studied the worry on her face for a moment, then let the smile fade and gave a short nod, knowing better than to lie to her. "It was," he agreed. "While I was given an advance on the social aspects of Academy life, I didn't have the luxury, if you could call it that, of learning how to budget my time and resources on my studies - something I very much regret not having done," he added quietly.

Deanna nodded, knowing full well how close Picard had come to failing out of the Academy during that first tumultuous year. Had it not been for the sympathetic ear of Boothby, the groundskeeper - and an understanding dean who was willing to give the young man one - but only one - second chance, the man who was their captain might never have been.

And all because of Jay Tillerman, Deanna thought, bristling at the man's selfishness.

Picard must have sensed her anger and animosity, for he lay a gentle hand on her arm. Feeling his touch, she brought her attention back to the present - and found Picard smiling at her and shaking her head.

"It was of my own doing, Counselor; I've never blamed anyone but myself for what happened. And," he added with a forgiving smile, "I did learn something from what happened - which was, after all, the reason that one attends the Academy - to learn."

I just hadn't anticipated the lessons to be quite that painful, he added silently, then looked at Deanna once again, patted her arm patiently, and turned back to the viewscreen.

"Mr. Data," he called out, "what's out ETA with the Romulan vessel?" he asked.

Data glanced at his board, made the computation in his head, then announced, "At warp four, we will reach the designated coordinates in sixty-four hours and twenty-eight minutes."

Will looked to Picard. "The Romulans will be cutting it close if they're going to make their own ambassadorial cocktail party," he said with a grin.

Picard smiled back, suspecting, as Will did, that the Romulans were no more enamored of meaningless receptions than were any of his crew. But before he could reply, Data looked up, concern in his expression.

"Sir, we could increase our speed. At warp seven we would arrive in less than..."

Picard stopped the android with a raised hand. "We could arrive sooner, Mr. Data - but the Romulans won't - and I'm not about to endanger this conference by suggesting we change plans to which they've already agreed. I think they're going to be edgy enough with this rendezvous occurring in the Neutral Zone; I don't want them to arrive and find us already there, ready and waiting."

"They would believe it to be a trap?" Data asked, curious.

"That would be in keeping with their sociologic point of view," Deanna said. "They're suspicious - and even getting them to participate in the conference was difficult."

"Because they are suspicious?" Data said. "Even though a successful resolution to this situation would benefit their people as well as ours? That does not seem... reasonable," he admitted.

"It had little to do with reason, Data," Picard replied, "and much to do with their culture. Trust does not come easily to the Romulans - and if were to gain it - even for the brief purpose of transporting the Romulans to the conference, we need to do so by playing the game by the rules we've all agreed to. It is not the same thing as thinking they trust us - they don't - but it's the first step in trying to build that trust for another day."

"But why?" Data asked.

Picard raised a brow. "Why what?"

"Why do the Romulans not trust us?" he clarified.

"It's not just us," Will chimed in. "They don't trust anyone. Their entire culture is based on suspicion."

Data studied him. "Why?" he asked at last.

Will smiled tolerantly. "That, no one knows."

"But should we not?" Data said. "If, as Lt. Andile postulated, we cannot understand the motivations of a people until we understand the culture as well, would not our attempts to enter a treaty based upon the pre-supposition that the Romulans will grant us the same level of trust that we grant them be self-deceiving - and therefore not only counter-productive, but possible dangerous?" he asked.

Picard sighed - then gave a nod. "It is, Mr. Data - but sometimes we have to do what we can - with what we can. And right now, half a peace is better than none..."

He was cut off by the sudden movement of the android turning around in his chair. Worried, he stepped to the helm position, glancing over the android's shoulder at the console. "What is it?" he asked, seeing the amber tell-tale flashing on the board.

"The computer is showing a power surge in Jeffries tubes in section twenty-three alpha," Data replied evenly.

"That is the section of the ship where Lt. Andile is inspecting the power conduits," Worf said, suspicion heavy in his voice.

Picard glanced at the Security officer, then back at Data's board. Quietly, he asked, "Is there any connection, Data?"

The android's fingers flew over the board - then he shook his head. "The power surge appears to be caused by a malfunctioning communications relay, sir, not one of the conduits under inspection. I could have Lt. Andile inspect it while she is in the accessway..."

"That will not be necessary," Picard interrupted, not even waiting for the objection he knew Worf was about to voice. "Have a repair team check it out - after the Lieutenant and her escort have left the area," he informed the android.

"Yes, sir," Data replied, running his hands across the board - then turning to the captain. "The radiation released by the power surge appears to be limited to the EM bandwidths, sir," Data added. "There is no threat to human life."

Picard stared at the android for a long moment, then nodded. "Good," he said soberly, his voice suddenly empty, its vigor and strength suddenly gone, then added, "I'll be in my ready room."

Deanna watched as the man turned away from the android and moved toward the doors that stood at one side of the bridge - then gracefully rose from her place.

Touching the door chime, she waited for the expected reply, granting her permission to enter; not to her surprise however, only silence met her request. Touching the pad by the door, she keyed in an entry sequence, then slipped through the parting doors.

Equally unsurprising, Picard was where she so often found him, facing the windows that lined the wall, staring the prismatic lines the streaked by his office. It was beautiful, she thought - but she also knew that it was not the beauty of the heavenly rainbows that drew his attention there; indeed, if he even was looking at those lights, she would have been amazed.

No he stood there from habit more than anything else; this was his place of study, of meditation - and of self-recrimination.

He stared out the window a moment longer, then turned to face her, knowing she was present, as familiar with the delicacy of her steps as he was with the heavier treads of Will Riker's - and knowing he was as familiar to her as she was to him.

"I didn't even ask," Picard said emptily.

Deanna nodded. "I know."

"I had crew in the area of a radiation leak - and I didn't even ask if they were safe," he repeated, more to himself than to her.

"Sir," she countered, surprised at the feeling of self-doubt and the self-recrimination building in the man, "to be blunt, that's not your responsibility. If there had been a problem, Data would have informed you. And right now, your attention has to be on the mission as a whole, not on the day-to-day details of the ship," she reminded him sternly.

He shook his head, refusing to accept her attempt at rationalization. "I can't accept that, Counselor; I have always known that the success of a ship is based on the success of her crew - and my responsibility, my obligation, my duty to Starfleet and to the Federation, is dependent on that crew."

"The crew as a whole," she countered, "not as individuals. Certainly no one expects you to follow after each and every individual member, to know their needs, their desires, their successes and failures..."

Her voice trailed off as she realized her protest was in vain. Such expectations were unreasonable - indeed, almost impossible - but that didn't mean that the captain didn't demand such a level of performance from himself. They were his crew, she reminded himself; he cared about them - cared passionately - even if he didn't allow himself the privilege of expressing that care.

Except...

Except, she realized with a start, that involvement, that caring, was suddenly missing.

Not for the crew, she added; she could feel that undertone in his emotional make-up as clearly as she could feel his dedication, his commitment, his carefully suppressed joys and pains, his fears, his dreams... all those emotional components were still there - including his love for his crew...

Except for Lt. Andile, she realized.

She gaped at him, astounded by the uncharacteristic callousness - then redoubled her efforts, trying to press her emotional connection to him even closer, trying to seek out the reason for this unexpected gap in the usually passionate - albeit tightly controlled - man before her.

Pressing into his soul, she felt those things he hid most deeply - his love for Beverly, the nightmares of the Borg and the Cardassians that ate at his soul, his fears about his own inadequacies, and...

Her eyes widened in surprise. His responsibility toward the engineer wasn't missing, she suddenly realized; it was there - but submerged, wrapped up and hidden deep within him.

"Captain?" she said softly. "There's something more, isn't there? Something about the lieutenant?"

He looked at her - then sighed in resignation. "You know, Counselor, there are some areas of my thoughts that I would prefer to keep to myself."

Deanna smiled back. "I know, sir - but I know there are some things you would feel better about if you came to terms with them - and I think Lt. Andile is one of them," she added. "I can sense that you're still carrying a great deal of resentment toward her because of her decision not to admit you into her course on warp physics - but I also sense there is - or was - something more," she said softly. "Something that you're still holding against her - on a very personal level."

Picard stared at her - or rather past her, studying the room behind her - then slowly turned, studying every detail of his ready room, pausing a moment longer to stare out the windows at the ephemeral shimmers of light, slowly scanning the room until he returned to look at her - then sighed once again, yielding to the inevitable.

He gestured toward the couch, silently inviting her to join him, then they both sat - in silence, Deanna unwilling to interrupt the man as he took the rare moment to investigate his own feelings - and Picard, lost in that investigation.

Finally, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together, as if in supplication for understanding - though whether from her or from himself, she didn't know.

"You're right, Counselor," he sighed at last. "I resented Lt. Andile's denial of my application. And yes - I took it personally. How else could I take it?" he added - then turned to look at her.

"You see, I was in love with her."


	57. Chapter 57

**Chapter 57**

Deanna refused to react to the comment.

Or, to be more accurate, for several seconds afterward, she found herself completely unable to react.

To be even more accurate, she found herself incapable of doing anything - reacting, moving - she wasn't even sure she was breathing - as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind.

The Captain? In love? With Andile? she thought incredulously, the possibility too unreal to even consider - until the even less likely reality of the captain admitting those feelings came to her.

But he had, she realized - and suddenly understanding the difficulty he must have had in confessing that human frailty - a frailty that to anyone else might well have been the most glorious part of a long life - she pulled herself away from her dumbfounded stare and became the professional once again.

"You were eighteen," she reminded him softly.

"I was eighteen," he agreed, understanding as well as she the effects of biology on a young man. "I was young, I was stupid... but she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen," he said, his voice dropping, growing soft, rich... passionate.

Beautiful? Deanna repeated silently, confused. Andile was many things, but physically, she was not attractive. But then again, beauty is not always in one's physical appearance, she reminded herself. Perhaps the captain had seen past that lack of physical beauty, Deanna thought; perhaps he had seen the beauty the woman possessed in her mind, her ideas, her abilities...

Except, she reminded herself - as he had reminded her - he was eighteen - and eighteen year old boys were not noted for their maturity, for their ability to seek out the inner aspects of a person - and, she added, sensing the suppressed memory of his reaction to seeing her, his response to her had been purely physical.

Intensely physical, she added with a growing sense of discomfort.

She shook her head, chasing off the unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation of desire emanating from the man.

Unaware, however, of the Counselor's digression, Picard continued. "Beautiful, brilliant, charming... intense," he concluded - then looked at Deanna almost defiantly, refusing to blush at his youthful indiscretion. "And I was eighteen, and far from home for the first time," he added wistfully.

"And under the tutelage of Ambassador Tillerman," Deanna suggested, suspecting the man's involvement.

Picard shook his head. "Not in this instance - though you can credit Jay with actually introducing us - such as it was."

Deanna gave Picard a curious look, silently urging him to continue.

Picard shook his head, about to turn down the obvious invitation to talk - then stopped, thought for a moment - and rose to his feet.

He returned a moment later, two tea glasses in his hands. Setting one before her, he settled in again, far more easily this time; crossing one leg over the other, he turned to her, took a sip of the tea, and began to speak.

"I saw the lieutenant for the first time during my freshman year, at the annual marathon," he said. "She was manning one of the water stations on the last leg of the run. I had just made my move - pulling away from the rest of the runners - when I came around the turn in the route where her table was. And that was when I saw her," he said the memory of her face almost as intense now as it had been then.

"I almost stopped dead in my tracks," he continued. "I had never seen anyone as beautiful as she was. Or as practical," he added, smiling ruefully. "She stared back at me - then yelled, 'Go on, you idiot - run!' at me."

"Idiot?" Deanna echoed, taken aback by the insult directed at her captain.

But the offense seemed to have passed by the man, unnoticed - or perhaps forgotten in the intervening years. He smiled. "Well, what would you call someone who just stopped dead in the middle of a race?" he asked her.

Deanna tried to think of a diplomatic response, but Picard continued before she could say anything.

"Even so, it took me a second to realize what she meant - but then it sank in, and I started running... without thinking. I had just passed the last water table - and I hadn't taken any water!" he said.

Deanna's eyes widened. "What did you do?" she said.

"I wasn't about to go back," he admitted. "The other runners were already catching up - and if I was going to stay ahead of them, I was going to have to keep what little distance apart that I had! So I figured I could gut it out... which was a very stupid thing to think on a very long, very hot, and very dry run," he admitted. "But..."

"But you were eighteen," Deanna said with a smile.

"But I was eighteen," he agreed. "Fortunately, a cooler and wiser head prevailed. I hadn't gone a hundred yards from the table when I heard someone catching up to me. For a moment, I thought it was one of the other runners - until I turned and looked."

"Lt. Andile?" Deanna guessed.

Picard nodded. "She had realized what I had done - and was running to catch up, two bottles of water in hand. If I wasn't in love with her the first moment I saw her, I was then - and doubly so when I saw her at the finish line." He sighed, drew a deep breath, then looked at Deanna. "I didn't have a lot of friends my first year, Counselor - and there were fewer yet who thought I could win. Most of the people at the finish line were waiting for their friends, cheering them on, calling to them... I think that was the hardest part of the race, running toward all these people who did not want me to win!

"And, for a moment, I thought about not winning," he admitted. "After all, if I won, I'd be the first freshman to do so - and there were a lot of upperclassmen, only a few meters behind me, who had run that race every year, planning on making it their own in their final year. After all, the race was always won by an upperclassman - and who was I to break that tradition?" he asked her solemnly - but lost in the memory of that day years past, continued without waiting for an answer.

"And for a moment, I was about to fall back, to let one of the others pass me - and I heard her voice, calling to me - to me, and to me alone!"

"Encouraging you?" Deanna asked.

Suddenly Picard blazed red. "Umm... In a way," he admitted, then admitted, "Actually, what she said was, 'The hell with tradition. Win the damned thing!'"

Deanna grinned. "That sounds more like the Lt. Andile I know," she agreed with a chuckle.

"But it was what I needed right then - a kick where it mattered, when it mattered. And suddenly, I knew that I was going to win... and so did everyone else. And then, and only then, did they begin to cheer for me."

He smiled at Deanna. "I admit I enjoyed that attention - winning the race, being carried on the shoulders of the others toward the prize area - but it was that moment of faith, of confidence, that has stayed in my mind throughout the years."

He drew a long sip of tea from the glass, then set it down. "It was about two weeks later that Jay Tillerman arranged for me to sit in on one of her classes - and I realized that the woman of my dreams was, in actuality, one of the Academy's most distinguished professors," he said with a blush. "Now _that_ was terrifying - the very idea that I, Jean-Luc Picard, freshman - would be sitting in on one of the esteemed Professor Andile's seminars - only to walk in to the class, and realize that the dread Professor Andile was the very woman to whom I was about to propose!"

"Propose?" Deanna gawked, astounded at the confession. "Propose what?"

Picard smiled at her reaction. "Marriage, eternal love - anything! - and everything she wanted, Counselor," he confessed. "Remember, I was..."

"Eighteen," Deanna concluded for them both, grinning.

"But eighteen doesn't understand age," he reminded her. "When I realized who she was, I was even more determined to meet her - and to win her. I thought if I enrolled in her classes..." His voice trailed off as he let the idea fade; in retrospect, it was mortifying - but at the time, he had been able to rationalize it - right up until the time she had turned him down for her class.

Deanna nodded sympathetically. "And you think she realized how you felt? That you were enrolling in her class just because of your personal feelings toward her?"

"Actually, after sitting through that day's lecture, I decided to enroll in her class not just because she was the most vibrant woman I'd ever met, but because that vibrancy resounded through her class as well as through her person. It was, unquestionably, the most interesting course I had been offered since I entered the Academy." He looked at Deanna questioningly. "You heard her the other day, Counselor," he reminded her. "Listening to her then brought back every thrill I ever felt about engineering. In fact," he admitted with a tinge of a blush, "there was a part of me that was tempted to move back to engineering - even now. So how could I, an eighteen year old, as naïve and untested as they come, have resisted?"

He studied the skeptical looking Betazoid and smiled. "I would have been a very good engineer," he added ruefully.

"But you _are_ an excellent captain," she countered gently.

But the smile that had graced Picard's face for the last few minutes faded. "Not unless I can come to terms with these feelings, Counselor. I cannot let my personal feelings affect my judgment about this ship, this mission - and most of all about this crew.

"About all of them," he added vehemently.

Deanna set down her cup, then reached for Picard's hand. "Sir, perhaps what just happened on the bridge isn't because you resent Lt. Andile - but rather because you don't yet think of her as part of your crew. After all, she is only going to be with us a very short time; when this mission is over, she'll be reassigned to Utopia Planitia again. Knowing that, perhaps, at some level, you don't want to risk another hurt, professionally or personally - and so you've kept yourself from coming to know her as though she were just another member of your crew. Maybe if you were to get to know her..."

"I've tried," Picard protested, remembering the abortive disaster in Ten Forward.

"Then may I suggest trying again?" Deanna tried gently. "Remember, Lt. Andile is in much the same position you are; she knows she'll be leaving soon, as well - and I don't think she's any happier about risking making new friends that she knows she's going to lose in a few weeks." Deanna thought for a few minutes, then added, "In some ways, this is as hard on her as it is on you; harder - because you've been with most of the same crew for the last fifteen years. In that same time, Andile's been on half a dozen bases and ships; she hasn't been stationed anywhere long enough to make any friends in a long time. That's not easy, sir - and it's a very lonely way of life." Something which you can readily understand, she added silently.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Counselor, I'm not good at interacting with the crew at such a... _personal_ level," he protested. "I don't make friends easily."

"Neither does she," Deanna countered. "Which means it's high time you both started practicing." The gods know you could both use a few, she added to herself.

Picard sighed, hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll... try," he conceded, then added at the woman's disapproving look. "That's the best I can do, Counselor; this is still a critical mission - and I still have the safety of the ship to worry about. But...

"I will try."


	58. Chapter 58

**Chapter 58**

"What happened? Lt. Andile, what's happening?" Martha Paklix's terror-filled voice exploded into Andile's face as the work lights that barely illuminated the accessway suddenly turned off. "What happened to the lights?" she said again, her voice growing strident.

And panicky, Andile realized. The woman's claustrophobia, so carefully held in check for the last six hours, had been beginning to wear on the Security officer - and now, with the sudden loss of lighting in the passage, it was threatening to turn into full-flung hysteria.

It was probably nothing, Andile thought to herself, running over the dozens of reasons the low-level lighting might have failed, few of them serious - but the fact that she knew - and understood - the possible reasons for the sudden blackness was not going to help Martha.

And neither could she, Andile realized.

Caught in one of the narrowest of the accessways, her arms were virtually pinned against her body, trapped near her waist where she had been using them to help feel out any other unseen projections before she painfully found them with her head or her back once again. It had saved her from a number of new bruises and cuts - but now, trapped and unusable, she was going to be unable to protect herself if Martha lost control and flailed out - or worse, grew physically violent - as her terror overrode her emotions.

Realizing her predicament - and understanding she could not move fast enough to avoid the woman should she grow physically dangerous, Andile called out to her.

"Martha! Listen to me!"

"What happened, Lieutenant?" Lt. Paklix called back, her voice growing sharp.

"Martha, it's just the lights. They go out sometimes - power line fails or there's a burst of EM radiation. Nothing serious, Martha - nothing's going to happen to us," she said confidently.

"But what if they don't know the lights have gone out?" she replied, terrorized. "Can they still find us? Help!" she screamed suddenly, pounding on the conduit walls. "Help! We're stuck in here!"

"Martha!" Andile shouted back, her own voice adding to the reverberating echoes filling the passage. "Martha, they can't hear you. Try your communicator!" she said.

For a moment, there was silence as the thought registered in the young Security officer's mind - then Andile heard the almost desperate slap of the woman's hand against her comm badge...

... but didn't hear the reassuring chirp of the communicator being activated.

"There's no one there, Lieutenant," Martha said, her voice shaking. "Maybe... Maybe they're all dead! Maybe..."

"Martha," Andile interrupted calmly, "they're not dead. If something happened to the ship, we would have heard the alert sirens and gotten called back to duty. No, if the communicators are out, then it's likely that one of the comm relays in this section fried - which explains the lights failing," she added.

"You're sure?" Martha replied uncertainly.

"No - but I could give you the odds that that is what happened," Andile replied honestly. "I can also give you the other seven reasons we could be experiencing these same two problems - but none of them are bad. Inconvenient, yes - but nothing that's going to hurt you or me. Just be glad we've finished this section," she added with a smile that she knew the woman couldn't see - but hoped she could hear. "Otherwise we'd have to come back and finish up this line tomorrow."

Martha thought for a moment, then Andile could hear the sound of her hair brushing the top of the conduit as she nodded. "Yes, ma'am - lieutenant. I'm sorry," she added contritely, a moment later.

"Don't apologize to me, Lieutenant," Andile responded. "No one should apologize for being scared. We're all scared of something," she added.

There was a short laugh from the other woman. "I've heard the stories, Lieutenant - you're not afraid of anything! You've taken on the Admiralty itself - and won!"

"Not the Admiralty in total," Andile quickly denied. "A few admirals at a time, yes - and I haven't always won - and I've never come out of it without getting as good as I gave - but that's not bravery, Martha," she replied. "That's necessity. When you have to do something, you have to do something, and it doesn't matter if you're brave or not - you just buckle down and do it. Like what you're doing here and now," she added gently.

"Except," Martha countered in a tremulous voice, "I'm scared - and you're not."

"No," Andile conceded. "The darkness doesn't bother me. Small places don't bother me. My mother was the engineer on my father's sailing ship, and I grew up following her around the ship, crawling through the smallest of places. But she never got stuck, never got trapped - I never knew I should be afraid of small places - so I wasn't. But..." Andile drew a deep breath. "But there are some things I am afraid of," she admitted.

There was a moment of silence, then Martha's voice came back to her. "Like what?" she asked, terror losing out to curiosity.

Andile hesitated. "I... don't like heights," she admitted quietly.

"Heights? But heights are easy!" Martha protested.

"For you, maybe," Andile replied. "But not for me. I can't even walk on the catwalk in Engineering without holding the handrail," she replied, feeling a growing sense of queasiness in the pit of her stomach. "By the gods, even talking about it..."

"Then let's talk about something else while we're waiting," Martha said promptly.

Andile nodded - to herself, she realized, knowing the Security officer couldn't see her in the darkness. "No," she announced, "let's do something better. Let's talk about something else - while we get out of here," she said.

"But... it's dark!" the woman protested. "How...?"

"Lieutenant," Andile said patiently, "I built this ship. I created every inch of her in my mind, drew every drawing there was, watched over every step as she was being put together. I know where these conduits go - and how to get out of here, even without the lights. So here's what we're going to do: I'm going to work my way out of here, and you're going to follow my voice - and in a few minutes, we'll be at the last access hatch - and you can go file your report with Cmdr. Worf," she added.

"Yes, ma'am," Martha agreed, her terror fading - for the moment.

But for how long it would be gone, Andile couldn't say - any more than she could say with any degree of certainty how long it would take for the two of them to free themselves from the serpentine prison.

Not that she had lied to Lt. Paklix; no, she did know every inch of the ship. But knowing it, and finding your way through it - especially backwards and in the dark, were two completely different things. But Martha didn't need to know that this was going to take time, she reminded herself.

"You know, this reminds me of my home world," she said as she felt the area around her hips, seeking out with her hands the protrusions of junction boxes and power relays.

"Your home world? I thought you were from Earth," Martha replied, her words punctuated by short puffs of air as she squirmed her way behind Andile.

"I've been on Earth for the better part of the last eighty years - in Starfleet - but I'm actually from a little planet called Parash. Don't worry," she added hurriedly, sparing the younger woman the embarrassment of trying to feign recognition of the planet's name, "you've never heard of it. No one has," she added quietly.

"And no, it wasn't dark, or filled with cramped space like this... Actually, it was completely the opposite of this place. It was very beautiful," Andile continued, her voice growing louder. She stretched her feet out, pointing her toes, seeking out a new purchase that she could use to leverage herself back a few more inches. "Beautiful deep blue skies, oceans so clear you could lose yourself just looking in them," she said. "And the skies at sunset..." She sighed fondly, remembering. "On those evenings when the clouds were big and full, as the sun began to set, the light would reflect off them and turn them into puffs of red and orange and copper... and our ships into gold," she sighed.

"Your...ships?" Martha puffed as she followed the engineer through the conduit - and through the skies of Parash.

Andile smiled to herself, easing herself back a few more inches. "Our ships. We had sailing ships - like you Earthers do - for the water, but our oceans were so large - and the storms we had were so violent - that if we wanted to travel to the other continents, we had to travel by air."

"Airplanes," Martha replied, knowingly. "I've seen pictures in history webs about them."

"No, not airplanes - we never invented motors like that," Andile responded. "No, our ships were more like sailing ships - except they traveled the skies instead of the seas." She smiled to herself, imagining she could see the confusion on the woman's face, and began to explain. "There's a tree on Parash that, when it dies, has a hollow interior. The wood itself is... was... very, very light, but also very dense, almost impermeable to everything. Seal the ends of the hollowed logs, and it would float. Of course we used it to build our sailing ships for centuries, because the worms and the animals of the sea couldn't harm the wood - a ship could last as long as its owner lived - and often far longer.

"But having a wood that could float so well meant we never really learned about displacement - we never designed our sea-faring ships to be much more than elaborate rafts - and rafts, even elaborate ones, were not designed to survive the storms our ships ran into at sea - not even rafts made of grashap wood."

"Why didn't you just redesign the ships?' Martha asked, curious.

Andile laughed - but, Martha thought, there was a bitterness and a sorrow underlying the sound.

"Redesigning the ships would have occurred to an Earther, perhaps - but Parashians were creatures of tradition and habit. This was how ships were designed - and that could not be changed," she informed the young woman.

Martha snorted. "That's ridiculous!"

Andile sighed. "Yes, to you - but remember, you were raised in a culture that understands and appreciates - even welcomes! - change. We did not. The gods made things as they were, and we were not to change them," she replied.

"But... you modified the rafts," Martha pointed out. "You had to have been willing to change things, at least at some point."

"Yes... once. Long before I was born. In the first Ascension," she added.

"The first Ascension?" she repeated, puzzled.

Andile nodded. "The time that our first gods, the ones who brought us to Parash, ruled. During that time, they came to visit us, to guide us and direct us, to bless us with more children, to encourage us to grow. During that time, we did accept and welcome change."

"The gods?" the Security officer repeated, more than a little dubious - and a lot surprised. In the last six hours, she had heard Andile curse more than a few times, liberally sprinkling phrases like 'by the gods' and 'gods' curse' between other profanities - but this was the first time she had ever heard Andile - or anyone - speak about gods as if they really existed.

Martha shook her head, unable to accept how someone as intelligent - as scientific! - as Lt. Andile could accept such an outdated and outlandish a belief.

Hearing the derision in the woman's question, Andile grinned to herself sheepishly, more than a little embarrassed to be caught espousing her culture's religious beliefs. As if the First Ascension had ever occurred, she laughed to herself.

"People - especially primitive people - believe what they believe, Lieutenant - and this was a long time ago," she added. "But I have to believe that maybe we were visited by a more sophisticated culture at various points in our development - perhaps there was another culture that had grown and flourished on another part of our world," she said.

That made more sense, Martha agreed. "What happened to them?"

Andile shook her head. "I don't know - no one knows. But at some time in our history, they - whoever they were - stopped coming to our villages. The elders took it as a sign of disapproval, that somehow we had transgressed the gods' directives. The elders forbade us to make any more changes to anything - that whatever we had done to offend the gods could only be exacerbated by continuing to change. We could not alter anything, lest the gods' fury increase."

"But... You built sky ships," Martha pointed out.

Andile laughed openly, now truly embarrassed. "Because the elders decided that if the gods would no longer come to us, we must go to the gods. We built the sky ships - and those we could modify and adapt and change as best we could, so that someday, we would reach the gods - so we could beg their forgiveness," she explained. "We reached the skies because the elders - now our priests - wanted to appease the gods."

"But you said you used the ships for trade!" Martha reminded her. "What happened? Did the priests give up on the gods - or did they realize that money was a god in itself?" she asked caustically.

"Our priests - our religion - our people had their failings, Lieutenant," Andile replied, suddenly sober, "but they never lost their faith. By the gods, it grew as the years passed - in fact, that was why we developed a space program, so that we could reach to the next star, searching for our errant gods."

The solemnity in Andile's voice was stunning, instantly reminding Martha that religion, even in these most modern of times, was something that could and did transcend logic and science - and touch the heart of the believer. Repentant, she began, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant..."

But Andile shook her head, shaking off the apology. "Don't, Lieutenant; I believed - I still believe. Not in the gods themselves, perhaps, though I still pray to them. Or at least to some of them," she added. "But I don't require anyone else to believe. How could I? It seems so ridiculous: by the time I left my world, there were over seven hundred gods in the Second Ascension, and thousands in the first - gods for every aspect of our lives, gods that were cruel and vindictive and used to justify every abomination the priests decreed... How can you believe in that? But..." She shook her head. "But I spent too many years being indoctrinated, living my faith, doing what it required of me not to still carry it with me. And it did bring me to space," she added with a soft laugh.

But a laugh without joy, Martha realized.

Andile continued. "But you are right: our sky ships were used for trade - after we learned how to seal the _grashap_ wood and pump it full of helium or hydrogen so it would float, and how to build air ships from those logs. In time, the priests allowed us to use them to bring goods from one port to another, for profit - but all ships had to also carry goods or knowledge from one temple to another, so that the priests could communicate with one another and develop better ships."

And crueler laws, she added, repressing a shiver at the thought.

"Later, we learned how to steer them; we developed not engines, as your world did, but rudimentary rockets that could be used to steer and direct the ships in all but the heaviest of storms.

"Of course, they were bulky and extremely complex and difficult to maintain; they required the presence of a full-time engineer ..."

"Your mother," Martha replied.

Andile nodded, though the Security officer couldn't see her. "My mother. I was born on my parents' ship - and she told me once that she was carrying me through the fans and stabilizers just a few days after I was born. I guess you could say engineering's in my blood."

"And ships," Martha added. "Did you really design this ship?" she asked incredulously.

"Actually, this if the forty-third ship I designed - or helped design - for Starfleet," Andile confessed with as much pride as she would permit herself. "I designed others before that - before I came to Earth. But that was a long time ago," she added quietly - quietly enough that Martha realized it was not a topic Andile wished to broach.

For a few minutes the two women moved in silence, maneuvering themselves inch by inch through the narrow conduit - then Andile swore sharply.

"What's wrong?" the Security officer asked immediately.

"Damned junction box," she muttered. "I bumped my head."

"Are you all right?" Paklix gasped, terror rising in her voice.

Andile glanced up at the woman, taken aback by the fear in the woman's words. It took a moment for the reason to register - then a feeling of worry - and sympathy - washed over her as well.

Gods, no wonder she's terrified! she thought, suddenly seeing the situation from the woman's point of view. If I knock myself out, who's going to get her out of here? she asked herself.

Hell, for that matter, who's going to get me out of here? she added with a smile, imagining the hours of work it would take to cut through the Jeffries tube to find her - and the slow excavation process it would take to remove her body.

Andile smiled. With my luck, they'd find me in time, get me healed - and then I'd get stuck putting the whole mess back together again, she chuckled - out loud.

"Lieutenant?" Paklix called out, the worry rising in her voice at the unexpected sound.

"I'm all right, Lieutenant," Andile replied. "Just... stupid. Next time I design a ship, I'm making all the junction boxes flush with the surface - or at least rounded," she added. "I guess I never really anticipated having to crawl through here when I dreamt up the access tunnels. Next time, I'll know better. Live and learn, Martha; live and learn," she murmured, more to herself than to her companion.

There was an emptiness in the woman's voice that stung Martha Paklix's heart; for a moment, she wanted to reach out an console the woman ahead of her - only to hear Andile draw a deep breath, then to hear the familiar sounds of the engineer working her way backwards through the narrow passage once again.

Reaching ahead for her next handhold, Martha began to pull herself along the same trail.

"So that's how you became an engineer?" she said after a moment, trying to make her tone as light as Andile's had been moments before. "Following in your mother's footsteps?"

Andile hesitated, then softly replied, "No. Yes, I wanted to be an engineer, just like she was - from the first moment I can remember - but... on Parash, you have to have a mentor, someone who will train you and teach you a skill," she said. "But no one would train me."

"But what about your mother?" Martha protested. "Why wouldn't she train you?"

For a moment, there was a strained silence in the narrow accessway - then Andile managed a hoarse whisper. "My mother... both of my parents died when I was eight," she replied. "I had no other family - no aunts or uncles - and none of the other crewmen would take me in. Orphans on Parash were considered unlucky - no one, not even a relative would accept them into a family, lest they bring their bad luck with them. So, like all orphans on Parash, I was given to the priests, and raised by them. And they would not permit me to learn to be an engineer," she whispered. "I was trained in... their ways," she finished weakly.

"I'm sorry," Martha began - only to be cut short by the sound of Andile's renewed attempts to guide them out of the passage.

"Don't be," she said, all trace of the pain that had filled her voice a moment before gone, replaced by a resolute determination. "It was a long time ago - and now I am an engineer. So I guess sometimes you just have to wait longer - and work harder - to get the things you want in life.

"But all the bad things aside, Parash was a beautiful world. At night..."

Andile began to spin a tale, drawing the Security officer's thoughts - and her own - away from the tragedy of years long past and to a time when things had been better - and far more lovely - back far enough that Martha would forget where she was - and the predicament that was currently surrounding both the women.

A predicament that ended far earlier than Andile had anticipated. Even as she drew the story to its climax, her foot reached the depression of one of the escape hatches.

For a moment, she considered cutting the story short so she could free herself and her guardian from the tiny passage - but Martha was enjoying the tale, she realized - then realized she was enjoying telling it. It had, she reminded herself, been a long time since she was on Parash.

But Martha was also trusting her to get them out as quickly as possible, she thought; hurrying as quickly as decency - and her own love of a good tale - would permit, she brought the yarn to an end, then pulled herself backward over the recess. Quickly undogging the latches, she removed the hatch cover, then lowered herself out and onto the ground before reaching up to help Martha Paklix do the same.

Smiling as the younger woman blinked at the harshness of the Jeffries tube lights, Andile gathered up the equipment the two had been carrying, carefully checking it as she stowed it back in its carrier, then looked at Martha once again - and was surprised to see her staring at her, horrified.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" she asked worriedly.

Andile nodded, confused by the woman's concern. "Fine. Why do you ask?"

"Your head - you're bleeding, Lieutenant!" she said.

Andile reached up, touched the back of her head and felt the sticky ooze - then smiled at the worried Security officer.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," she replied. "I guess I just must have hit that last junction box a little harder than I thought," she said, trying to dismiss the woman's concern.

Unsuccessfully, she realized a moment later as Martha spoke again. "That's a lot of blood, Lieutenant. Maybe you should go to Sickbay..."

"I'm fine!" Andile snapped - then immediately relented. Smiling at Martha, she shook her head. "Really," she insisted. "Head wounds can bleed quite a lot, you know - but that doesn't mean their particularly nasty. Just messy. What about you?"

"Me?" Martha replied, surprised by the question.

"Yes, you. Are you all right?" Andile repeated.

Martha stared at her for a moment, seemingly confused - then the light of comprehension dawned in her eyes - along with the light of embarrassment. She nodded, made a quick check of her padd, then gave the engineer a curt and formal nod. "I'm fine, Lieutenant," she said firmly. "Thank you for your cooperation in this matter."

Andile was taken aback by the woman's quick return to her pre-terror state - then sighed to herself. The dread accessway was gone now; they were free, back in the relative spaciousness of the Jeffries tube - and the cause of the woman's terror nothing more than a humiliating memory. She was, once more, Martha Paklix, Security officer and situational analysis expert.

Andile gave the woman a quick, professional nod, as though she had expected no other response. "Good. Then tomorrow? Same time?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. Oh eight hundred hours," she said firmly. "Corridor, seventeen B."

"Seventeen B," Andile agreed, then turned away - only to hear Martha's voice call to her.

"Lieutenant?"

Andile turned, suspecting that Martha, once again the professional, had forgotten some minor detail of her report - only to find herself confronting a tiny - but hopeful - smile.

"Tomorrow... Can you tell me more about those ships of yours?" she said. "I always wanted to fly..."

Andile smiled. "I would be happy to, Lieutenant," she agreed. "Oh-eight hundred hours," she added, then gestured at the padd in Martha's hand. "Now hurry that up to Mr. Worf; I don't want him to think you were late because I was busy corrupting you."

"No, ma'am... Lieutenant," Martha agreed, then spun on her heel, hurrying down the Jeffries tube toward the nearest exit hatch.

Well, Andile thought to herself, she may be over her terrors of the accessway - but she still doesn't like small spaces, she thought as she watched the Security officer hurry away to the freedom of the ship's more spacious corridors.

A place, Andile added, where she should be - and using them to get these results into the computer - and begin the analysis.

As though I need one, she added, as she hurried toward a hatch. There wasn't an anomaly to be found on the entire path they had searched today; an analysis is just going to confirm that whatever's going on, it isn't going on here.

But if it's not here, then where is it? And more to the point, what's causing it? she asked herself as she opened the exit hatch. There was no power variation when we left dock - but there is one now! Why? What - or who - caused it? And why?

Damn! she swore to herself as she closed the hatch behind her, starting down the nearly deserted corridor. Why can't I figure out this anomaly? Why can't I make any sense of this all? It has to make sense! she insisted, as she followed the curving wall of the corridor.

Lost in her own thoughts, Andile traveled around the next curve of the hall - and suddenly found herself face to face with an elderly Cardassian woman.

For a moment, Andile gawked at the woman, the padd in her hand slipping free, sliding to the ground.

"My pardon," Zumell said, slowly lowering herself to the ground to retrieve the errant padd. "I did not mean to startlement you," she said as she picked up the small device and proffered it to the tiny engineer.

"No!" Andile gasped, then hurriedly grabbed the padd away from the Cardassian, jerking it roughly from the old woman's grasp.

"It is not injured, your device, is it?" Zumell said, fumbling her way through the unfamiliar language.

Andile stared at the woman for a moment longer, then followed her gaze to the padd, and back to the woman's eyes once again.

Gentle eyes, Andile thought - but Cardassian! she hissed silently, angrily - fearfully.

"Is it broke?" Zumell tried again.

Andile stared at the woman a moment longer, then shook her head. "No, ma'am. It's undamaged."

Zumell smiled. "I am glad. I did not meant to surprise you - but I have not seen any people in this... this..."

She fumbled for the word, then shook her head, smiling at Andile beseechingly. "I know not the words; your language is still new to me. My apologies."

"Corridor," Andile replied. "Ou-tawk," she added, translating the word back to Cardassian for the other woman.

Zumell's eyes went wide at the sudden change from Standard to Cardassian - and at the flawless intonation in Andile's voice.

"_Za ha'mell oovek ta_!" she gasped. "You speak my language! How?" she pressed, her words, once again in her native tongue, racing from her lips.

Andile's mouth opened as she tried to form the words to explain, then suddenly shook her head. "I... learned many languages, ma'am," she replied in Cardassian.

Zumell's jaw dropped, astonished. "Many? How many?" she pressed eagerly, stepping closer to Andile.

But the engineer backed away, her already white face blanching to a ghostly pale. "More than forty, ma'am," she whispered.

"And you learned them?" Zumell pressed, drawing close once again. "You learned all these languages? Why?"

"No reason, ma'am," she managed. "I just thought it would be better to speak to people in their own tongues. Easier for them to understand me - and better for me to understand them," she said.

"How marvelous!" Zumell laughed softly. "And how wonderful! To be able to learn forty languages - while I can but barely learn one! Oh, how wonderful, my child! Perhaps I can ask your captain to have you assist me in my learning - since you have learned so many, perhaps you can also teach!" she laughed joyously - only to be stunned into silence by Andile's shout.

"No!" she cried, terror heavy in her voice.

Startled, Zumell's smile faded, quickly replaced by an expression of confusion. "I am sorry, child; have I said something..." she began to apologize.

"No, ma'am," Andile interrupted anxiously. "I just... I just meant I have other duties. I... My superior is expecting this report," she added, holding up the padd once more.

Zumell stared at her, then gave a weak, and unconvinced smile. "Of course," she said. "You must have many responsibilities. I had just hoped that, having met another soul who spoke my language, we might be able to talk."

"No, ma'am," Andile said. "My duties..."

"Of course," Zumell assured her. "This is a starship, and of duties, you have many - including them not is wasting time with an old woman. But perhaps... perhaps, you could helping an ambassador to find her way back?" she asked hopefully. "To my guard, I had thought could take me on a little tour - but when went I into the hall, gone he was," she said, a little puzzled.

The grammar aside, Andile understood what the woman was saying - and what she meant. She must have been told that the guard was there to protect her - and then, when she looks for him, he was gone. Probably to answer the call of nature, Andile thought; after all, what was a few seconds when all you were watching was a little old lady? she asked the missing guard silently.

"I thinked I would only go a step or two down the hall - but when trying I was to return, I foundered I could not find my way back. And now..."

And now, Andile concluded for her, you're half a deck away, completely and utterly lost.

For a moment, she felt a surge of pity for the woman - but only for a moment.

"Let me show you how to use the ship's computer system..." Andile started - then realized her grammar might be nearly as incomprehensible to the Cardassian as the Cardassian's was to her. Without thinking, she slipped into the old woman's language, then reaching to the corridor wall. "Just tell it where you want to go," she explained in flawless Cardassian, "and the lights will guide you. And the computer understands Cardassian as well as Standard," she added.

Zumell sighed thankfully, relieved at the news - but as Andile was about to give the instructions to the computer, she saw a guard hurriedly moving toward her. Sliding the padd into the equipment bag, she gestured at the blue-skinned Bolian. "There's your escort, ma'am," she said. "He can guide you back to your quarters."

Zumell followed Andile's gesture, then nodded. "So he is. But perhaps you could walk with as well, child," she suggested, turning to look back at where Andile had been standing. "Child?" she said to the now empty space. "Child?" she repeated, then turned back to the approaching Bolian. "Where went she go? Oh, well, you are here now," she sighed. "Would you pleasingly take me back to my room? This ship of yours is a marvelous - but I am afraid it is still too muchly for an old school teacher."

She reached up for the taller man's arm, clutching it thankfully, and allowed him to direct her back to her room - but her thoughts were on Andile.

She hadn't wanted to run away from the Cardassian and the approaching guard; she hadn't wanted to do anything that would draw any more attention to herself than she had to.

She had to fit in, to blend with the others, to do nothing that pointed her out as being something out of the ordinary, something different, something... alien.

She hadn't wanted them to see her, to find her here, to find her again, to find her and take her... back there.

A vision filled her mind's eye - a vision that she quickly tried to shake off, to chase away - but the image that filled her thoughts was inescapable.

As inescapable as _they_ had been.

Andile glanced backward as she hurried back down the corridor; there was no one there - at least no one she could see - but they were there, she knew. Trailing her, tracking her, following her.

She increased her pace, reaching the inlet to the Jeffries tube - but they would find that as easily as she had, and then they'd be upon her...

Unless I can get to the access tube! she thought frantically. If I can get in there...

She dove down the Jeffries tube, crawling along the rough grating that lined the floor as quickly as she could, ignoring the metal teeth reaching up, tearing the fabric of her uniform, chewing off the skin of her knees, never feeling the blood smear beneath her, making the metal tread slipperier and slipperier with every motion - and all the while the hatch to the access tube growing further and further away with each passing second.

Hurry! she screamed at herself, her heart pounding so loudly that it almost obscured the sound of the heavy footsteps that echoed down the corridor.

She looked back, but still she could not see them - but the sound of the footsteps was unmistakable, unavoidable, inevitable... As inevitable as they were -

Unless she could hide.

Andile redoubled her efforts at reaching the hatch, scurrying along the rough floor, oblivious to the metal grating tearing through to the bones of her knees as she scrabbled madly toward the distant hatch...

Then suddenly she was upon it. Flailing madly at the latches, she undogged them as quickly as she could, spinning them furiously to loosen the bolts that held the panel in place - but there were so many of them! she screamed silently.

So many latches - and so many Cardassians! So close! She looked over her shoulder, then flailed again at the latch, desperate to loosen the panel before they found her - found her and took her away again...

Not again! she screamed silently. Oh, by the gods, not again!

But it was too late; they were here and they had found her - and there was nothing she could do to escape them. Nothing!

She fell back against the accessway hatch, cowering, her hands raised to protect her face - then began to scream as the first blows began to fall.


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter 59**

Picard reviewed the padd in his hand as he stood before Worf and Geordi on the ship's main bridge, then nodded approvingly at Worf. "Lieutenant..." He glanced back at the bottom of the padd, searching for the Security officer's name. "Lt. Paklix's report seems quite thorough, Commander," he began again.

Quite thorough, he noted for himself - and yet concise, he added; she addressed the main points necessary for the report with no superfluous remarks or asides. Clear, concise, detailed - clearly a work from one of Worf's protégés.

Or one of Lt. Andile's, he added, keeping the thought to himself; Worf would not find the similarity nearly as amusing as he did.

Suppressing the grin that threatened, he looked at the Klingon soberly. "According to this, Lt. Andile's work was done in complete accordance with the protocols that Cmdr. LaForge instituted - and the training he provided," he said, then looked at Geordi, giving the man an approving nod. "Good work, Commander," he remarked to the Chief Engineer, then looked back at the Security Chief. "Based on this, Mr. Worf, I can see no reason why Lt. Andile and Lt. Paklix cannot continue their inspection of the power conduits in the accessways - providing, of course, that Lt. Andile's report confirms Lt. Paklix's," he added, giving Geordi a questioning glance. "And I will have that report... when?"

The Chief Engineer grimaced. "I'm not sure, Captain. To be honest, I expected Biji... I mean Lt. Andile, to have turned it in by now," he admitted uncomfortably.

Picard gave him a questioning glance. "And why hasn't she?" he pressed.

"I don't know, sir," Geordi admitted. "She didn't report back to Engineering after completing the survey - and I don't know where she is," he added worriedly.

Picard didn't bother to glance at the Klingon standing beside him; he didn't need to see the man to know that the suspicious look had returned to his eyes.

But it was a look he refused to allow himself; he had failed in his duty to her once - and he was not about to permit himself to fail her twice. "Computer," he called out, "locate Lt. Andile."

For moment there was silence, then the feminine voice of the computer replied. "Unable to comply."

Picard started. Unable to comply? he repeated silently, taken aback by the unexpected response. If the woman's communicator were on the ship, then the computer should give the location of her badge; if she weren't aboard, then it should tell them that she left - and when. But unable to comply? That was an answer that defied explanation.

Or did it?

He glanced at Worf, then Geordi. "Another computer glitch?" he asked, his worry surging back - but Geordi shook his head.

"No, sir," he replied. "I tried location searches on half a dozen others - and the computer had no problem finding them. I even ran an internal sensor diagnostic," he added. "No problems there. It's just... the computer can't find Biji," he confessed, thoroughly confused.

"She may have deliberately disabled her communicator..." Worf began.

"Disabled her communicator, Worf?" Riker interjected, joining the trio. "Why?"

"To avoid detection," the Klingon replied gruffly.

"Then why would she be any hour late with her report? Wouldn't that make her disappearance rather obvious?" Will replied, a grin cutting across his face - but a grin that was unable to completely hide the concern in his expression. "But you may be half right; her communicator may be malfunctioning," he reminded the others. "When the commrelay in the access tunnel blew, it could have sent a surge through the communicators; they could have been damaged..."

"Lt. Paklix's was not," Worf countered instantly.

"That doesn't mean anything, Worf," Geordi interrupted. "Comm relays don't carry much power; an EM burst from a relay might only travel a few feet or inches. For all we know, she might have been next to the relay when it went," he surmised. "It could have taken out her communicator - but not have affected Paklix's."

Worf gave him a skeptical look. "To be in the right location at the moment that a relay is damaged - and to have the only communicator affected - transcends the possibilities of coincidence, Commander," he pointed out.

"Coincidence or not," Picard interrupted, "it is still possible. For the time being, let's work on that presumption. Worf, inform your people we're looking for the lieutenant; find out if any of them have seen her in the last two hours," he directed.

Worf nodded, turning to the tactical station to send out the message, as Picard looked at his chief engineer. "Geordi, try retracing her steps; maybe she forgot something in the access tunnel and went back to get it."

"That would explain her 'disappearance'," Will agreed.

"But Biji wouldn't do that," Geordi argued. "Not with the situation the way it is; she wouldn't go back in there unless someone was there to vouchsafe she hadn't done anything. But..." He hesitated as an idea came into his mind.

"But what?" Picard interrupted.

"But..." Geordi paused, then shrugged. "She might not have gone back into the access tunnel - but she could have stayed in the Jeffries tube," he realized. "The comm relay failure would prevent her communicator from working there - and by the same token the ship's locator wouldn't work either," he realized.

"But _in_ the Jeffries tube?" Will asked. "Why we she be there?"

Geordi reddened slightly. "It's... quiet, sir," he explained, chagrined. "She knew she had to write that report - but Biji also knew that if she came back to Engineering to write it, there'd be half a dozen interruptions - questions, problems... It might take her hours - or longer - before it was done."

Picard nodded, understanding the man's point; the lieutenant was too good an engineer not to be a resource to the crewmen in Engineering - and too loyal a crewmate not to want to help them - even at the cost of her own work. But costing the captain a late report would be something else, he added - something that, despite their contretemps of the previous day, she was not about to allow to happen.

He nodded to himself; yes, she might well have slipped back into the Jeffries tube at the end of her work with Lt. Paklix, determined to write her report - and losing track of time in the relative peace and quiet of that confined - but ever-so-private - space.

He smiled - to himself - ruefully, remembering a few lost hours spent in a Jeffries tube, hidden deep in the bowels of his ship - away from prying eyes and unwanted questions - though his time had not been spent writing report - nor had it been alone, he added.

"Go check it out," he said quietly, looking at the engineer. "And if she's not there..." He hesitated, then added quietly, "If she's not there, I want a ship-wide alert." Seeing the worry in Geordi's eyes, Picard quickly added, "Lt. Paklix's report indicated that the lieutenant hit her head on one of the junction boxes," he reminded the engineer. "If that's the case, she may be injured or unconscious."

Relieved by the concern in Picard's words - though he was less certain about the sincerity behind it - Geordi nodded, then hurried to the lift doors.

Picard watched him, then turned his attention to his first officer, raising his eyes, then tilting his head toward the ready room doors.

Curious at the subtle gesture, Will followed him to the side of the bridge. "Sir?" he asked.

"Check with Data, Will; he might know where the lieutenant is," he suggested.

"Data?" Will asked, surprised - and doubly perplexed by the conspiratorial tone in Picard's voice.

"They are... good friends," Picard replied. "He may be aware of some place she may have gone in order to write her report in privacy," he added blandly.

Will raised an eye in acknowledgement, then gave a nod. "Yes, sir," he said before turning away, heading toward the lift door as Picard entered his private office.

As Will walked toward the lift, however, Worf looked up from his console to catch the man's eyes.

"What is it, Worf?" Will said, detouring to the tactical station, alarmed by the expression in the Klingon's face.

Worf glanced at his board, then at the people around him. Lowering his voice, he spoke to the first officer.

For a moment, Will shook his head - then looked back at the Security officer, shaking his head. "I don't think it means anything."

"Perhaps not, sir - but..."

"But we need to check it out," he agreed reluctantly. "All right. Let me talk to Data - then we'll meet. Fifteen minutes; conference room on deck fifteen," he said quietly.

Worf nodded, then turned back to the console as Will left, his face utterly impassive - but his eyes unable to conceal the pride - and vindication - that glowed within them.

Geordi didn't have to think about where the Jeffries tube was located; he'd been serving on this ship for five years, and the need to check directions to any part of it - even a remote section like the one he was aiming for now - had long since passed him by. But even in those early days, he had quickly discovered that he didn't need to consult the maps too often; the ship had been laid out carefully and methodically, with each section, corridor and room arranged in a logical and consistent order.

Logical, that was, if you understood the pattern the corridors followed, he added with a shake of his head. For a few weeks he had cursed the ship's designers, wondering what type of pretzel logic they had used in creating the interconnecting pathways to come up with deck upon deck of room numbers that had no bearing on the number of the room directly above or below it. It wasn't until one of the workers at the Utopia shipyards had shown him the original schematics that it begun to make sense.

In fact, it made more than just sense, he had come to realize; the system was ideal for trying to locate any room in a ship where each deck was a different size than the adjacent ones - and each room varied in size and function as well. Finally understanding the reasoning behind the designer's intentions, he had not only come to appreciate the idea - but to respect the foresight of the then-unknown creator.

Still, even after five years on the ship, even with his almost intuitive level of knowledge of the location of every deck and corridor the Enterprise contained, he almost walked past the panel that concealed the entrance to the Jeffries tube. Of course, that had been part of the designer's plan as well, he reminded himself as he stopped short, doubling back and sliding past the panel into the niche that held the entrance to the small passage. Access to the Jeffries tubes needed to be readily available - but not so available that visitors - and intruders, he admitted - needed to be aware of these second, interior passages that connected the various areas of the ships - and granted access to their innermost workings. The panels did a nice job of concealing the entrances, yet were open enough for almost any person of any species to make their way inside - if they knew where they were.

Subtle and overt and the same time, Geordi thought with a grin; it takes a mind like Biji's to come up with something like that, he thought - then quickly wished he hadn't. Despite his desire to have faith in the woman, it would be too easy to place a crafty mind such as hers in the role of an enemy - and Geordi didn't want to catch himself doing that.

He wanted to believe in her; he wanted to know that she was the honorable and loyal engineer he had come to see her as being.

He wanted it desperately - so why was it so difficult to believe?

Determined not to let any more errant thoughts drift through his mind again, he eased his way into the Jeffries tube and began crawling - uncomfortably.

Intellectually, he understood why the tubes were so small; after all, the purpose of the tubes wasn't to create a second set of corridors, but simply to give the crew better access to the internal functions of the ship - for repairs, upgrades, or emergencies. But if you're going to make people crawl, he grumbled to himself, why not make the floor out of something a little less painful than metal grids? he thought, feeling the ridges bite through the fabric of his uniform, chewing at his knees and punishing his palms.

Because the gridded metal floor panels gave the workers a better grip, he reminded himself - and because the grids could be opened easily, again giving the worker better access to the ship's interior.

And anyone planning on working in a Jeffries tube for long should have had sense enough to put on knee pads and work gloves, he reminded himself.

Yeah, but I wasn't planning on coming in here, he grumbled in reply - then silenced himself, knowing that that was one answer Andile would never have tolerated. Not being prepared, he thought to himself: the cardinal sin of engineering.

He grinned, deciding this would not be the time to voice his opinions concerning the Jeffries tube floor to the woman - when - or if, he added, growing somber once again - he found her.

Damn it! he thought to himself. What the hell was she thinking? She had to know Worf was going to see this as another failure on her part, another piece of evidence that she was the saboteur he was searching for! Why the hell couldn't she just have come back to Engineering and written her report there? I would have made sure no one disturbed her! he grumbled to himself. She didn't have to run off and hide...

...And if she did think she had to find a place to herself, why here? Why in the one place where her actions and movements couldn't be traced? Why in the one place that was most likely to set Worf off again?

Unless...

He chopped the thought short, refusing to allow himself any further doubt about the woman, refusing to entertain even the remotest idea that Andile could be anything other than what she professed to be: a consummate professional, a superb engineer - and nothing more.

Her decision to work here, in the privacy and secrecy of this isolated and unscannable area, he decided grimly, was nothing more than coincidence.

And despite what Andile said, he added sharply, coincidences _do_ happen.

Grimly determined, he crawled forward a few more feet, following the turn in the passage - and let a relieved smile cross his face.

Just as he had expected, there was Andile, sitting before the entrance to the accessway, concentrating, enrapt on the personal databoard in her hands, reading intently, her fingers tapping at the entry board every few moments - and soft curses slipping from between her lips as she did so.

"I thought you liked writing reports," Geordi said quietly.

Seemingly unsurprised by the man's sudden appearance, Andile glanced at him, then shook her head. "I think 'like' is a bit of an overstatement, Geordi; I don't mind writing them - usually - but there are days when I can't make a coherent sentence to save my soul," she grumbled, jabbing frustratedly at the padd again.

"How coherent does a field report have to be?" he replied, easing his way next to her, glancing at the readout. "I did this; the results were that. That's all a field report requires," he reminded her.

"Working on that theory, all a book needs is a beginning middle and an end; the characters said this, did that and they all lived happily ever after - right?" she replied. "Therefore, only one book ever needs to have been written - and yet, I seem to recall that the ship's library has something over one hundred thousand titles in store. No, a report needs more than that - but I can't seem to find out what that something more is today," she added, handing him the padd. "So I guess you'll have to settle for the generic version," she added.

"Not me," Geordi answered, "The captain. He's been waiting for your report, Beej," he reminded her gently - only to be rewarded with a look of pure horror.

"Oh, gods!" she swore softly. "What time...?" she began, then pulled the padd away from the Chief Engineer and touched the chronometer reading - and swore again. "Gods! I'm sorry, Geordi. I'm really sorry! I... I must have lost track of the time! I didn't realize it was so late..."

"Beej!" Geordi interrupted, laying his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry about it; it happens to everyone..."

"Not to me!" she insisted.

Geordi stopped short in his placation, then nodded. "You're right," he agreed soberly. "It doesn't happen to you - which is one reason I was worried. After Paklix reported that you had hit your head..."

"I hit my head?" Andile interrupted, startled by the revelation, then reached up to touch her skull as if to search out the injury - only to bring down her hand a second later, shaking her head as the memory returned to her. "Oh, _that_! No, Geordi, I didn't hit it - I just bumped it on a power junction. Nothing major," she added.

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied, then grew serious. "Nonetheless, Beej, you've got to be more careful."

"Geordi, it was a bump..." she began to protest.

"I didn't mean about your head - though you need to be more careful in that area, too," he interrupted. "I meant..." He hesitated for a moment, then met her eyes directly. "Beej, you have got to be more careful about everything. I understand your coming back in here to write your report - but you have to see how this looks to Worf. This is the one area in the ship that's in a communications and sensor blackout; everything you did in here after Paklix left was unwatched, unguarded - if anything were to happen, and it could be tracked back to this accessway - or this Jeffries tube - while you were here..." He shook his head. "Andile, you've got to see how that could look!"

She looked back at him, her expression growing cold. "Yes, I see exactly how it looks. It looks like you're beginning to have your doubts about me, too," she replied icily.

"Biji..."

"Commander," she said sharply, "if I was going to sabotage the ship, do you honestly think I'd be so stupid as to do so in the one place and time where my work would be the most obvious - and the easiest to double check? If you really think I'm that brainless, Commander," she said bitterly, "why did you make me your assistant? If you'll excuse me," she added, lifting herself up from the floor, then crawled past him.

Geordi opened his mouth to call after her - then closed it, knowing it was pointless. Andile was angry - furious, even - and with cause: he had proclaimed himself her friend, her defender even - and now, when she was most vulnerable, he was turning on her.

I'm not turning on you! he protested silently; I'm still your friend! he insisted - though whether the insistence was for her benefit, or his own, Geordi wasn't sure.

Frustrated, he sat back against the corridor wall, staring at the padd in his hand, glancing at the report - and realizing Andile was right about it. It was thinly written, lacking her usual style and finesse; it was at best a bare bones version of the same events Paklix recorded - but without even some of the basic details the new Security officer had included.

Geordi stared at the report for a few minutes, trying to fathom how the woman could have spent almost two hours on the report - and hadn't included any more detail than these basic notes - then allowed himself a sigh - and allowed her the benefit of the doubt.

Even Andile couldn't turn an epic out of every report, he reminded himself.

Sighing, he rose to leave the corridor - but true to his engineer's heart, he couldn't leave without first checking to make sure the corridor was secure.

No tools left behind, he noted, no debris to injure the next worker to come down here; all latches secured...

He stopped, his hand brushing over the last latch - then down at the report in his hand - and back at the last, unsecured latch.

After a moment, he dropped his hand - and let his worried gaze turn back to the now-empty passage, staring at where the engineer had just been.

Then he slowly made his own way out.


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter 60**

Andile looked at the uniform spread out on the bed - and sighed.

The knees were almost threadbare, the elbows almost as bad, the collar was wearing thin - and this is my good uniform! she thought to herself.

Also my last one, she sighed, looking down at the knees - or rather, where the knees had recently been - of the one she was still wearing.

There was no salvaging this one, she thought to herself glumly. Even if I could get the blood out, the fibers around the torn knees were just too ragged, too frayed, to attempt to rework them with a molecular patch.

And even if I could, do I want to? she asked herself silently. After all, this isn't Utopia Planitia, it's the Enterprise - my ship! - and do I want to walk around on my ship, the flagship of the Federation, in a mended uniform? What would that say about how I thought of my ship? What would that say about me?! she thought to herself.

It would say I care more about my ship than my image, she retorted sharply - then grinned. Then again, it might say that I was sloppy and careless - and you'd have to wonder if that was reflected in my ship as well as my uniform.

Then again, she argued, people shouldn't judge you by your outward appearance, she cautioned the universe silently; I'm a good engineer - and people should judge my work by my work - not by my clothes! After all, no one cared how we dressed at Utopia: half the engineers worked in uniforms more ragged than this! she grumbled - and we saw admirals every day, with no one making a single remark about how we looked, only about how good - or bad - or ships were.

But this isn't Utopia, she reminded herself sternly; this is the Enterprise, the flagship of the 'fleet - and most importantly, your ship! -and try as hard as you will, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet - and replicate some new uniforms!

Andile groaned as the grim truth settled into her thoughts. Replicating uniforms was one task she hated - detested, in fact - usually putting off the job until it was absolutely necessary and completely inescapable - and even then delaying it as long as she dared.

Which was now, she thought unhappily.

Opening the drawer of the bureau beside the bed, she pulled out her carry-all and removed the computer disc that held her uniform pattern - and sighed.

It had been over a year since she had last been forced to make a uniform - and, she reminded herself grimly, I've lost at least five kilos since then. That means altering the bust, the waist, the hips... at least I haven't gotten shorter! she added, finding a small relief in knowing that at least one parameter wouldn't have to be changed.

But everything else... She sighed - then started for the computer desk, only to hesitated for a moment, then turned to the replicator.

"A cup of guerian root tea," she ordered. "Hot," she added, then hesitated. This was going to be a long night, she reminded herself - and it had already been a long day. "Cancel that, computer. Make that a thermal pot of guerian root tea - hot," she amended.

Grabbing the white carafe that appeared a moment later, she carried it with to the computer console, then slid the disc into the terminal and began the long task before her.

"That is not the standard fabric for a Starfleet uniform."

Startled, Andile gave a shriek and jumped from the chair, whirling to face the unexpected speaker.

"Data!" she gasped, instantly relieved, then placed one hand against her chest as if to quiet her racing heart. "By the gods, you startled me! I didn't hear you come in!"

"My apologies," he replied. "It was my intention not to disturb you. I had not thought to find you still working," he explained.

"Replicating uniforms is hardly work..." Andile began - then fell silent as a horrifying though crossed her mind.

Suspicion - and a resurgence of her earlier anger - began to rise in her thoughts. "Data, you were being quiet on purpose, weren't you?" she snapped, her anger suddenly surging up. "You were trying to sneak in here! Why? The captain said I was no longer subject to surveillance - unless something's changed," she added, her eyes narrowing. "Is that it? Is that why you came sneaking in here - because you hoped you could catch me talking with my co-conspirators? Well, let me tell you..." she began, seething with fury - only to be stopped by Data's look of bewilderment. "What?" she asked, her anger fading as her concern began to grow. "What is it, Data?"

"I am confused," he confessed. "What is the purpose of asking questions if you do not give the respondent an opportunity to answer them - or if you answer them yourself? Is this just a form of the human habit of 'talking to one's self' - or is there another purpose to this activity?" he asked, genuinely puzzled - and seemingly untouched by her furious barrage.

Andile reddened, then shook her head, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I just... I'm sorry," she tried again. "I've had a long day - and things just didn't go the way I thought they would - and I'm taking it out on you," she said.

"Because you trust me to be sympathetic with your position?" he asked, curious at this aspect of human interactions.

Andile considered for a moment, then shook her head again. "No, I didn't need you to be sympathetic. I don't need anyone to tell me I'm right - or wrong. I just needed to vent my anger - and you were the first one around," she admitted.

Data cocked his head to the side, considering the information for a moment. "Ah," he finally said, then looked at her again. "Then the conduit check did not proceed as anticipated," he concluded.

"What?" she replied, surprised by his question - then realized what he was thinking. "Actually, no," she admitted, "it went fine. Not that we found anything - but then I didn't think we would. All the conduits in that section are part of the original construction. If there had been a problem there, Geordi would have found it - and fixed it - long ago," she replied.

"Then why check that area?" Data asked, curious.

"Because I wanted to work with Martha - Lt. Paklix - in an area that I felt relatively confident about; where she could get familiar with the equipment and the process - and to deal with her claustrophobia without having to deal with conduits that don't conform to her training," she continued - then looked at him sheepishly. "And because... I could be wrong," she confessed. "It wouldn't be the first time I've missed the obvious - because it was obvious, and I was looking for something obscure. But there was nothing there," she added with a disappointed sigh.

"And that is why you are angry?" Data pressed.

Andile looked back at him, then shook her head once again. "No. I'm angry... at myself. I... I lost track of time, I wrote a lousy report, I snapped at Geordi for trying to help me... in general, I behaved like an ass - and then I get back here and realized that I need new uniforms, which is something I really hate doing, and then you snuck up on me - and so I took it out on you. I'm sorry," she said softly. "I guess I'm just a little tired," she added.

Data nodded. "Which was the reason I made my entrance as surreptitiously as possible. It is now one fifteen - and I had anticipated that you would be asleep."

Andile felt the bottom of her stomach drop as she realized what she had done. "Oh, Data! You were quiet because you were trying to let me sleep - and I accuse you of spying on me," she whispered miserably. "Oh, Data, I'm so sorry!"

"You need not apologize," he replied at once. "The levels of stress that you are currently experiencing in your personal and professional lives are bound to induce a degree of physical and psychological impairment..." he began to explain, only to be stopped by Andile's shaking of her head.

"But I've always had stress in my life, Data," she protested, "and I've never been like this before! Snapping at people, being so suspicious..."

"You have never before been considered a suspect in a possible sabotage," he reminded her. "Such suspicion might well alter your behavioral patterns as well as increase your level of distrust for your fellow crewmates."

"You don't understand," she replied with a shake of her head. "I've been under suspicion before - when you work at one of the big shipyards, you're always under suspicion - and during the war, there wasn't a day when at least a dozen of my crew weren't hauled off for some interrogation or another. We were too close to too much privy information - and one little slip on the part of any of us could have doomed the fleet. But it's never done this to me before!" she admitted miserably. "It's not the pressure, Data, it's... me. I'm falling apart!" she said emptily, then stepped close to him, laying her head against his chest.

For a moment, the android was uncertain how to respond to the disconsolate woman's action - then, accessing his data files on human behavior, awkwardly reached his arms around her frame, tightening them until he calculated there was sufficient pressure to grant her a feeling of reassurance and comfort.

It must have been the correct amount, he decided a moment later as he heard her give a sigh, then relax against him further; in compensation, he tightened his grasp a fraction more - and felt her relax even further.

A dynamic variable, Data thought to himself; as one exerts a given amount of pressure against one's partner, the partner decreases her resistance until...

Until when? he wondered, curious at where this equation of bodies, increasing pressure and decreasing resistance would end.

If I were a human male, he thought, accessing his memory banks, this would be the initiative steps in foreplay - and the logical culmination of the event would be an act of sexual congress.

But I am not human, he reminded himself.

But Andile was, he thought a nano-second later; perhaps she is expecting this chain of events to terminate in that same exercise.

He glanced down at her, uncertain, then adjusted his body's receptors to maximum.

Despite her long sighs, her respiration rate was no higher than normal, as it had been the first time they had made love. Neither was there any evidence of an increased heart rate or blood pressure - indeed, both were lower than normal, he added to himself, furthering his supposition that that she was not sexually aroused. And while there was an elevated degree of both perspiration and muscle tension, there was no hint of the human female pheromone he had detected on their first tryst - and the muscle tension he felt was limited to her neck and shoulders.

She was not trying to seduce him, Data decided instantly - nor was she likely to respond to an attempt at seduction, he decided equally quickly. Rather, she was tired and upset, he concluded - but just as the other night, there was something he could do to assist her.

Sliding one hand from her shoulder to her neck, he began a gentle massage of the knotted muscles there - and was rewarded with a groan of relief - and a further relaxation of her body against his.

"Oh, that's nice, Fred," she whispered.

He nodded slightly, letting her know he had heard her - but not wishing to disturb her peaceful interlude with speech.

Still, there was something he wanted to know - something he needed to know.

I need to know, he repeated, the idea - and the feeling - stunning him.

Andile looked up at him. "Something wrong, Fred?" she asked worriedly.

Data looked down at her, surprised by the question - and equally surprised by the discovery that he had stopped rubbing her neck. Placing his hand back against her neck, he coaxed her head back against his chest, then said, "Nothing is wrong... Ginger."

Andile sighed contentedly, letting her eyes close as the gentle friction returned, and let herself relax against the android once again.

I need to know, he repeated. Not, I wish to know, or I would like to know - but I need to know! he thought, astounded. I have more than an intellectual curiosity regarding this matter - I have an emotional desire to find an answer!

The realization startled the android - and, he realized, delighted him as well. For the first time, the human desire for knowledge began to make sense - the overwhelming passion to seek out new questions - and to search for their answers - became more than the intellectual pursuit of knowledge for the sake of knowledge - but had become something more: something tangible, physical, real - and exquisitely human.

For a moment he was delighted at the realization of the discovery - then realized that he had yet to fulfill that need.

"Ginger?" he said softly.

"Hmmm?"

"You stated I was the first person upon whom you could vent your anger," he said.

"Um-hmmm," she murmured in agreement.

"Then had the captain been the 'first one around', you would have done the same to him?" he asked.

He felt the shake of her head. "Uh-uh," she disagreed. "Not the captain," she murmured.

"What if it had been Cmdr. Riker?"

Another shake of her head.

"Geordi?"

Once more, her head shook and a soft murmur of disagreement followed.

"Worf?"

This time the shake was accompanied by a short chuckle.

"Ginger, between the time you felt your anger, and when I walked into our quarters, did you see anyone with whom you could have expressed your displeasure?" he pressed.

Curious, Andile pulled back from the android, and looked up at him. "I saw a lot of people, dear - but..." She shook her head. "...but no one I could talk to," she concluded.

"Then... May I conclude that you felt you could voice your anger with me... because you trusted me?" he asked.

Andile studied the android for a long time, weighing out the information as he had done - then looked at him with surprise - then slowly nodded. "Yes," she said softly, almost disbelievingly. "I... trust you. I don't know how or when - or why - but... yes. I trust you," she said, seemingly as taken aback by the revelation as he had been by the discovery.

"In that case," Data said, as he stepped away from her, "would you please take off your clothes?"

Andile's eyes widened. "Pardon?"

"Take off your clothes," he repeated, then quickly added, "please."

She hesitated, then reached for her collar. "Damn, you work fast! I mean I know I said I didn't want eight hours of foreplay - but a little would be nice," she advised him as she unfastened her uniform and slithered out of its almost skin-tight grasp.

Stepping close to her, Data took the uniform from her hand - then stepped back and appraised her naked body unflinchingly.

Andile tolerated the harsh gaze for a minute, then gave in as a shiver overcame her. "Data, if you're going to make a move, then do it! I'm freezing!" she said.

"A shower would help to warm you," he said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

Andile stared at him, still bewildered by the unusual behavior - then forced a smile on her lips. "I suppose it would," she said. "I presume you're going to help wash my back?" she added.

"That would be unnecessary," he replied, "as the shower jets can be adjusted to perform that function. However, if you require my assistance in programming the shower, I would be pleased to assist you," he added blandly, no hint of an ulterior motive in his voice or expression.

Andile stared at him for a moment, then shook her head, utterly confused - and maybe even a little hurt, she admitted uncertainly. "No, Data, that won't be necessary. I can program the shower by myself."

Data nodded back, then stepped toward the computer desk, her uniform still in his hand.

Befuddled, hurt, Andile watched him for a moment, then turned toward the bathroom and the shower that waited within, glancing back over her shoulder as she did so, mystification filling her eyes as she looked at the android.

But on entering into the bathroom, she turned her attention from the perplexing man to the shower. That, at least, was something she could understand - and appreciate. Stepping into the small space, she activated the force field that would keep the water and steam contained in the cubicle itself, then touched the control pad with the desired temperature and flow patterns of water - and was instantly rewarded with a cascade of hot water pouring onto her.

Oh, gods, she sighed, the exquisite touch of the warm water a delicious change from the sonic showers she had grown - unhappily - used to over the years. That was one privilege of rank that she had regretted not having - the option of having a real shower in her quarters.

When, of course, she reminded herself with a smile, enough water was available for anyone to have a real shower - which wasn't often. The logistics of building a ship in space were tricky enough without making the crew quarters anything more than the absolute basics; a shower of any sort was completely out of the question, let alone a water shower.

Not that they needed them, she added - or rather, they most certainly they _all_ needed them - but working in self-contained e-suits necessary for constructing a ship in space, at least no one else was subjected to the amazing - and often appalling - variety of body odors that accumulated between trips back to Utopia.

Nonetheless, a shower, regardless of type, was inevitably the first activity on every workers' return to their home base.

And being clean, after all, Andile reminded herself, was the point of the shower, no matter how one got that way - but there was something ever so luxurious about a real shower, the water pouring over her body and cascading through her long hair.

My hair, she sighed, wondering how many months - years? - it had been since she'd last properly washed it. Unfastening the clip that held her braid in place, she ran her fingers through them, gently separating the long strands, then let the water wash through them as well, carrying away every trace of grease, dust and debris that had accumulated there in the last few days, washing it, if not more thoroughly than any sonic shower could, at least more satisfyingly - although, she sighed to herself, it was going to be a tangled mess when she finally did get out.

And maybe more tangled after that, she mused.

Or maybe not, she admitted with a sigh, still puzzled at Data's odd behavior.

And speaking of...

"Why don't you come in here, Data?" she called to the android in the next room. "It's very nice - the water decreases friction between two bodies - and you'd be amazed what a little soap can do! Maybe something with a scent?" she suggested. "The most primitive sense humans have is smell. Stimulate that area of the brain, and who knows what will happen!" she teased gently.

Data made no reply, however.

"And a big, fluffy towel - big enough for two!" she continued.

"Or at least, a towel big enough for one!" she added when he didn't respond, remembering there hadn't been any towels in the room when she entered.

"You know, Data," she called out a moment later, "on a scale of one to ten, as a form of foreplay, this sucks!"

" 'This sucks' is not on a scale of one to ten," he replied, the closeness of his voice startling her.

Andile gasped, startled. "Gods, I didn't see you come in!"

"The high temperature of the water in relation to the ambient temperature of the room has created a sufficient amount of steam to obscure normal human vision," he answered evenly.

"Which is why taking a shower together can be fun," she countered. "You can't see, so you have to do everything by touch!"

"Indeed," he said blandly, his thoughts clearly on something other than her.

Taken aback by his sudden aloofness, she pressed her head through the forcefield and stared at him - and was surprised to find him still dressed. "Data, did I say something to offend you?" she asked.

He looked back, clearly surprised by the idea.

"Not at all, Ginger," he answered.

"But..." Andile started, confused. Two days ago, you were telling me it would take eight hours of foreplay just to figure out what I liked - but now, you're not even bothering with the simple things? she wondered.

"I have replicated a garment for you to wear after you are finished bathing," he replied calmly, pointing at a neatly folded pile of golden silk-like material that he had placed next to a neatly folded towel.

"Oh!" Andile said, looking at the garment - then looking back at the android, a smile on her face, beginning to understand as she watched him exit the room, leaving her alone once again.

Or at least, thinking she was beginning to understand.

Or maybe not understanding anything, she thought a few minutes later, as she finished toweling her body dry and lifted up the golden garment.

"Uh, Data?" she called out studying the garment. "Dearest? You said your knowledge about sex - about making love - was programmed into you - right?"

His voice came back from the other room. "That is correct."

"And, uh, who programmed you?"

"My creator, Dr. Noonian Soongh, was responsible for that programming."

"And, uh, where did he get that programming from?" she asked tentatively.

There was a moment's hesitation before the voice responded. "The majority of my programming regarding techniques, styles, actions and positions was derived from classical and modern literature as well as medical textbooks regarding the physiological components and requirements of the various species with whom human males - which I was designed to resemble - can copulate."

"Yes," she agreed, "but I meant... what about personal preferences? You know - did Dr. Soongh share his sexual predilections with you - I mean, did he program you to like the things he liked?"

The hesitation was longer this time. "I am not certain to what you are referring, Ginger," he replied.

Andile grimaced, having danced about the topic as carefully as she could for as long as she could, then blurted out, "Data, did Dr. Soongh have any kinks in his chain?"

There was a long pause this time - and a very confused response. "I am not aware of Dr. Soongh possessing any chains, Andile, with or without kinks - though it is conceivable that some form of chain was utilized in various components of his laboratories, such as the lifts and hoists he utilized to move the components involved in the design and construction of his androids. However, I am unfamiliar with their condition and state of repair during Dr. Soongh's life."

"I meant," Andile replied, rolling her eyes at the android's literalism, "did he like anything, you know, a little weird in the bedroom?"

This time the pause was extended - and his voice was just outside the bathroom door when he answered. "I do not understand, Andile. Weird in what way?"

Andile groaned, then shook her head as she studied herself in the bathroom mirror. "I mean..." She hesitated, then, giving up, opened the door, stepped into the main room and stood before the android, her arms outstretched. "I mean, dear, did he like naughty underwear - or was this little gem your idea?" she finally said.

On another day and at another time, she would have congratulated him on his perfect mimicry of human mannerisms; his eyes widened in sheer astonishment and his jaw dropped in undisguised shock. "Andile..." he finally managed.

"I don't mind, you understand," she quickly added, seeing the expression in the android's face. "I like dressing up - or undressing, if you want to be picky, since there's less fabric in this little nothing than in a pair of socks - but this is a little, well..." Gods, how can I say it without offending him - or crushing what might be some new aspect of his developing sexuality? she worried. "Obvious?" she finally tried, looking down at herself once more.

'Obvious' was the understatement of the century, she added silently; despite the apparent solidity of the collar that trimmed what had appeared to be a normal - actually, she admitted, a rather lovely robe - the collar had been the only part of the garment that was not virtually transparent.

Oh, here and there were small patches of more solid fabric, she admitted - but their location was not intended to hint at what lay beneath or to tease with tiny glimpses, she thought; nothing - absolutely nothing! - was hidden from view; nothing was left to the imagination.

And where was the fun in that? she asked herself. If you're going to wrap a package, you don't wrap it in transparent plastifilm - or what's the fun in unwrapping it?!

Unless, of course, she reminded herself, that was how you were programmed - and despite her encouragement, Data was still limited to what he had been taught.

But this is something I'm going to un-teach him damned fast, she added, shivering as a slight breeze sent a chill through her body.

Data stared at her - and the gown - astonished, then managed, "I... did not program this for you," he finally informed her.

Andile stared back. "Excuse me?" she said. "I saw you put it on the counter!"

"I programmed the replicator to make a robe for you," he quickly amended, "in this shape and color - but not in this fabric," he added, reaching out to touch the gown - and watched it crumble beneath his fingers.

The two people watched a thin stream of golden dust drift to the floor - then raised their eyes to one another. "The fabric's destabilizing," Andile whispered.

"The molecular cohesion is failing..." Data murmured at the same time, then raised his eyes to hers just as she did the same - then, as one, the both raced to the computer console.

Data, reaching it first, slid into the chair, while Andile hovered over his shoulder.

"Do you remember the time when you replicated the robe?" she asked as his hands raced over the keyboard.

"Oh one forty-one and seventeen seconds," he replied instantly, his thoughts racing along the same path as hers. "I will have the computer initiate a search for reports of other replicator anomalies beginning at that time and moving forward," he informed her.

"And back!" she reminded him. "We don't know when the failures began!"

He shook his head, his eyes locked on the console. "On the contrary, Andile, we do; I had just completed replicating your uniforms - and I found no anomalies in their manufacture," he added.

Andile stopped short, her mind wrenched from her worry about the replicators to the man before her. "You... replicated a uniform for me?" she asked, uncertain she had heard him correctly.

"Four uniforms," he countered, gesturing at the bureau near the bed.

Andile stared at him, then shook her head. "Dear, that wasn't necessary..."

"You stated you disliked having to replicate new uniforms, so I undertook the task," he explained.

Andile sighed, then reached across the computer keyboard, taking his hand - and his eyes - away from the display. "Thank you, dear - but... it wasn't necessary. That disk had the information from my last uniform - but I've lost a little weight since then..."

"Ten point three kilos," he said with a frown, disapproving her weight loss, she realized. "I was cognizant that your previous uniforms were no longer fitting you as well as when we first met; that is why I asked you to disrobe," he explained.

"So you could take my measurements?" she asked, surprised.

"My visual sensors and processing systems can make those assessments based on basic observations," he affirmed. "I made the necessary modifications to your original program."

You changed my program? she thought, instantly worried. "Data, you didn't change... anything else in the program, did you?"

"If you are referring to your unauthorized change of sleeve length," he replied, "no, I did not. Nor did I change the program regarding the choice of fabrics you are utilizing - even though it is not on the current list of approved textiles for Starfleet uniforms," he added disapprovingly

"However, I understand why you have implemented its use," he continued, giving her another disapproving gaze. "Your low body weight and minimal body fat levels prevent you from adequately coping with normal starship temperature ranges," he informed her.

Andile smiled. "You mean, I feel cold all the time," she translated.

Data frowned, mystified by the clarification. "I believe that is what I stated," he objected, then continued, "Therefore, you have had the replicators create a fabric that gives the outward appearance of standard uniform fabric with the concomitant requirements of standard issue fabric, but with an increased thermal factor."

Andile shrugged, a little chagrined. "It was that or long underwear," she conceded.

He stared at her, clearly unfamiliar with the term, then cocked his head to the side, hesitated for a moment, then looked at her again, the light of understanding shining. "Ah! Thermal garments worn beneath a more traditional set of outerwear."

Smiling, she nodded. "Something like that," she agreed.

"Next time, I will replicate a garment of that nature for you instead of a robe," he agreed.

"No!" she blurted, horrified, then managed a chagrined smiled as he looked up at her in surprise.

"No?"

"No," she repeated, more calmly this time. "Long underwear is warm, dear - but this is pretty. If I have to choose between the two, I'll take pretty - once in a while," she added, shivering as the air chilled her once again.

Seeing the slight quiver, Data stared at her worriedly, then gestured at the uniforms again. "That garment is not providing you with sufficient protection against the room's ambient temperature," he announced. "I would recommend that you attire yourself in one of your new uniforms while I continue this search," he suggested, turning back to the computer.

Andile nodded, and taking one of the uniforms from the dresser, slid into it.

Running her finger along the center seal a moment later, she glanced in the mirror, and laughed to herself, wondering how she could have doubted Data. The uniform fit perfectly, she thought, letting her eye follow every curve... all right, she conceded, every angle of her body, since she had ceased to have curves months before... of her body, from ankle to wrist - and, she sighed with relief, her obligatory extra inch and a half of fabric there. For once, she sighed gratefully, he hadn't felt obliged to correct everything that didn't meet Starfleet guidelines.

Just as he hadn't corrected the fabric type, she added.

He's learning.

But learning what? she asked herself as she returned to the computer console, reflexively tugging her sleeves down despite their perfect length. Learning that imperfection is acceptable? Learning that it's okay to sneak by the rules and regs on occasion? Learning that it's okay to let 'good enough' be enough?

A wave of unhappiness washed over her as she stepped up behind the android, hating herself for polluting the once flawless being - then pushing aside the self-loathing as she jabbed a finger at the rapidly scrolling read-out.

"There!" she said. "And there again! Two reports in replicator failures in the last three minutes."

"And another," Data added calmly, watching as a new line printed on to the screen, then turned to face Andile. "We must report this to the captain," he informed her, then tapped his commbadge. "Data to Picard."

There was a slight pause before the deep voice, rough with sleep, replied. "Go ahead, Commander."

"Sir, we've had a failure in the replicator system," Data informed him.

The hesitation was slightly longer this time, as though the man were forcing the sleep from his mind, forcing his brain to function. "What kind of failure?" he asked a moment late, his voice sharp and clear now.

"Incomplete translation of the product matrix," Data advised him.

There was a third hesitation, then, "Take the replicators off-line, Data, and begin a computer diagnostic of the system. Meet me in the conference room on deck ten in fifteen minutes - and have Cmdr. James meet us there," he added.

Data nodded, though the captain could not see the movement. "We shall be there," he replied, then tapped the badge again to break the communication, ran his hands over the computer keyboard - then looked at Andile. "The diagnostic will require one hour, four minutes and seventeen seconds to complete," he informed her. "Less than twenty-five percent of the program will have been run before the meeting with the captain."

"I know," she agreed, instantly somber. "But don't worry; I'll keep an eye on the program while you're gone. If something comes up, I'll call you..."

Data stared at her, bewildered. "You are not attending the meeting?" he asked, clearly surprised.

"Data, I wasn't invited!" she reminded him. "The captain said you and Cmdr. James - my name wasn't mentioned!"

"But your understanding of the ship's functions..."

"Is irrelevant," she countered, then sighed and shook her head. "Data, let's be honest with each other. The only reason I'm on this ship is because Geordi needed someone who understood how to get her up and running on time. Once I had done that, I wasn't needed anymore. Needed... or wanted," she added miserably.

Data stared at her for a long moment,, his head tilted to one side - then straightened it and affixed her with a look. "Then your responsibility to the ship and the crew is complete?" he asked. "Your duty to them - indeed, to all of us - is discharged?"

Andile sighed and shook her head. "Of course not, dear; as long as I'm a member of this crew - and an officer in Starfleet - that responsibility will never be fully discharged..."

"But you no longer need concern yourself with our safety or well-being?" he asked.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped. "Of course I'm concerned..."

"But not obligated by the bounds of your rank - or position," he said.

She glared at him, silent for a long time, then reminded him, "Data, I'm not wanted here. I'm extra, I'm superfluous, I'm... suspect. Whatever I say, whatever I know or can do for the ship doesn't matter - because I - and my knowledge - can't be trusted!"

"So you will spend the remainder of this mission in our quarters, taking showers, replicating uniforms and waiting for someone else to make decisions regarding the welfare of your ship and crewmates?" he asked.

She glared at him once again, then muttered, "You don't play fair."

"Indeed?" he asked, surprised. "In what way do I not 'play fair'?"

"There are rules you have to follow, Data," she replied angrily, "even with your friends."

"But I am following the rules, Ginger," he objected.

"Oh? Whose rules?" she argued.

He gave her a surprised look. "Yours," he reminded her. "That above all, 'we must place our duties ahead of everything else; that we must place the needs of Starfleet, the ship and the crew ahead of our own needs, that we must complete our professional obligations'..." He stopped as Andile raised her hand, her head hung in shame.

"You're right," she whispered, then shook her head. "Oh, Data, how can you put up with me? I'm such a mess..."

She half expected a protestation on his part - or at least a consoling hug - but when neither was immediately forthcoming, she raised her eyes to the android - only to find him gone.

Whirling around, she caught a glimpse of his leg disappearing as he entered the bathroom - then saw it - and the rest of his body - reappear a second later, something grasped in one hand.

With his other hand, he took her arm, then pressed her gently into the chair, stepped behind her...

... and began to comb her hair.

"Data..." she began to protest, turning to look up at him.

"Do not turn," he countered, firmly moving her head back into its original position.

"But Data..." she started to protest, trying to look back again.

He grasped her head firmly in both hands, turned it back again. "Please do not move, or this will take more time than we have before we must leave for the meeting," he said, then resumed his actions.

A minute later, the tangled strands lay smooth against her back - and another minute saw the strands twisted back in their usual braid reaching down the length of Andile's back. Fastening the clip back at the end of the long locks, Data set down the comb on the computer desk, then turned Andile to face him.

"Now," he announced, knowing the problem had been solved, "you are no longer a 'mess'," he informed her.

She stared at him for a second - then began to laugh - then rising to her feet, she wrapped him in her arms.

Confused, he stared at her for a moment before awkwardly wrapping his arms around her in response - but finding himself confused - again! - still! - by the woman's behavior. "Is there something wrong with the way I have prepared your hair?" he asked - only to feel her shake her head.

"No, dear; it's fine," she managed between chuckles.

"Then why are you laughing?" he asked, perplexed.

"Because in a situation like this, one either has to laugh or cry," she replied. "And andile can't cry - so I have to laugh," she said, then pulled away, shaking her head at the absurdity of the moment. "Oh, gods, Data, I just had my hair done - by the second officer of the flagship of the 'fleet! If that's not absurd, then nothing is," she explained between bouts of laughter. "Oh, by the gods!" she chortled, wishing he could see the hilarity - or the painful irony - of the moment.

But such nuances of humor - and pain - were beyond him still, she reminded herself. Forcing herself to calm, she choked back the last of the laughs, then said, "Well, if we're going, dearest, we better be going."

He nodded, then, taking her hand, led her out into the corridor.

Reaching the lift, they stopped - and Data turned to the tiny engineer. "Ginger, a moment ago, you referred to yourself in the third person: you stated 'andile can not cry'. I have not heard you refer to yourself in this manner before. May I ask: Is this a common practice in your native language?"

Andile stared at him for a second, as if unaware of having made the slip, then shook her head. "No. I was using the word in its proper use - as a common noun, rather than as a proper one. Andile is - or rather, was - the name of an occupation. It was a common practice, even on Earth - many names derived from the jobs people performed: Baker, Cooper, Smith. Even today, you sometimes refer to Captain Picard simply as 'Captain'. I was trained to be andile, thus that is what I am called."

"But it is not your name?" he asked.

At that moment, the doors to the lift opened and the two entered, Andile turning to face the android, her face covered in memory - and pain.

"No; it is not my name," she agreed.

"Then what is..."

"I don't have a name, Data; andile aren't permitted names," she said emptily. "We aren't permitted names, or lives, or families, or feelings."

Data stared at her, astonished by the revelation. "And that is why you do not cry?" he pressed.

Andile nodded. "It is not - was not - permitted," she explained.

"Was not?" he asked. "Then that restriction is no longer in place?" he pressed.

Andile gave a tired smile. "It's there - but only because I still adhere to it. But no, no one from my people will punish me if I cry, Data. They're all gone."

He stared at her, confused. "Gone?"

"Dead," she said flatly. "Long ago. Our planet was destroyed when our sun went nova. I was off-planet at the time, along with a few others. They survived... for a while. But now, I am the last of my people," she said hollowly.

Data stared at her for a long time, finding himself stricken for her loss - and thinking.

"Then," he said after a long pause, "if your people are dead, there is no one left to tell you what you can and cannot do."

"I am still here, Data - and I know what I was taught," she corrected him.

"As do I," he replied.

She flashed him a glance. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning... After I was discovered and brought on-line, I was told that I was a machine, made in human form. I had no emotions, no feelings, no friends, no family - because machines, even those in human form, do not have these things. They do not need them. This coincided with what my programming indicated; this is what I was taught, this was the... culture into which I was brought.

"But as I became more aware of my environment, and of myself, I realized that I was more than just a machine, more than my programming, more than the culture in which I was raised. I was... infinite," he said quietly. "I was capable of striving to become more than I was, I was capable of attempting to become something more than what I was. Ginger, if I have learned that the limitations my culture imposed upon me are not valid, then perhaps you can learn this for yourself as well," he suggested.

She smiled tolerantly - but shook her head. "I know what you're trying to say, dear, and it's terribly sweet - but... it's not the same thing."

"Then you are saying that while it is possible for me, an android, to strive to become a human - a person," he amended, "it is not possible for you, who already are human, who has so many of the attributes for which I strive, to achieve that same goal," he replied. "Or perhaps," he added, his voice growing cold, "you believe that such an attempt on your part is beneath your efforts?"

Andile whirled on him, her eyes flashing in fury. "How dare you, Data? You don't know anything about me or my people! You have no idea what you're saying! Beneath me? Being human - beneath an andile? By the gods, Data, if one of my people heard you, they'd kill you!"

He studied her intently, beginning to understand. "And they would kill you should you make that attempt?" he realized

Andile glared at him - then closed her eyes, nodding. "Yes. An andile with such pretensions...? They would have stoned me in the street," she admitted, her eyes squeezing shut at the very thought. "We were... andile." She whispered the word as if it were an obscenity, turning her face from him as though the very breath that formed the sound might defile him.

"But they are dead, Ginger," Data reminded her softly, reaching for her hand, "as are my people. Professor Soongh, my brother, Lore... both are dead."

She looked at him, aching for his loss. "I'm so sorry, Data..." she began, but he shook his head, stopping her.

"Do not be," he answered. "While being alone has brought me a feeling of isolation I could not have imagined, it has also brought a degree of freedom I did not know was possible - a freedom that you, too, now possess."

"Freedom? From what?"

"There is no longer anyone to tell us what we cannot be, no longer a culture to restrict us to the boundaries that custom and expectation would impose," he said softly. "All that is left before us are the infinite possibilities of what we can be, of what we wish to be.

"And I wish to be human, Ginger," he reminded her, "and I wish... that you would be human with me," he added softly.

He stared into her eyes, his golden ones meeting her brown ones - and for a moment, just for an instant, he thought he saw the traces of a tear starting to form.

And then he saw nothing of her face, for she was in his arms, her lips pressed against his - and it was nice.

No, he amended a nano-second later, it was _very_ nice.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter 61 **

Never again, Picard thought to himself as his eyes - but not his full mind - ran over the report on the padd before him. Never again, he repeated. I know it's just superstition - and Starfleet captains should not be superstitious - but never again! he warned himself as he tried once again to bring his eyes and his thoughts into focus on the report before him. There are just some things you didn't do!

Indeed, it was one of the first things he had learned at Starfleet Academy: Don't tempt fate. Cadets learned quickly not to say - not even to _think_ - "My, this line is moving quickly today!", lest it immediately stop completely. Midshipmen learned not to ponder thoughts of, "How simple this class is", unless they wanted it to immediately triple in difficulty. Ensigns learned not to risk thoughts of, "How smoothly this mission is going", unless they wanted the warp core to breach, the shields to fail and the Romulans to appear - simultaneously.

And captains learned they shouldn't pride themselves on how quietly a night was passing - or they, too, would pay the price.

And pay it Picard would, as another yawn threatened, only to be immediately stifled. Foolishly, he had indulged himself in a brief moment of self-congratulation earlier that evening, priding himself on not only having gotten all his requisite reports written, reading all the senior staff's evening reports, eating a decent meal - even indulging in reading a brief monograph concerning the recent findings at K'vesterian archaeological dig on Sylos Four - _and_ making it to his bed at a reasonable hour - only to pay the price for such a thought by being awakened a few hours later by Data's call.

And now, sitting in the conference room, flanked by three of his officers, trying for a third time to read the damned report before him, he chided himself over the moment's indulgence, swearing that he would never again tempt the fates - until next time, he added with a silent, rueful laugh.

Three of his officers. It had taken a moment for that fact to register in his mind when he had arrived a few moments before; he had been expecting two - Data and Sandra James - and it had taken a moment for his bleary mind to recognize the fact that a third was present - and a further moment to realize who it was.

For a minute, he had been tempted to excuse her from the meeting - then discarded the thought. Admittedly, her report on the conduit check had been less than stellar - but he had accepted worse from other officers on occasion. And one merely acceptable report out of the thousands of exceptional ones she wrote was no reason for dismissing her from the conference.

And, he reminded himself, Data would not have brought her with if he hadn't felt that she could contribute something important to the meeting

Still, he was tempted... then chucked the thought away, permanently, recognizing it for what it was.

Yes, she had been a suspect in the possible sabotage of the ship - but so far, there was no evidence that she was responsible for the problems they had encountered - hell, there was no evidence that there was a problem!, he reminded himself sternly, aside from the normal glitches and problems any starship finds after a major refit. And if there was no sabotage, then there was no saboteur - and having Lt. Andile, the one person who knew and understood the ship as a integrated whole, present was absolutely necessary.

He silently praised Data on his decision to invite the engineer to join them, reminding himself to make that praise verbal later in the day - then glanced at the report one last time, stifled another yawn - and silently wished he had asked Data to take the replicators off-line after he made himself a cup of tea.

"Incomplete translation of the product matrix," he read, then glanced at the three officers.

"With progressive destabilization of the matrix that did materialize," Data continued, sliding the folded pile of gold fabric across the table toward the man, a trail of gold dust marking its path.

Picard studied the garment, then held it up, watching as the warp and weft fibers began to crumble at his very touch - then set the fabric down once again.

"As you can see," the android explained, "there was only partial translation of the replicator matrix into the formation of the fibers; most of the fabric did not form - and what did form has continued to deteriorate since the moment of construction."

"There were three other incidences of replicator failure within five minutes of this one," Andile continued. "A chicken sandwich that came out as undigested protein, starch and fat, an exercise baton that collapsed as soon as it was touched - and a cup of coffee that exploded," she added.

Picard raised an eyebrow at that revelation. "Exploded?"

"The coffee materialized within the ceramic matrix of the cup," Data explained. "The pressures were unbalanced - and the cup exploded. Lt. H'rong was treated for minor burns and cuts," he added.

A damned good thing I didn't order that last cup of tea, Picard thought to himself - then looked to Sandra James.

She looked back, as tired-looking as he felt, but said nothing, as though she was unaware that he was waiting for information from her.

"Commander?" he prompted.

"Sir?" she replied.

"Any ideas about what's happening with the replicators?"

She stared at him a moment longer, then shook her head. "No, sir - but I'm not an expert in replicator systems," she added.

Picard nodded as patiently as he could, but felt his frustration with the woman growing. "I understand that, Lieutenant - but this is not a replicator problem, or we would have been seeing system problems throughout this mission."

"Unless something went wrong all of a sudden - things do break down, sir," she protested.

"Lieutenant," Data interrupted, "if there was a system failure with the replicator, we would have seen all the replicators fail. Instead, there were only three failures - but before we could shut down the system, other replicators were utilized - and they were functioning properly. That would tend to indicate a transient fault in the computer's translation assurance protocol of replicator function, rather than a fault in the replicator system itself."

"Transient," Sandra nodded, beginning to understand. "That might happen if the neural pathway failed. The failure protocols would force the neural net to create a new pathway - but that takes time," she murmured to herself. She considered for a moment, then looked at the others, nodding at them - and to herself. "That makes sense. The pathways would re-route in response to a pathway failure - but before they could complete the pathway generation, other requests had been made on the system. They failed, too - but subsequent replicator requests came after the path re-routed - which is why they didn't fail."

"But could fail," Andile interrupted. "Whatever caused that first pathway to break down could affect the rest of the neural net," she explained.

Sandra James nodded - then gave the engineer a quizzical look. "But what caused the pathway to fail?" she wondered.

Andile sighed frustratedly. "That's what I've been trying to determine since we started having these problems!" she growled, then looked to Picard. "Sir, I suspect that this replicator failure isn't an isolated incident - that what we've been encountering all along may be something like Cmdr. James is describing; neural failures that create a problem - but self-correct so the problem doesn't go any further. That's why we see minor breakdowns rather than system collapses - but if we don't find out what's causing it, and stop it, we're going to see the same type of system failures we had before happening all over again."

"I thought the rebuilt memory solved that problem," Picard replied.

"No, sir," Data explained. "The reconfigured memory allowed us to begin again with new neural circuits, but if Lt. Andile is correct, that remedy only treated the symptoms - it did not cure the disease. Whatever caused the original problem is still with us."

"And that is...?" he asked the three.

The three faces stared back at him blankly - then Data answered. "We do not know, sir."

Andile turned to the computer chief. "Commander, when you examined the cells we removed from the original memory packs, did you find any aberrations? Any defects?"

Sandra shook her head. "I didn't see anything abnormal in any of the cells - but defects could have existed on the microscopic level," she said, seeming to understand the engineer's thoughts. "If we could track down the cells involved at the moment of the replicator failure," she said, her enthusiasm suddenly overcoming her fatigue, "we could dissect those cells and see if there's a fault at the cellular - or sub-cellular - level." She thought for a moment. "We didn't replace the iso-linear chips, because we knew they functioned - but memory cells are living tissue. They could contain a bio-contaminant, a virus - any one of a thousand problems. And if it is a viral or prionic agent, it could be infecting the others... Sir, we're going to need to shut down as much of the computer as possible..." she began.

"Commander," Picard interrupted, "we're on a mission of utmost importance; we cannot shut down the computer while you inspect the system for possible faults - any more than I could shut down the ship while the lieutenant completes her conduit check," he said with a nod toward Andile.

"Sir, if we don't, we'll be taking an enormous risk!" Sandra protested.

Picard gave her a hard look. "One of my - and the ship's - predecessors once reminded us all that risk _is_ our business. Calculated risk. Right now, I need to weigh whether that risk - of a possible, but so far only theorized, contaminant - is sufficient to stop this ship - and bring on the almost inescapable reality of an interstellar war. And that is a risk I'm not willing to take," he informed them grimly.

"At least, not at this moment," he added. "Not until I have more information. Find those cells, Commander," he ordered her. "Find them, examine them, determine if they were the cause of the failure - and then we'll consider shutting down the ship. Commander Data," he added, turning toward the android, "I would like you to prepare for that possibility; if the ship's bio-neural cells are contaminated, we need to find a solution for how to run this ship without that section of the computer. Conversion to iso-linear chips, minimalizing the requests on the computer - whatever it will take to see us through this mission."

"That determination will rely upon the extent of the contamination, sir," Data informed him.

"If it is a contaminant," James added. "There are other possibilities - damaged cellular transport barriers, environmental chemical imbalance... I won't know what's causing the problem - if it is a computer problem at all," she added, "until I autopsy some of the cells involved - and that means finding the cells," she added.

Data nodded to Picard, agreeing with the computer chief. "There are over three billion cells involved in the neural net of the computer, sir. Searching at random will require..."

Andile interrupted. "But we don't have to search at random, Commander," she said. "What we can do is to put a null signal through the replicator system and track where it goes; by tracing that path, we will find the point where it diverged from the original pathway - and that should be the first defective cell."

Sandra James smiled patronizingly at the woman. "That won't work, Lieutenant. I realize you're not a computer expert, but when a neural pathway resets itself, it doesn't follow the existing pathway until that point, then diverge. Rather it resets the entire path from the point of origin," she informed the engineer.

Andile looked at her in mock astonishment. "Really?! The pattern of neural function re-establishment has been the most debated issue in cyber-intelligence since the development of bioneural processors! I wasn't aware someone had proven how the paths are re-established!"

Incensed, Sandra began, "Studies have clearly indicated..."

"Commander," Andile interrupted, "all the studies have shown is that no one really know anything - yet," Andile replied calmly - then turned to Picard who was opening his mouth to quell the dispute.

"I'm not trying to create a problem, sir," she said continued smoothly, "and I'm not doubting the Commander's knowledge. She's right, I'm not a computer expert. But I do know that there are some basic laws in biology that all organisms, sentient or not, follow, and that one of these is the law of least effort. Organisms accomplish tasks with the minimum expenditure of time and effort. I find it extremely difficult to believe the computer reset that entire neural path, rather than just diverging from the point where it ran into a problem," Andile said.

"That is a valid contention, Lieutenant - but in light of the fact that neither contention has ever been proved, it is no more valid that the Commander's that the pathway did reset itself completely," Picard countered. "Nonetheless, we have to start some place."

Sandra James shrugged. "I guess it doesn't really make a difference in what pattern we follow," she conceded.

"Then begin your examination at once..."

"Captain, it's two in the morning!" the woman immediately protested. "Examination of bio-neural cells is meticulous work - you can't do it with a tired mind!"

Data nodded, speaking up before Picard could counter the woman's protestations. "The Commander is correct, sir; without careful examination, they technicians might fail to detect the causative agent - which would mean the entire examination is invalid. We need to proceed carefully and cautiously - and with a competent staff."

Picard sighed, considered, then raised a brow as a thought came to him. "We were able to train teams to install the bio-neural cells and complete the memory transfer. Would it be possible..."

Simultaneously, both the women at the table said, "No!" - then looked at each other expectantly.

Andile gestured to the computer chief, yielding the table to her.

"No," Sandra repeated. "This isn't just a matter of plugging in cells, Captain. It's expert work, highly detailed - and it requires not just knowledge, but judgment as well. Given a few years of training and hundreds of hours of practice, maybe - but less than that..." She shook her head emphatically. "No, it's not possible."

Picard glanced at the other two officers, who nodded their reluctant agreement with the assessment. "And while we could train people to perform the basic function tests, sir," Andile concurred, "it's only one stage of the testing, sir; you'd still have to have one of Commander James' teams follow up to confirm the results and perform the remaining tests. So having two teams do the work won't save time - and it's possible that they could even compound any existing problems. Cmdr. James is correct, sir; there's no one on board capable of helping her and her technicians," she concluded, then glanced at her companion. "Present company excepted, of course," she added.

"And you?" Picard pressed.

Andile squirmed uncomfortably. "As has been pointed out repeatedly, sir, I'm not a computer expert," she said.

"That wasn't the question, Lieutenant," he reminded her sharply. "You claimed to understand every aspect of this ship. Are you or are you not capable of performing these examinations of the bio-neural cells?" he asked.

Andile hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir: I know how to do it," she admitted, then glanced at James. "I'm certified by the Daystrom Institute," she added to assure the computer chief - then looked back to Picard. "But I must remind you, sir, that I am still in the middle of my own conduit check."

Picard gave her a warning look. "An inspection that I agreed to only as long as it did not interfere with the other needs of the ship," he countered.

"Interfere?!" she gasped, outraged. "Captain, for all you know..." Seeing a look of indignation rising on his face, she instantly amended the phrase. "Sir, for all any of us know, the power anomaly may be the cause of the computer problem!"

The captain gave her a dubious look - and Andile immediately conceded the point.

"All right, the power anomaly isn't causing the problem - but it's within the realm of possibility that the two problems are related!" she argued.

Picard studied the diminutive woman - then shook his head. "In theory, perhaps - but the fact is that we have a problem with the computers - and in light of that fact, I cannot justify having one of the few people aboard who is qualified in addressing that problem focusing on some another, possible irrelevant issue. I'm sorry," he added gently, "I know how concerned you are about the power anomaly," he said soberly, "but for now, I need you to devote your time and attention to the computer situation."

He looked back at Data. "Commander, please design a protocol for Cmdr. James and her team to follow; you'll begin the inspections at oh six hundred hours today. Keep me apprised of your findings. Lieutenant," he continued, looking at Andile, "you'll will assist Cmdr. James in her investigation."

Andile nodded, realizing there would be no argument with the decision, then sensing the dismissal in his tone, rose with the others and left the room as Picard tapped his commbadge.

"Picard to... Troi," he said after a moment's thought to remember who had command of the bridge for the night.

"Troi here, sir," she replied, clearly surprised - and worried - at hearing the man's voice in the middle of the early morning hours.

"Please inform the crew that, until further notice, the replicators are off line. Notify the galley as well," he added, knowing that that would be unwelcome news for that specialized team. Usually their efforts were limited to preparing banquets for visitors, such as the upcoming ambassador's reception. Awakening to discover that they were about to be responsible for preparing meals for fourteen hundred more would not make their morning a pleasant one.

Or the crew's, either, he reminded himself.

Not that the chefs were poor cooks, he added to himself; indeed, they were excellent at what they did - but after years of having a replicator to make the food he liked the way he liked it - and for the crew to have had that same indulgence, only to have it taken away with no warning - would cause more than a few grumbles of discontent, both from the mouths and stomachs of his crew.

But it was that or a return to water and ration bars, an option that no one on the ship would care for, he thought.

The lesser of two evils, he thought wearily as Deanna acknowledged the order; ration bars or... He shook his head, frowning at the thought of what creation the ship's cooks would devise for the morning meal, knowing it was unlikely to be his preference of a simple croissant - and heaven alone knew what they would make to replace his morning cup of Earl Grey.

He scowled unhappily; he knew this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience in a growing sea of troubles - but as far as he was concerned, Data and Cmdr. James could not get the replicators back on line fast enough to suit him.

Or fast enough to help him wake up, he admitted. Yawning, he wondered if he should risk having Data bring the replicators back on line just long enough to produce a cup of tea - then dismissed the thought. If his crew couldn't indulge, then neither could he, Picard chided himself - though they, at least, were going to be able to work through their exhaustion by getting a full night's sleep.

Giving one more yawn, he turned his attention back to Data's initial findings. What was the causative factor in the replicator's failure, he asked himself. They had worked since they had been installed at the beginning of the mission; why fail now? Turning the computer screen to face him, he began to pull up the ship's internal systems records, searching for some event near the time of the replicator failure... but there were thousands of bits of data recorded there, he realized; hundreds of thousands of numbers running across the screen, blurring before his tired eyes into a stream of incomprehensible figures...

A soft thud jolted him from his half-doze; startled, he stared at the heavy ceramic mug that had been placed before him - then watched as it filled with a pale golden, steaming liquid.

For a moment, he studied the cup, eyes and thoughts fogged with fatigue, then looked up.

"Herb tea," Andile said softly. "Stinks to the gods on high - but it will wake you up.

"Go on," she added a moment later as he stared hesitantly at the cup. "It's not poison. It just tastes like it."

Picard studied her for a moment, then reached for the mug, took a sip - then almost spit out the harsh, acidic brew. Instead, he forced it down, then peered into the cup, appalled. "My god! I thought you said this was herb tea!"

"It is," Andile said as she took the cup back, topping it off with more of the brew, "Specifically, it's guerian root tea. I had made a pot just before the replicators went down," she added in explanation. Pushing the steaming mug back in front of him, she nodded, silently urging the man to drink the fetid liquid. "Drink it before it gets cold."

"It stinks," he muttered as the fumes wafted toward him.

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "And it tastes like..." She stopped herself, then started again. "And it tastes bad - worse if you let it get cold," she added warningly. "But hot or cold, it will wake you up," she insisted.

He stared at the cup, then at the sincere-faced woman, and forced down another sip.

The second was no better than the first - but even so, he could feel the first tingle of the mild stimulant coursing through his body.

"Guerian root," he repeated to himself, then looked at the woman. "As in the flowering bush in the arboretum?" he asked uncertainly; how could such a sweet smelling plant could make such a foul tea? he wondered.

"Could be," she conceded, with a shrug, topping off his mug with the last of the liquid. "I haven't had much chance to get down there. Been busy, you know - sabotaging the ship and all," she added blandly.

Startled, he looked up at her - then realized she was having him on.

"You have a strange sense of humor, Lieutenant," he answered, hearing the energy returning to his voice even as it began to return to his body.

"So I've been told," she replied, her tone cool.

More than a little surprised at the undisguised displeasure in her tone, he stared up at her.

"You don't like me, do you?" he asked.

He didn't expect an answer - after all, what answer could she give? Deny it - and risk appearing as a sycophantic toady - or agree, and bring the conflict they both felt out into the open? Either way, no matter whether it had been asked on or off the record, there was no way any response she could make would fail to affect the relationship the two of them might have.

But to his astonishment, she did reply - and without more a nanosecond's hesitation.

"No," she conceded, only to hastily add, "but I don't dislike you either." Then, without waiting for an invitation, she took a chair, and pulled it up next to him.

"You see, Captain, I don't know you. Oh, I know your reputation - the gods know I wouldn't have let you have this ship if I hadn't have known you would be a good captain to her..."

Picard raised an eyebrow, startled by the seeming presumption - then forced his attention back to what she was saying.

"... but I wouldn't presume to think that I know you," she continued. "And I sure as hell wouldn't presume to make a decision about whether or not I actually like you based on what I've read about you in your file. You can't decide whether you like someone just by reading their personnel file.

"Any more than you can decide by listening to what your friends and officers say," she added, giving him a knowing look. "Deciding whether or not you like someone... that's personal," she advised him. "And anything personal takes time. And if it's not worth the time to make up your mind for yourself, well, then, that says something about whether or not you could ever truly appreciate the other person in any case, doesn't it?" she asked - then pushed back her chair, readying herself to leave once again.

"But do I dislike you?" she repeated. "No. You're just another captain with whom I've worked. Nothing less - but nothing more," she concluded - then sighed. "And it's too damned bad, because..." She stopped herself in mid-sentence, shook her head, and started for the door.

...because it could have been more, Picard concluded the sentence for himself. And it could have, he realized - in another time, at another place... and if I had been willing to invest the time it would have taken to have gotten to know her - or anyone - well enough to decide about them for myself.

The penalties of command, he started to sigh - then stopped. No, not the penalties, he thought to himself - the responsibilities of command.

RHIO.

Rank hath its obligations - and those obligations included doing things he didn't like.

Like getting to know his crew on a personal basis.

Like putting aside his personal biases and his unfounded suspicions.

Like treating his new officers like any officer.

And like taking risks.

"Lieutenant," he called to her as she reached the door.

She turned, affixing him with a questioning look.

He raised the mug. "Thank you for the tea."

This time, she did hesitate - then a tired smile crossed her face. "You're welcome - but that's the last of it - at least until we get the replicators on line," she added. "Unless, of course, you want to sneak down to the arboretum with me and uproot that bush."

Picard smiled back. "I don't think Lt. Amundsen would appreciate that."

"No," Andile agreed, and turned away again.

"Lieutenant!" Picard called out a second time.

Andile turned once more, eyebrows raised once again.

"You really think your power conduit search is more important that the computer repair?" he pressed.

"I know it is," she answered. "But you don't," she added wearily.

"You're right," he agreed. "I don't. And as the captain of this ship, I have to weigh the added benefit of having you work on the computer problem versus your work on a problem that might not even exist."

Andile stared at him, then sighed. "I understand," she murmured, then turned again.

"Lieutenant!" Picard called out a third time.

This time, she didn't even bother to turn. "Sir?"

"Could you do them both?"

She turned, then shook her head. "Not working one shift a day."

He nodded, as if agreeing to the removal of that restriction - and found himself the subject of her intense scrutiny once again.

At once, he realized why: for all she knew, this was nothing more than a further test of her loyalty, a challenge to her protestations of dedication and devotion - and one that, even with the proper response, would not yield her the answer she wanted.

For a moment, he was tempted to tell her that the offer was sincere - if she could do it - but for her, he was coming to realize, words meant nothing. For Lt. Andile, words were, he thought, desperately scrambling to remember the old phrase, not worth the paper they were written on. For her, a woman who had learned to trust the subtler messages the body sent about the person they contained, his word would mean nothing; the only guarantee she could accept of his sincerity would be the one she saw held in his physical attitude.

And so he held himself in place, refusing to move a fraction of a millimeter from the position he had been in at the moment he had posed the question, knowing that whatever his body's position had been in that moment, whatever subtle truth it held about what he believed at that time, needed to be the same message she saw as she studied him now.

Whatever she saw there, it must have been, if not the right answer, at least one that was good enough, for at last she gave a brief nod. "But it can be done."

Picard sighed, relieved - then asked, "How long?"

She shook her head. "Until it's done."

Picard considered for a moment - then nodded. "Do it," he replied.

For a moment, Picard could see no change in the woman - then, like a spell being broken, he watched the tightly held tension that had so long possessed her crack and fall, and in that moment saw the rebirth of the vibrant woman he had met so long ago. "Yes, sir," she said quietly, her carefully controlled tones hiding the pure exuberance that suddenly filled her eyes - then added, "Thank you."

Then without further comment, she spun on her heel and headed out the doors.

Picard stared after her for a moment - then shook his head. It wasn't every day that someone thanked him for doubling their work load - tripling it, he amended a moment later, reminding himself about the report that was still to be written. But then, he added as well, not everyone was Lt. Andile.

Thank God for that, he added, then took a sip from his mug, and wrinkled his face in utter disgust. She was right about the tea, he thought - it was worse cold.

I just hope she's as right about the engines, he added.


	62. Chapter 62

**Chapter 62**

"So that's the cause of all our troubles," Will said as he turned the object in his hands.

He had seen bio-neural cells before - pouches of soft pink gelatinous ooze surrounding a web of neural fibers - but never held one; they were too fragile, too chemically dependent on their environment to risk being damaged by the unprotected touch of the hormone and sweat-laden skin of a normal human. Only trained technicians, wearing protective apparel and working in the specially designed environment, were permitted to move and install the fragile cells that allowed a ship like the Enterprise to maintain the elaborate and complex computer that was its very essence.

But the thing that he now turned over in his hands bore little resemblance to that living tissue. Grey-green in color with neural fibers tinged with black, it looked sick, even to Will's inexpert eyes. Setting it back down on the conference room table, he looked back at the computer chief who nodded back.

"That's it, sir," Sandra agreed, relievedly. "Just your run-of-the-mill, basic dead bio-neural cell."

Will could understand her relief; for the first time on this mission, something had a simple cause - and apparently, a simple solution, he added, gratefully reaching for his freshly replicated coffee.

She smiled at his movement. "As you can see, we replaced the cell - but the bio-neural cells had already created a new pathway to route the replicator requests - so really, we could have kept the replicator program running, even while we searched for the dead cell," she added.

"Better safe than sorry," he countered; admittedly, it had been an inconvenience, going more than half the day without the replicators to reproduce the essentials and non-essential objects that made up life on a starship - but better an inconvenience than another exploding coffee cup - or worse, he thought to himself.

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "And I will admit that turning off the replicator made it easier to trace the pathway - since only a few requests had been processed after the cell burned out, we were able to track the new pathway pretty easily. We only had to scan about two thousand cells," she added.

Will raised a brow at the computer chief's definition of 'easy' - then realized that two thousand cells, out of the hundreds of millions in the computer's core, was, indeed an 'easy' search.

"Have you had a chance to determine what the cause of death was, Commander?" he asked, fingering the dead cell once again. "A contaminant? Some biological agent?"

She gave him a surprised look. "No, sir. It's as I said - it burned out," she replied.

"Burned out?" he echoed, perplexed. "How?"

"Oh, a power surge, most likely," she answered, utterly blasé about the news. "It's not uncommon; their power tolerances are so delicate that even a minor surge can damage them - and it doesn't take much more to kill them."

"Then this happens often?" he asked curiously.

Sandra shrugged. "I wouldn't say it happens often - but frequently enough that finding a dead cell here and there isn't really a surprise. That's one reason most of the systems that use the biologic neural processors have redundancies built in - if the signal encounters a dead cell, the redundancy steps in, the signal is rerouted - and there is no loss of efficacy," she answered.

"Then why did we have the replicator failure?" he pressed.

She smiled easily. "Sir, we don't build redundancies into the standard replicator program. If the pathway fails, then nothing materializes - and you just try it again. Order up a new... whatever. Sandwich, shirt, uniform. By the time you've made the second request, the system has rerouted - and it's nothing more than a minor inconvenience," she added. "It's probably happened a thousand times before - and the only reason anyone noticed this time is because that coffee cup exploded," she added.

Will nodded, digesting the information - then looked at her once more. "So if I understand you correctly, we could be having cell deaths throughout the computer system - but we wouldn't notice it."

Sandra nodded.

"And we only detected it this time because..."

"Pure luck, sir," she conceded nonchalantly. "If that coffee had been requested a split second earlier or later, no one would have known."

"And no one would know if the other cells in the computer are dying, because the redundancies reroute them so that system continues to function," he repeated, as much to himself as to her.

She nodded once again. "That's the beauty of the system sir - consistent performance, even when there are internal failures."

"Then how, Commander," he pressed, "do we know that there aren't other cell failures occurring at the same time?"

"We don't - or rather, we do know it - but with over three hundred million cells, there is almost infinite capacity for failure," she explained. "We do inspections, of course, every few months, and replace the dead cells we find - but as long as the cell death rate doesn't exceed one per cent per inspection, there's no problem."

He gave her a perplexed look. "And you're not concerned about this cell dying?" he asked.

With a knowing - and somewhat condescending - smile, she shook her head. "Not really. Admittedly, it's a bit early in the life of the cell for it to fail - but it does happen sometimes. More to the point, though, is that we examined over two thousand cells in our search today - but we found only one dead one. That's not even approaching the accepted failure rate. No, I'm not worried."

Will thought for a moment, then nodded, silently agreeing with her - but still turning the dead bioneural tissue pouch over and over in his hands.

"You said the cell had died because of a power surge..."

"Yes, sir."

"Is there any way to track the source of the power surge?" he questioned.

The computer chief thought for a moment, then wrinkled up her nose at the suggestion. "None that I can think of. You see, while a high voltage blast could kill a cell outright, most power surges will not kill a cell directly. It's a gradual progression - and because it does take time, finding the moment when the original surge cause the initial damage can be difficult - if not impossible.

"This one is a good case in point. If you look at the input fibers, here..." She reached across him, touching the black fibers that exuded from the cell, "you can see that they were subject to excessive power - which is why they are black - but it wasn't enough to sever them completely and kill the cell immediately. Instead, the fibers were only damaged. It was the subsequent flow of power along those cables that eventually killed the cell. Damaged, the fibers don't regulate the flow of power the way their supposed to - and the continued flow of raw power will eventually overload the cell and kill it. But there can be a significant time lag between the power surge and the cell death," she informed him.

"How significant? Days? Weeks?" Will asked her.

She shook her head once again. "Days, maybe, if the voltage is low enough - but more often it's a matter of hours between the surge and the cell death. The damage to the fibers here is pretty significant - so I'd guess this one went pretty fast - maybe eight hours?" she offered.

Then the power surge would have been around... Will counted backward in his mind - then drew a sharp breath, which he quickly changed into a sigh.

With a practiced grin, he turned back to the computer chief. "Thank you, Commander, for your help."

She smiled back. "You're welcome, sir," she replied as she raised herself up from the chair and glided out of the conference room.

Will thought for a moment - then started to raise his hand to his commbadge - only to hear it chirp at him first.

He tapped it. "Riker here."

"Worf, sir. I have uncovered some new information," the Klingon's voice said grimly.

Riker raised a brow, then replied. "Go ahead."

He listened intently for a moment, his expression slowly growing dark, then nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Worf. I'll be in touch," he added, then tapped his badge to break the signal.

A moment later he touched it again. "Riker to Picard. Sir, I need to speak with you."


	63. Chapter 63

**Chapter 63**

Data placed his foot carefully on the entry to his... their... quarters, precisely measuring the amount of noise generated by his footfall. After all, Andile had clearly demonstrated that she did not want his arrival to be so quiet as to be surreptitious - and yet, he reminded himself, if she was asleep, he did not wish to be so loud as to wake her.

Glancing into the room, he decided, relievedly, that the latter was more likely than the former. The room was dark but for the light emanating from the computer screen, and two forms lay stretched across his... their... bed, one human, one feline, both unmoving, both silent but for the slow rhythmic sound of their breathing.

Lightening his step so as not to wake either of his companions, he stepped toward the computer screen - and found it covered in detailed notes of engine repair, acoustic assessment, power integration modes, preventative maintenance - along with a brief paragraph that, upon consideration, he was able to identify as a naughty joke - all the familiar ramblings of the mind of his lover.

Touching the keyboard, he scrolled backward on the screen, reviewing the day's - or rather, the night's - work of the woman, nodding approvingly both at the content and at the quantity - then frowning at both.

She was working far too hard, he thought to himself; nearly a full shift spent helping Cmdr. James to find the failed bio-neural cell, followed by more than full shift searching out the power conduit anomaly - and then at least five hours work on this report, and all without having slept for two days, he reminded himself silently - and disapprovingly.

She was still continuing to lose weight, he thought, and there was no question that her already pale skin was beginning to lose even the faint trace of color it had had when they first met, and her bones, which had already been plainly visible in the lines of her face and hands, were beginning to be visible through her uniform, despite the added thickness the insulated fabric afforded her.

It was too much, he told her silently, but sternly.

And yet...

And yet there had been something in her face today, a hint of the earlier radiance that he had seen there when they had first met, a suggestion of the sheer joy she was capable of possessing and expressing through her work that told him that the excruciating hours were inconsequential to her, nothing more than numbers passing as she found a meaning in her life once again - a meaning that had almost disappeared - through the erroneous charge of sabotage - and through his own misguided efforts at protecting her.

Stricken by the near-disastrous effects his attempt at good works had caused, he glanced at the bed once again - and was surprised to hear her voice calling back to him.

"Scroll it back to the end, dear; I was halfway through a thought and I want to go back to it later," Andile said softly.

"My apologies," he replied. "I had not intended to waken you," he said, then tabbed the control, returning it back to its starting point as she had asked.

"You didn't," she replied, pushing herself up on the bed slowly so as not to wake the sleeping cat beside her. "I wasn't having much luck trying to fall asleep - my mind is too busy. Too many things that need to be done - and I'm trying to organize them all in my head. I guess I'm just a little over-stimulated tonight," she added with a smile.

"Perhaps Dr. Crusher could prescribe a sedative..." he opined, only to see her shake her head.

"Drugged sleep isn't sleep," she replied. "You're body can be tricked into resting - but not your mind..." She shuddered at some memory. "No, drugs give me bad dreams - and I wake up even more tired than when I started," she finally said - then met his eyes, a leering grin on her lips. "But I can think of something else that might help me fall asleep," she murmured, reaching for his hand, the sheet falling from her as she did so, revealing a bared arm, shoulder and breast.

Data considered her words, oblivious to the exposed flesh. Andile had said she sometimes liked to read before sleeping, and occasionally would exercise - but both of those activities would wake Spot. Which left...

"Then you would like to dance?" he suggested.

Andile grinned. "You could say that."

"Ah! What is your preference? The waltz? A samba?" he offered.

"Actually," she said, pulling him down toward her, "I was thinking more along the lines of the horizontal bop," she whispered softly.

The android hesitated for a moment, then gave her a perplexed look. "I am afraid I am unfamiliar with that dance, Ginger. Perhaps if you were to show me the basic steps..."

As a smile crossed her face, Andile shook her head. "Data, my dear, if the other night was any indicator, I'd say you knew more steps than I ever will!" she said with a laugh, then stopped abruptly, realizing that he didn't understand the reason for her laughter. "I'm sorry, Data; I wasn't laughing at you," she said, giving him her gentlest smile. "It's just that sometimes I forget that for as intelligent as you are, in some things, you are so very uneducated."

He gave her a perplexed look. "Uneducated?" he echoed. "In what ways?"

"In the intricacies of human behavior," she answered. "In our inherent embarrassment at ourselves and our actions. In our use of euphemisms, so we don't have to actually say what we're trying to say," she continued, then smiled at him gently. "Dearest," she explained softly, "the horizontal bop is another name for making love."

Data stared at her for a moment, then raised his eyes in understanding. "Ah! I see! Horizontal - because one - both - parties are often lying down! And bop, because of the vigorous intensity!" he proclaimed, then grew serious. "But does not the term 'bop' also refer to dances of brief duration?" he asked worriedly.

"Unfortunately, Data, for most humans, short and vigorous go together. That's depressing if it's all you ever get - but then there's nothing wrong with a quickie now and then," she added teasingly, then leaned forward and planted a gentle but passionate kiss on his lips.

To her surprise, however, there was no response from the android. Instead, he pulled away, his thoughts seemingly focused elsewhere. "I am curious," he said after a moment. "Why do humans have so many terms for sex? Does this relate to the social mores against open display of physical affection - or could it..."

But before he could continue the question, Andile raised herself on one arm, her face losing all trace of amusement. "Data," she interrupted, "I may not be able to read your body language - but I know a diversionary tactic when I hear one. You don't want to make love with me, do you?" she asked.

He hesitated, then solemnly answered, "It is not a matter of wanting to make love or not, Ginger. I am simply concerned that you are not getting adequate rest..."

Andile looked at him, stricken. "No, Data, that's not it; there's something else. Is it because I said I didn't want to spend a day and a half in foreplay?" she said, suddenly struck by the possibility. "Was that it? Because if it was, I'm sorry. It's a lovely thought - but I don't want to spend a night of our time together with you making love to me - I want you to make love _with_ me!"

She was about to go on when she saw the hurt look in his eyes - and realized that she was, if not at the cause of his reluctance, at least close to it.

"By the gods!" she whispered, amazed - and stung at the realization. "That's it, isn't it?" she began - but he silenced her with a shake of his head.

"That is not 'it'," he countered quietly.

"Then... what?" she pressed.

He fell silent for a moment, then, pulling on her hand, guided her up to sit beside him on the bed.

"Andile..." he began hesitantly, then looked at her unhappily. "It is not that I do not wish to make love with you... It is that I cannot."

She stared at him, then shook her head, befuddled. "What? But... why not?!" she asked, utterly confused by his revelation. "Are you malfunctioning? Data, is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "I am performing within design parameters... and as far as those parameters permit me to function," he added.

"Permit you to function...?" she echoed, confused. "Data, I don't understand."

"The other day, after we had had sex, you asked if I had 'finished' after you fell asleep. I stated that that would have been impolite - but the truth is, Andile, that I am incapable of completing the act. I apologize. I should have informed you of this prior to the beginning of our sexual relationship," he said solemnly.

"But... that's impossible!" she blurted out.

He shook his head sadly. "I assure you, it is not."

Andile gawked at him for a minute - then shook her head once again. "No! I don't believe that!"

"It is the truth," he countered.

"But..." she started - then stopped, stared at him - and shook her head again. "But that doesn't make sense!"

Surprised, he studied her. "In what way does it not make sense?" he replied.

"Data, why would your creator make you capable of performing sexually, if he wasn't going to make you able to enjoy it as well?" she asked.

"But I do enjoy it," he replied. "I am aware that you are receiving pleasure from my actions, and thus I am capable of deriving a positive stimulus in response," he countered.

She rolled up her eyes, scoffing at the idea. "Data, that's all well and good - but your creator was a human - a male human!"

"Meaning...?"

Andile shook her head. "Meaning, Data, that no sexually active human male is going to go about creating an android who is sexually functional - and then not bother to throw in the goodies as well!" she insisted.

"The 'goodies'?"

She reddened. "The ability to... you know. Get off."

"You mean achieve orgasm?" he said.

She nodded, her face crimson. "Yeah, that. It's just not in a human male's nature to go half way - at least, not when it comes to sex," she insisted.

"Perhaps Dr. Soongh felt that simply allowing me to provide pleasure to my partner was enough..." he tried.

"Not a chance!" Andile declared. "Forgive me, Data, but for men - at least for most human men - getting off is the point! The rest is just, well, window dressing. A manner to keep a partner interested so they have access. But if they had their 'druthers', it would simply be to find a way to get off, as easily and enjoyably - and as often! - as possible," she insisted.

"Perhaps Dr. Soongh was intending to give me that ability later in my development - as he had intended with the emotion chip he designed for me - but was unable to complete that aspect of my design before his death," Data suggested.

Andile curled her lip in disagreement. "Data, if Dr. Soongh was like most men I know, he figured out how to let you get off before he even gave you a penis. If he wasn't going to be able to give you the whole kit and caboodle, he wasn't going to give you any of it! Forgive me, but that's the way most men think."

Data gave her a doubtful look. "Dr. Soongh was not most men, Andile."

She returned the look. "Excuse me, but he was married how many times?"

"I am aware of only three marriages..."

"And how many lovers that you are aware of?"

"There are references to twenty-seven women in his memoirs," he admitted.

"And how many references to women that he doesn't mention by name?"

Data began to calculate the number.

"You see my point," she continued before he could answer. "But more to the point, dear, you told me he was responsible for programming you in regard to your sexual performance."

The android nodded.

"Data," Andile continued softly, "what you did the other night... Dearest, that was not the performance of a man who is simply trying to please his partner. That was... Well, that was building up to something more - for both of us. If I hadn't fallen asleep," she added, disappointedly, then chased away the missed opportunity with a shake of her head - and turned her head up to look at him.

She studied him for a long time - then reached for his hand once again, wrapping it in her own. "Data," she said, her voice now as soft and gentle as her touch, "you once said you would not lie to me. Please don't start now.

"I think we both know that Dr. Soongh programmed you with the ability to... finish the act," she said, blushing softly. "So if you say you can't, it's not because you can't - but because you don't want to hurt me by telling me the truth." She reached up and gently stroked his forehead. "And that's it, isn't it? It's me - and you don't know how to say it."

He looked at her, stricken - then nodded.

He could have stabbed her with a knife and the pain would have been less severe, she thought - and yet she forced herself to take a breath then paste a plastic smile upon her face.

"It's all right, dear. But Data?"

"Yes, Ginger?" he replied.

"If this relationship wasn't working out for you, why did you ask me to live with you?" she asked.

Data gaped at the woman, stunned by the question. "I asked you to live with me - because I love you!" he protested.

"You love me...?" she began - then shook her head, confused. "Then why can't you...?"

He stared at her for a long time, then whispered, "I have not been completely honest with you, Ginger. I am capable. But I do not wish to... finish the act with you," he admitted.

"You don't want to?!" she echoed, astounded. "But why ever not?" she pressed.

He hesitated - then looked away. "Because I am... scared."

There had been a hundred possible answers to that question, a hundred conceivable reasons why he might not wished to have taken the sex act to its simple and fun conclusion - but being scared was not one she had even considered.

"Scared? Dearest, scared of what?" she asked.

Once more he hesitated, then answered, "You are not my first lover, Andile - but you are the first woman who has ever expected - or wanted - me to respond sexually."

"You mean..." she managed, stunned by the truth that was emerging, "...you've never gotten off?"

He shook his head.

"Never?"

He shook his head again.

Andile considered the matter for a moment. "And you're afraid...of what? That you won't like it?"

He shook his head. "On the contrary. I am afraid I may like it - too much."

"Too much?" Andile replied with a smile. "What do you mean, 'Too much'?" she teased.

There was, however, no amusement in his expression. "Andile, I have never allowed myself to experience pleasure of this nature. What if... What if I enjoy it so much that I cannot stop myself? What if I cannot control myself - and I injure you? What if...?"

"Data," she interrupted softly, laying her hand on his arm, "too many 'what ifs'. One, Dr. Soongh knew how much fun sex is - and he wanted you to enjoy it, too. But while he enjoyed it - a lot, from what I've gathered," she added with a sly smile, "he wasn't obsessed with it. So neither will you be," she assured him.

"And you won't hurt me," she added softly, drawing him down beside her on the bed, her free hand easing open the front of his uniform jacket.

"But you stated the other night..."

"I said it had been a long time," she agreed. "And that you needed to be gentle. And you were," she reminded him, as she slid her leg over him, straddling his hips as she pushed the jacket off his body. "And you were. Gentle and loving and you didn't hurt me.

"And I have faith that tonight, you will still be gentle - and loving - and that you won't hurt me tonight any more than you did the other night," she added as her hands reached under his shirt, pushing that off as well, then dropping it on the floor beside the bed.

"But Ginger..." he began to protest.

"Hush," she insisted, reaching for the top of his pants. "No talking. Not tonight. Tonight the only thing I want you to tell me is if you don't like something," she informed him as she eased his pants off, unceremoniously dumping them on the floor beside the bed.

Sitting back, she studied him for a long time, not entirely certain how to begin or where - then shook her head. Begin with the basics, she reminded herself, and leaned forward to kiss the android.

"I don't want that, either," she added a second later as he reached up to caress her. Pushing his hand back to the mattress, she affixed him with an unyielding look. "I don't want you to act, tonight, dearest - I want you to react. To let your body feel - and to let it respond to those feelings.

"We both already know you are programmed in how to give pleasure - now it's time for you to learn about the other part of making love - receiving pleasure," she informed him, a hungry smile on her face.

"But," Data began, confused, "did you not state that you wished to make love with me? And that couples did not often engage in focusing their actions on the sole pleasuring of one partner?"

She nodded. "I did," she agreed. "But most couples go into a relationship with a pretty good idea of what each one likes - and in time, they share those preferences, a bit at a time. But you, my dear - you've gone an entire life without learning what you like. And I think we need to make up for lost time. The universe owes you one, Data," she insisted, "and I intend to make sure you get it."

Smiling, she lowered her face toward his once more, their lips meeting in a soft kiss - then Data drew in a sharp breath. "Oh!" he gasped, then stared at her, astounded at her touch - and stunned by its intensity. "Ginger, I..."

"Shh," she whispered, silencing him with another kiss. "No talking. Just... feel. Close your eyes," she added a moment later, then placed a soft kiss on each lid, reinforcing the gentle command, then moved down the length of his face, pressing her lips against the bridge of his nose, its tip, then his lips once more, letting her touch last a moment longer there, the tip of her tongue tasting his lips - then moved on to his chin, his neck...

In the quiet of their quarters, without the input his eyes would have granted him, Data's world began to narrow, limiting his access to the stimulus that normally filled his mind to that bare minimum of sensory data that she was granting him now - touch - and discovering, to his astonishment, the incredible fullness contained in that single sense.

Her lips pressed against the hollow at the base of his neck, then pulled back slightly, her tongue pressing delicately against his flesh, warm and moist, her breath hot and soft, warming his flesh slightly - then letting it grow cool as she drew in her next breath, her lips bare millimeters from his skin, the unexpected change sending a shiver across his body.

She must have felt the shudder, for a worried whisper followed. "Are you all right?"

"I..." he began, then stopped, finding himself unable to form the words that were filling his mind.

"Data?" she whispered worriedly.

"I... I..." He stopped, forcing himself to stop feeling for a moment, then managed, "Yes."

For a moment, Andile was silent - then gave a soft, delighted laugh, and turned back to the task at hand.

A moment later, he gave another shudder as the soft touch of her lips and tongue resumed their progress down the length of his chest - then cried out as they were joined by the gentle caress of her hand.

"Relax," she whispered. "We've a long way to go yet."

"I... I do not know if I can," he whispered back.

Again, silence filled the room - then he felt the bed shift as she eased her body against his, her hand caressing his face.

Against his intentions, his eyes opened at the touch, and he found himself looking into the worried eyes of his lover.

"Data, you asked me if I trusted you. Now, let me ask the same? Data, do you trust me? No lies, dearest; no protecting my feelings. This is important; I need the truth. Do you trust me?"

He opened his mouth to reply instantly - then stopped and gave the matter long and careful thought. Almost a full second later, he nodded. "I trust you," he answered.

For a long time, Andile studied the android, then gave a thoughtful nod. "Then trust me in this, dearest; I will not hurt you, or let anything go beyond what I think you can handle. I want you to enjoy this. I want this to be good for you," she added.

"Yes," he whispered, closing his eyes once again then opened them, adding, "Andile?"

"Yes, dear?"

"It is... _very_ nice."

For a moment, she was silent - then gave a soft laugh, leaned over him, and kissed them shut once again.

But his time, he was aware, not only of the soft pressure of her lips against his lids, but of the equally soft - if deliciously different - pressure of her breasts against his chest, the soft touch of her arms as they moved against his body as she changed position, the silken smoothness of her thighs as the moved along his body, the exquisite scent of her skin as her own body's heat began to send the delicate perfume of her body throughout the room.

Even with his eyes closed, even with his mind trying to focus on his own body's responses, he found himself overloaded with stimulus from her body, from her presence next to him, to her constant touch, kissing him, caressing him, touching him...

He groaned as her hands found a sensitive spot along the inside of his thigh.

"You like that?" she asked, hearing his cry, her voice sultry and teasing.

"It... feels nice," he whispered, aching to feel her touch him again.

But it didn't come. Instead she laughed delightedly, then kissed him again, her hands pushing the blankets away from their bodies, the cool air playing across his skin - though whether the shivers he felt were from the air or from her touch he didn't know.

He didn't care.

It was... wonderful.

But in time the sheer pleasure of her touch began to be too much; he became aware of his own alertness, his heightened apprehension of what was to come. Too alert, too aware; he found himself aching for her next caress, for her next kiss - yet when it came, it threatened to rip him from the precise, analytical world in which he had always existed. This was not what he had been designed for, he tried to tell himself with what little of his mind could clearly think; this was too intense, too unpredictable, too overwhelming... too human.

Human, he thought, his last conscious thought. This is what it is to be human. This is what it is to feel... Feel! he laughed to himself, a sense of wonderment and joy washing over him.

Such a wonderful word - such a _human_ word! One word to mean both physical sensations - and emotions! One word, he thought, then realized, not one word - but one concept! That was what Andile had been trying to tell him, trying to teach him. One concept that embraced both worlds - because for humans they were one thing. Physical contact brought about emotional responses - and emotional responses led - so exquisitely! he sighed - to physical contact.

That new idea - and that new world the idea opened up to him - filled his mind for one last second, holding him back on the brink of his leap into this new world - then he surrendered himself to a world of physical sensation and emotion.

She continued to touch him, exploring every inch of his body with her own, letting him experience every sensation she could think of, listening to his responses, coming back time and time again to those things that evoked the strongest reactions, trying to gauge the moment when his pleasure would turn to torment. She pulled away every few minutes, watching him carefully, watching his body move reflexively, yearning for her touch, then smiling happily, turned her attention back to his body once more.

He gasped as her lips returned to his flesh, crying out as her hands gently stroked him, shivering uncontrollably under her gentle ministrations and his own anticipation. It was too much, too much, too much.

Driven beyond any physical pleasure he had known before, filled with a physical excitement he had never imagined, his body could resist no longer. Overcome by need, he reached for her, pulling her down beside him, beneath him, oblivious to her startled cry, struggling through the confusion of his overloaded senses and emotions to find the soft depths of her body.

Moving with her, within her, he felt the sensation mount, the warmth of her body, the sweet smell of her skin, the delicate caress of her flesh as it moved against his building in a celebration of slippery friction. It grew, his tormented pleasure, moment upon moment, building until he could bear it no longer. Desperate, overwhelmed, confused by the onslaught of sensation and emotion, he crushed his body to hers, as the waves of pleasure and release washed over him, time and time again, as he cried out in exquisite anguish, calling out her name, needing to know she was there, that she was with him.

That she would always be with him.


	64. Chapter 64

**Chapter 64**

Andile paced the hall, her hands clasped together, pressed against her lips - then spun around and stopped.

"What the hell is taking them so damned long?!" she exploded. "The gods curse them! They wake me up, order me to report here on the double - then make me stand here, cooling my heels for an hour!" she seethed at her android companion. "Gods, if they're going to question me, then question me!" she raged. "Don't make me spend my night out here, just... waiting!" she railed angrily.

"It has not been an hour, Lieutenant," Data replied calmly. "The call you received was made forty-three minutes ago - and we arrived eight point three minutes later. That means you have been waiting for..."

"Thirty-five minutes," she answered, nodding. "Yes, I know. I am capable of basic math, you know - as well as sabotaging the ship," she added acerbically.

He looked at her askance. "You have not sabotaged the ship, Andile."

"You try telling them that!" she retorted bitterly, only to hear his calm reply, "I intend to do so."

Startled by the gentleness of his tone - and the certainty of his conviction - Andile drew in a long breath then let it out in a repentant sigh. "Thank you, Data - but they have no more reason to believe you than they would believe me. Whatever they have against me..."

"But you do not know they have anything against you," he pointed out calmly.

She gave him a doubtful look. "Data, even at Utopia Planitia, where paranoia ran rampant, no one got paged out of bed - unless someone had something pretty damned convincing against them."

"But you have done nothing," the android began to protest.

"Data," Andile interrupted, "that's not true. I've done a lot of things in my life, many of which I'm not proud - and many of which could be misinterpreted. But I have never intentionally harmed this ship or anyone aboard her. And I would never betray Starfleet!" she added with an angry hiss.

"Then whatever they have found will be proven to be in error," he countered assuredly.

She looked up at him once again, her frayed nerves soothed by his gentle tones. "Thank you, dearest," she replied. "It's nice to have at least one person on this ship who believes in me."

"I do believe in you," he agreed, then added, "but I do not believe your decision was correct. You are excessively fatigued; you should have informed Cmdr. Riker that you were in such a state, and requested that he schedule this interrogation for later this morning. It is within your rights as a Starfleet officer," he reminded her.

"I know - but how much rest could I have gotten knowing this was hanging over my head?" she asked.

Data nodded, accepting her point, though not understanding it; fatigue was one of the few human conditions with which he had no familiarity.

Nonetheless, he could see the exhaustion in Andile's eyes, the grey pallor of her face, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the deep lines drawn across it; she was exhausted - and that exhaustion was, at least in part, his fault.

"Oh, no you don't!" she snapped at the guilty expression that began to cross his face, knowing full well its cause. "Don't you dare go blaming yourself for my being tired!"

"I should have permitted you to rest..." he began, but she cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.

"First of all, it was my idea," she reminded him. "And second of all..." She reached up and gently caressed his cheek. "Data, I wouldn't have missed that for the world."

He lay his hand over hers, then drew it to his lips, kissing it. "I, too, am gratified that I did not miss it," he agreed, still a little overwhelmed by the memory - then felt a surge of worry as a second memory came back. Pulling her hand away, he grew serious once again. "But... Ginger, you must be honest with me. Did... Did I injure you?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "Injure me?" she asked.

He hesitated, still stricken by his unexpected reaction, then explained, "You cried out. I have heard your cries when we have made love before - but this was not of that nature. I thought... I thought that in my loss of control that I may have hurt you..."

She stared at him, confused.

"I observed... there was blood on your legs, Ginger... If I harmed you..."

Understanding at last, she reached up to caress his face, then shook her head. "It was nothing, Data," she assured him - then smiled. "I just wasn't really ready. I thought I was in control of what was happening - and the next thing I knew, I wasn't," she admitted, remembering that sudden, terrifying moment when Data had suddenly pulled her down, rolling on top of her, a flash of pure terror filling her for an instant - and then realizing - indeed, absolutely knowing - that he would never hurt her.

"Next time, we'll go a bit slower, though," she continued, smiling reassuringly at the android, "so I have a chance to catch up - but don't worry; you didn't hurt me, dearest. I told you - you never would," she assured him.

If anything, she added as she looked at the woebegone expression on the android's face, I was afraid I had hurt you.

Even now, she could still see the look of terror that had filled his eyes in those final seconds as, for the first time in his life, he lost control - of his body, his sense, his emotions - and found himself no more able to stop than any human could have done that first time - any more than he had been able to stop himself from feeling the waves of pleasure that followed those tumultuous and terrifying seconds.

But it had been in the minutes afterward that Andile had grown truly worried, first as Data lay immobile over her, his head buried against her chest, refusing to answer her soft calls to him - then second, as he slowly raised her head to look at her - and she saw the track of the thick, oily tears that coursed down his face.

"Data...?"

"I... did not know," he whispered plaintively.

She smiled back at him sweetly, reaching up and brushing away his tears. "Dearest, no one knows what it's like - until they go through it," she added softly. "It's beyond description; you can't describe it. It's something everyone has to experience for themselves..."

"That is what I mean," he replied hollowly. "It is so... lonely."

"Lonely?" she echoed, taken aback.

"To know that what I have felt is limited to my mind, my body..." he began, then stopped and looked at her, "... and to know I cannot share that feeling with you," he explained, devastated by the new revelation.

She stared at him for a long time, realizing the terrible truth of what he was saying - then gently rolled him to one side, eased his head down on the pillow beside hers, then pulled the bed's covers over them both.

"You're right," she said softly. "We can't share that feeling, any more than we can share any feelings. You can never know what it is like for me - or I for you. But dearest," she added softly, "I do know how it feels for me - and now you know what it's like for you. I do so hope it was at least half as nice as what you do for me," she sighed.

For a moment, she looked into his eyes as she stroked his hair, then leaned forward, kissed him gently - and smiled. "The look on your face, Fred," she murmured delightedly, remembering his expression of terror - and bliss. "That look - and knowing I had helped you find that moment... Oh, Data," she said softly, contentedly, as she melted against his body, "I think you may be right, after all. Maybe there is a pleasure in knowing you can give someone that feeling - and now you know what that feeling is like..." she sighed, then smiled. "Data, right now, I'm just so happy. For you - and for me."

He stared at her, his eyes adjusting to the minimal light in the room so he could take in every nuance of her face, from her dark eyes, shining with joy, to her high, sharp cheekbones, to the soft and delicate curve of her lips...

He leaned forward to kiss them, then reached up, caressing the line of her cheek and jaw with his thumb, just as she liked him to do - then watched her close her eyes and shiver as the sensation swept over her.

I cannot share that sensation either, he thought to himself, any more than I can share her other sensations - but I can know she enjoyed it - and know that I brought that moment of pleasure to her.

It was not, and never would be the same thing as sharing the moment of physical bliss that culminated their lovemaking, he thought - but it was enough to know he could grant her that pleasure, as she had granted him his.

And together...

He kissed her again, then slowly drew his hand down the length of her body, watching her quiver at his touch - then stopped, raised his eyes to hers again, and added to his unspoken question, "If you are not too fatigued?"

She didn't answer, only reached up, took his head in her hands and began to kiss him, deeply, thoroughly - and, he realized, hungrily.

She had fallen asleep much later, after they were both sated, her hours of work and worry finally taking their toll on her body, leaving him to contemplate the wonders of his new world - their new world, he had realized with a jolt of surprise, for he suddenly knew that his world could no longer exist without her.

But before he could explore the idea further, he had heard the chirp of a comm badge coming from where she had placed her neatly folded uniform - and a moment later, heard the call for her - urgent and insistent - and, he realized from the look on her over-tired face as she heard it, terrifying.

That had been fifty-three minutes before, he thought - and he could still see the terror - and the exhaustion - in her face and on her body. She should not be doing this, he thought to himself; she was too tired, too worn out...

...and yet this was what she wanted to do, he reminded himself.

He shook his head, not completely understanding - and yet realizing that this, like so many other of his lessons of that night, was another aspect to sharing a life with someone - sublimating one's own desires to that of another.

Knowing there were no more arguments he could make to persuade her to change her mind, he did the only other thing he knew would help her; reaching out, he took her hand in his.

A moment later, however, he released it as he heard the sound of the conference room doors open, and watched as Will Riker stepped into the hall.

"Lt. Andile..." he began, then stopped as he saw Data standing beside her. "Data...?" he asked, confused.

"I am here as Lt. Andile's counsel," Data replied smoothly.

"That's not necessary, Data," Will replied. "This is just a preliminary interrogation..."

"Starfleet regulations permit the presence of counsel at any trial, inquiry or interrogation," Data countered. "Regulation five oh three..."

"I know the regulations," Will interrupted, then looked at Andile grimly, "I would have thought, however, that if you were as innocent as you proclaimed, you wouldn't have thought counsel necessary," he told her.

She glared back at him. "Damned if I do and damned if I don't - is that how it goes aboard this ship, Commander? I invoke my rights - and I'm automatically guilty? You have a really interesting system of justice here, sir - why do you even bother with a trial at all?" she glowered.

"This is not a trial, Lieutenant..." Riker began, only to see her sneer back.

"No kidding," she grumbled bitterly. "A trial grants the defendant rights - and doesn't complain when she uses them," she retorted. "Well, come on, let's get to it - before you decide on a summary execution as well," she added, then stomped into the room ahead of the two men.

Will looked at Data, who replied, "The lieutenant is within her rights to seek legal assistance," he reminded the first officer.

"Yes - but you have to see how this looks, Data," Will began to argue in protest.

"Yes, sir," Data concurred blandly. "It looks as though you do not wish to give her a fair hearing. After you, sir," he added, gesturing for the tall man to proceed him.

The conference room was dark, dimly lit but for the four circles of intense light that shone down on the long table that filled the center of the room, two shining down on the distant side of the table, one at the end, where the witnesses who would testify against her would sit, and the last one for her, on the near side of the table, alone and isolated.

The rest of the room was black, the bright lights at the table blinding the participants to the presence - or absence - of anyone else, friend or enemy.

Andile seemed to take the darkness in stride, Riker thought as he watched the tiny engineer study the room - just as she seemed to take her place at the table with equal ease - or practice, he added.

She's been through this before, he thought ominously, beginning the count of strikes against her with this, her first move.

It didn't get better when, a moment later, she glared at Riker as he took his place across from her - then glowered at Worf as he sat beside the first officer.

"I should have known you'd be here," she growled

Riker raised a brow. "You disapprove of Mr. Worf's presence, Lieutenant?" he asked suspiciously.

"I disapprove the presence of any person who is so intent on the pursuit of evidence that they ignore understanding, explanation - and compassion," she replied.

Riker gave her a look. "Why would an innocent person require explanation or compassion Lieutenant - unless there was something in the evidence that required them," he added grimly.

"Because no one, Commander - no one! - not human or Klingon, has ever lived a life so free of error or poor judgment that an ounce of compassion or understanding wouldn't bring their actions into light," she replied tersely. "Present company excepted, of course," she added. "I'm sure Cmdr. Worf's murder of Duras went without question or reprimand. And the gods know your exploits on the Pegasus were irreproachable," she said with a knowing look.

Riker glared back - then forced himself to be calm, recognizing what he presumed to be a diversionary tactic for what it was - a ploy of Lt. Andile's to take the attention away from her own actions.

Strike two, he thought grimly.

"But we're not here about your errors or Cmdr. Worf's," she continued. "We're here to damn me - so let's get down to it, shall we?" she said.

Riker stared at her, a little taken aback by her unexpected bluntness, then took a moment to regroup himself by taking his chair, shuffling the padds and reports before him then quickly reviewing the top one.

Affixing Andile with a firm look, he said, "Lt. Andile, service record three two four five oh oh eight oh four B, you are hereby requested and required to submit yourself for interrogation in the matter of your actions during your tenure aboard the Enterprise E, stardates, five three seven oh four through five four oh oh nine, inclusive," Riker intoned solemnly. "Your answers will be part of an ongoing investigation that may lead to further charges, which may include treason and sedition."

Andile drew in a short gasp of air as he spoke the words, then bit her lip.

You knew that's what it was all about, she reminded herself tersely.

But to hear the words! she protested, starting to glance behind her, to the chair where Data, as counsel, was entitled to sit - then forced herself to stop, turning her eyes, thoughts and her attention back to the two men before her.

This was my problem, she reminded herself; no one - not even Data - can help me now.

Still, she took a quick peek at the man behind her, studying his face, letting his image soak into her mind...

... as if seeing him for the last time, Will realized.

As if she knows how this will end - because she knows she's guilty.

Strike three, he thought hollowly, realizing he was going to win this victory - but at a cost he did not want to pay.

One he did not want her to pay either, he added a moment later, surprised by the feeling of compassion for the woman - the traitor! he insisted vehemently - who sat before him.

Steeling himself against the unwanted emotion, he glanced at the padd before him - then looked at Andile.

"For the record, Lieutenant, please state your name, rank and identification number," he ordered her firmly.

"Andile, rank, Lieutenant, Starfleet identification number three-two-four-five-oh-oh-eight-oh-four B," she replied equally tersely, then added a belligerent, "sir."

Riker nodded. "Lieutenant," he said, repeating the word to himself while staring at the padd - then looked at her. "For how long?" he suddenly asked.

Andile's eyes widened in surprise, then she gave a shrug, as if the answers - or the questions, or the outcome of the interrogation, for that matter - were no longer of any concern to her. "Fifty-two years, seven months, four days. Sir."

"Fifty-two years?" he echoed. "But you've been in Starfleet for over eighty years, isn't that correct?" he pressed.

"Your point being...?" she replied.

"Just answer the question, Lieutenant!" Riker barked at her.

"Commander, you have a copy of my personnel file on that padd," she snapped, pointing at the device in his hand. "I have no doubts that Starfleet has been able to log my various ranks and my tenure therein - and I'm certain that the ship's computer can total them up for you!"

"Lieutenant..." Riker began to seethe.

Data, who until this moment had been sitting in silence in the counselor's position, directly behind Andile, leaned forward, raising a hand, as if asking for a moment's interruption. "Sir, if I may..."

"Commander," Riker countered, "the lieutenant does have the right to have a counselor attend these proceedings, but, as counsel, you may not offer the defendant guidance or advice on her responses to the questions," he reminded the android.

"I am fully aware of my obligations, Commander," Data replied. "I would request, however, the court's indulgence for a moment while I instruct my client on her... behavior," he concluded.

For a moment, Riker seemed tempted to decline the suggestion - but seeing the fury rising in Andile's eyes in these, the very first moments of the session, he realized that if there was any chance of this proceeding coming to a close in a reasonable period of time - and without Andile driving him to murder first - it might only happen with the android's intervention.

Not that the outcome would be in doubt, he added grimly.

Knowing that, he nodded to Data, then turned his back as the android placed his lips close to Andile's ear.

"Lieutenant, your adversarial attitude..."

"Commander, he's already made up his mind!" she snapped, not bothering to lower her voice. "He's already convicted me without even bothering to hear all the facts - so why should I make this simple for him?"

Data looked at her sympathetically. "Because... Because he is doing his job, Lieutenant. It is something that, as the ship's first officer, he must do. Do not confuse this responsibility with personal feeling; Commander Riker knows that each has its time and place - but he, like you, knows that his obligation to the ship and the crew must come ahead of his own feelings," he reminded her gently. "Above all else, he will do what is best for this ship."

"Even if that means sending me to the brig," she countered.

Or the gallows, she added silently.

Data shook his head resolutely. "That," he said firmly, "would not be in the best interests of the ship."

Andile stared at him, then gave a small nod, accepting his advice, then turned back to face Riker as Data took his place behind her once again.

Andile drew a deep breath, then ran the question in her head once more. "Yes, sir. I've been in Starfleet for eighty-seven years."

"And only fifty-two as a lieutenant - and never a rank higher than that," Riker repeated. "That's not a very impressive service record, is it?" he asked her pithily.

Andile shrugged. "No, sir. But then, I never wanted to be the youngest captain in Starfleet."

Against his will, Riker felt his cheeks flame in embarrassment. That, he told her silently, had been an old goal, a goal when time and position had meant more to him than the people he worked with. A goal that a young man might seek - before he learned that there were other paths to follow - and that a captain's chair might not be the only goal worth finding in life.

Or that the captain's chair might become a goal that would be taken away, a part of him echoed softly.

For a moment, the embarrassment turned to sickening reality - then both emotions were pushed away. "Perhaps not - but you did make a swift climb through the ranks in your first few years, reaching lieutenant in seven years. Quite impressive," he added.

Andile said nothing, her expression impassive.

"Not quite as impressive as your demotion, however. Insubordination, wasn't it?" he asked.

Andile shrugged. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Will asked sharply. "You don't remember the court martial? You don't remember your actions at Jewoworski Seven being described as being performed "against Starfleet policy and in flagrant disregard for the captain's specific order regarding the mission"?" Riker pressed.

She thought for a moment. "I remember, sir; I remember Lukas, Anderson, Roberts, H'hawar, O'Connor and T'pok, sir."

"Pardon?" Riker replied.

Andile looked up at him. "I remember those six, sir. I remember bringing them home - alive. The captain's orders - and Starfleet's policy at that time - would have left them all for dead. I remember that, sir."

"You were broken in rank, reduced to ensign!" Riker retorted.

Andile nodded calmly.

"Not once - but seventeen times! And each time for insubordination, ignoring orders, failure to follow ship's procedures, or Starfleet policy..."

Andile continued to nod.

"Seventeen courts-martial, Lieutenant!" Riker seethed. "And each time, you were broken to a lesser rank, and forced to work your way back..."

"No, sir," she interrupted.

The contradiction startled Riker. "Pardon?"

"No, sir. I was never _forced_ to work my way back. That was my choice, my decision. I could have left if I had chosen," she reminded him.

"But you didn't," he reminded her.

"No, sir. For the most part, I like Starfleet," she explained.

"For the most part - but when there are things you don't like, you simply ignore them? Is that it?" he pressed.

Andile smiled. "Sir, I like Earth fruit. I'm quite partial to peaches, in fact - but that doesn't mean they're all worth eating. Some are bruised, others rotten - you don't bother with them when there are alternatives available."

"And so you didn't 'bother' with those orders you felt were worth following?" Will pressed.

"No, sir - not when there were alternatives available - like keeping my ship and my crewmates alive," she replied evenly.

"And you feel you're qualified to override the decision of your superiors?" he gibed.

She gave him a studied look. "Commander, I'm not just qualified - I'm obligated to disobey those rules."

"Indeed?"

"As are you," she reminded him. "Starfleet isn't about blind obedience - it's about exploration - of the worlds around us - and of ourselves. It teaches us to use our training, knowledge, experience - and our wisdom - to bring about the best outcomes for the maximum number of people possible."

"And disregarding the chain of command!" he reminded her sharply.

"If needs be," she agreed. "I made what I knew was the necessary decision - and I paid the price, knowingly - and willingly," she answered easily.

"How noble of you, Lieutenant," he said sarcastically.

The remark should have generated a flare of anger in the woman, Will thought - but instead, all he saw was a cold and empty look.

"I never said it was noble, Commander. I was just doing my job," she said quietly.

"Just as you were 'doing your job' overseeing the installation of the new power conduits in the Gettysburg at Utopia Planitia six months ago?" Worf asked, rising to take Riker's place as the inquisitor.

Andile blanched and felt herself rocked back in the chair by the force of the question.

"I... I..."

"Two men were killed when they tried to install a power line in that ship, Lieutenant," he growled, "a power line that you said was ready for installation - and that you stated that hadn't been connected to the warp generators," he added.

"It hadn't! I checked it out myself the night before!" she cried out. "And I would have checked it again before the installation, but..."

"But you didn't," he reminded her brutally.

"I intended to!" she snapped back. "Installation was scheduled for oh- eleven hundred; I arrived at oh-six thirty for the pre-inspection - but they had already started - against my standing orders!"

"Is that your excuse? They acted against orders - when you yourself have been demoted seventeen times for that same reason? Acting against orders?" he snarled.

Andile glared back at the Klingon. "It's not the same thing - and you know it! I disobeyed orders to save lives. They disobeyed..." She shook her head. "I don't know why they did what they did - but I do know that I never tried to shirk my responsibility in the matter! I took the full blame for what happened!"

"And lost two promotions because of it!" Worf retorted.

Andile stared at him blankly. "Two promotions? I don't understand," she said.

Worf glared at her. "Are you denying you've been passed over for promotion eight times - four times in the last ten years, and twice in the last six months..."

"I..." Andile interrupted, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I was not passed over for those last two promotions," she objected. "I declined them."

Will stared at her for a moment, then glanced at the padd. "You declined them?" he asked, as if to confirm her answer.

"Yes, sir..." she began, but it was his turn to interrupt.

"No, Lieutenant," he said fiercely. "You did not 'decline' the positions! Your applications were denied - I have a copy of Admiral Czymszczak's signature on both forms..."

"What?!" Andile exploded.

Worf looked at her, suddenly calm. "You, Lt. Andile, were denied promotion to Lieutenant Commander on two occasions, having been cited as 'ineligible for promotion due to your inability to maintain the chain of command'. I have a copy of the forms here in your personnel file, signed by Admiral Czymszczak himself."

Andile felt her jaw drop as Worf's words faded from her consciousness, passing by her unnoticed and unnoted. But... that isn't what happened! she protested silently - then felt the last remaining trace of hope, so deeply hidden within herself that she hadn't even suspected its existence, fade into oblivion.

They changed the records, she realized. They had changed the history of what had happened, of what she had done, of who she had been - they had changed everything!

And with it, every chance she had of surviving this disaster.


	65. Chapter 65

**Chapter 65**

Andile felt her shoulders slump in defeat - but she was beyond feeling anything else.

Oblivious to her resignation, Worf continued. "And bitter at those losses, angry at having been passed over for two promotions you felt you should have received, enraged at having spent half your career as nothing more than a lieutenant - and having lost that position countless times! - you began to plan, with the agents of another government, on how to overthrow the Federation - beginning with this ship."

Wheeling around, the Klingon angrily stabbed the door button, and called in the first witness.

Martha Paklix took the stand first, reluctant but resolved, admitting that in the moments after the lights had failed in the accessway that she had been too shaken to be certain Andile had done nothing beside the work that had been ordered.

Geordi LaForge testified next, resentful at having to betray his friend, yet not entirely certain he wasn't doing the right thing, reporting the discrepancies between Andile's report and Martha Paklix's - especially in finding one of the hatchway seals undogged after finding Andile in the Jeffries tube - after Paklix's report had specified having seen Andile make all four seals.

Rasputin Valdez, the Security guard, followed them both, reporting that he had seen Andile and the Cardassian ambassador having a long and animated talk in the hallway - only to have the lieutenant run away when she realized he was approaching.

I could explain, Andile thought to herself - but it no longer would make any difference, numb from the unexpected blows to her soul.

And equally numbly, she watched as the witnesses left the room, each unable to meet her eyes.

It no longer matters, she thought dully; they don't believe in me anymore.

But then, I'm not sure I believe in me anymore.

Where does my reality start - and their reality end? Oh, gods, how can I know if what I think I remember really happened - or if it was all some horrible nightmare?

She stared at her folded hands, the thick bands of white scar tissue making small bulges in the tight-fitting sleeves.

For how many years did I cling to you, knowing, thinking that you were my only attachment to reality - only to have to wonder now if anything was every real. Did I make this all up? Was it all some drug-induced craze? Did any of it happen?

She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping, praying, that somewhere between the nightmare of the present and the nightmare of the past, there might have been a quieter, more peaceful reality - but even as she shut her eyes, she knew the truth.

And the truth, she realized as well, was going to have to stay with her, and her alone, forever.

She listened, no longer able to respond to Riker or Worf, no longer interested in the damning evidence they elicited from those who had once been her friends and co-workers; silent, she sat in her isolated circle of light, praying to her gods that this - that everything! - might end soon.

"Commander Data, take the stand."

Andile started, the words cutting like a knife through the fog of pain that enveloped her. Turning she watched as the startled android rose from his chair - then stopped.

"Cmdr. Riker, it would be inappropriate of me to testify. I am the lieutenant's counsel..."

"Cmdr. Data, you are serving as her counsel in an informal interrogation - not as her appointed legal advisor," Riker reminded him. "As such, you must recognize that your first duty is to the safety and well-being of this mission, this ship and her crew - not to any one individual."

"Commander," Data countered, "I have learned that if we do not recognize the value of the individual ahead of the value of a group, then we demean the value of all. I cannot testify..."

Andile interrupted. "Data," she called to him quietly.

He turned to her, worry heavy in his golden eyes. "I will not..."

"You will," she countered. "You must. If you don't, they can throw you out of Starfleet."

He cocked his head to one side and stared into her eyes. "Then so be it," he said.

"No!" she snapped back. "Not 'so be it!' Starfleet is your life, Data! I don't want you to give it up for me! Not for some stupid trial that means nothing - and will not change anything! Data, if you believe in me, if you believe in what I believe, then you have to do this!" she insisted. "You have to testify!"

He looked at her, stricken at the idea. "But..."

"No 'buts'," she insisted - then softened her expression and lowered her voice so only he could hear the soft whisper. "I said it last night - and I'll say it again: You cannot hurt me. Not then - and not now. Now do your duty," she insisted.

Miserably, Data took the chair - and was presented a charred and scorched black box.

The android studied the box for a moment, then looked at Worf.

"You recognize it?" the Klingon asked.

"I do not recognize it, per se," Data said, "but I am aware that it is a standard communications relay unit, labeled with an identifier that would indicate it was the unit that shorted out yesterday at fourteen thirty-two hours."

"No, sir," Worf contradicted him.

Data gave the Klingon a surprised look. "It is not that unit?" he replied. "Then the markings are in error?"

"No, sir - the marking are correct. The unit, however, did not short out," Worf clarified. "Please study the unit."

Data did so, then looked up again, patiently waiting.

"Are you aware of the construction materials used in the communications relay you are holding?"

Data tilted his head, accessing the file, then nodded. "Yes, sir. A velornium hyperepoxy casing enclosing a..."

"And do you recognize the nature of the damage on the exterior of the housing?" Worf interrupted.

"It would appear to be a scorch mark; based on the pattern and location, it could be reasonably assumed to be electrical in nature," he added.

"And at what power level does velornium hyperpoxy scorch?" Worf asked.

Data referred to the open computer file in his mind. "Eleven hundred kilojoules," he replied.

"And are you aware of the location of that communication relay?"

"Jeffries tube seven A," Data replied.

"And Jeffries tube seven A contains what type of power conduits?" Worf continued.

"Low voltage," Data replied, suddenly understanding the nature of the Klingon's questions - and seeing where they were heading all too easily.

"Are there any power lines within that tube that carry the a current of eleven hundred kilojoules?" Worf pressed.

"No, sir."

"And why not?"

"Because of the nature of the conduits in that Jeffries tube; they are all parts of the ships internal and external sensor systems. Any accidental power surge could damage the sensors," Data replied.

"And is there anything else that is unusual about that Jeffries tube?" Worf continued.

Data nodded. "Yes, sir. It is one of the Jeffries tubes that is under Security protocols; no one without a Security access is permitted access to the tube."

"And does Lt. Andile have a Security access code to that tube?" he pressed.

"Not to the best of my knowledge," Data answered, knowing at one level that the information should vindicate Andile - and yet knowing that Worf would not be asking him these questions if he did not already have the answers he wanted.

"Then would it surprise you to learn that the comm relay unit you are holding has Lt. Andile's fingerprints on it?"

It obviously did surprise the android; he turned and stared at the woman - then resolutely turned back to his inquisitor. "No, sir, it would not. The lieutenant oversaw many stages of the original installation of this ship; she might well have..." he began to say - then stopped.

Yes, Andile might well have installed the communications relay four years before, when she first worked on the ship - but the hands she held clasped before her now were not the hands she had then. Those hands had been lost in the accident - and with them her fingerprints had gone as well. Whatever fingerprints she would have left then would be different from the ones she left now.

Sobered, he looked up at Worf. "Yes, sir - it would surprise me. However, it does not change the fact that Lt. Andile does not have a Security identification password..."

"Are you certain of that, Commander?" Worf pressed. "Is it not true that you gave Lt. Andile access to your password?"

Data looked at the Klingon in astonishment. "Commander, I have never..."

"Yes, you did, Commander," Andile interrupted, her soft voice cutting through the air. "You didn't even realize you did it - but you did," she said quietly.

Studying her folded hand, refusing to look her lover - or her accusers - in the eye, she spoke. "The night I... injured my hand. You used the password to override the presets on the water control. The computer logged in the use," she said, realizing how Worf had come across this piece of information. "You thought I was unconscious - but I heard what you said," she said numbly - then raised her head to look at him. "But I never used it," she insisted softly.

Data considered her words for a moment, then looked at Worf. "Commander, regardless of the presence of fingerprints, there would be a record of the individual access code uses, their date and time, in the computer..."

"Those records were among several others that were damaged when the replicator circuits failed - a failure that was traced back to a dead computer memory cell - a cell that has been shown to have been deliberately damaged," Worf pointed out.

"Sir," Andile interrupted, "I was with Cmdr. Data at the time of the replicator failure..."

"But the cell was damaged some time before that," Riker spoke up. "Several hours in fact - at a time when you were alleged to have been working on a report in the Jeffries tube outside the accessway - a report you were working on just moments after meeting with the Cardassian ambassador!" he seethed.

Horrified, Andile shook her head. "I didn't _meet_ with her! I gave her directions! She was lost!"

"Quite elaborate directions," Worf growled sarcastically. "My Security officer said the two of you spoke for several minutes - and that she handed you a padd!"

Andile shook her head. "No! She startled me and I dropped mine - she picked it up and gave it back. That's all. And then I told her how to get back to her quarters!"

"In Cardassian?" Riker interjected, his tone accusatory.

"Yes, in Cardassian," Andile snapped back, her tone equally sharp.

"Why? Why did you respond to her in that language? Why not just let the Universal Translator convert the words for you?"

"It was an automatic reaction! She was Cardassian - so I responded in her language!"

"An automatic reaction? Because you're so familiar with seeing Cardassians that you automatically speak the language?" Worf asked.

Andile's mouth opened and closed, unable to get the words out.

"Lieutenant, where were you from stardate four nine nine three seven until five zero four three six?" Riker suddenly asked.

Andile went white. "I was... at Sipantha Station..."

"You were not!" Riker exploded. "You were on Cardassia Prime!" he roared, then threw a padd in front of her, a holographic image captured on its face.

Andile glanced at it, then sickened, turned away.

"You recognize him - or what's left of him?" Riker asked.

Andile, her head turned away, said nothing.

"Then I'll tell you. It's Cmdr. Enshar Ouzang - the command officer assigned - allegedly assigned - to lead the research program at Sipantha Station," Riker informed her. "According to Starfleet records he was killed there, his body destroyed in the explosion that almost killed you!"

"Yes, sir," Andile whispered.

"How then, Lieutenant, can you explain this picture - a picture of his mutilated corpse? A picture that was retrieved from the files of the Cardassian Secret Service - a file that contained the holoimages of the tens of thousands of prisoners of war that were tortured and killed on Cardassia Prime during the Dominion War? How do you explain that, Lieutenant?"

Andile went white, then shook her head. "I cannot answer that, sir."

"Then explain this!" he growled, slapping down another padd, revealing another mutilated and beaten body. "Lt. Sarah McGowan - allegedly your second at Sipantha - allegedly another victim of that dreadful explosion? How did her picture - as well as Cmdr. Ouzang's - end up in a Cardassian torture camp file?!" he shouted at the woman.

"Sir," Andile whispered, clenching the arms of her chair so tightly that her fingers were white from the pressure, "I cannot answer that."

"Then maybe you can answer this," Worf said, presenting a third padd. "Explain how you, who have just testified that you were at Sipantha Station from stardate four nine nine three seven until five zero four three six, could also be in this holoimage, taken by Federation spies on Cardassia - on stardate five zero zero three two?" he said, sliding the image before her.

Against her will, Andile glanced at the picture - then looked away and drew a long, slow breath.

"That is you, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Worf said, glancing at the image, his voice growing even rougher, angrier, as he began to focus his fury on the obviously guilty woman.

And she was guilty, he knew; guilty of treason, conspiracy, sabotage - all his suspicions confirmed in a single holoimage.

Admittedly, there was little of substance in the picture: a garbage heap at the end of a long alley, with two figures just discernable in the shadows - but in the moment that the holocamera had caught the image, both faces had been in full light, the images unequivocally clear, and the identity of one, unmistakable - despite time, age - and prosthetics.

"That is you, Lieutenant," Worf roared, his voice roaring to a thunderous crescendo. "Isn't it? Isn't it?!"

For a moment, she didn't reply, then slowly raised her eyes to the Klingon. "Sir, I cannot answer that question," she said resolutely.

Worf stared at her, completely taken aback by the sudden change in the woman - then jabbed a finger at the padd.

"Then I will," he roared. "The woman is you - despite your attempt at disguising your features! The computer was able to scan for a partial retinal image - and it was a perfect match with yours! You were on Cardassia, Lieutenant - without orders, without Federation knowledge - and betraying your people, the Federation and Starfleet to our enemies! Admit it!"

"Sir," she repeated stiffly, "I cannot answer that question."

"There was no question!" he roared back, infuriated by her demeanor - but resolved to press on. "You betrayed your people - starting with this man," he thundered, jabbing a finger at the other image on the padd. "This man was a Federation agent, responsible for reporting the movements of the Cardassian military. Moments after this picture was taken, he was captured by the Cardassian Secret Service - and presumably killed - but unlike the rest of your team that you betrayed, the Cardassians never kept a picture of his corpse! Maybe there wasn't enough of him left to be recognized when they were through with him - when you were through betraying him!" he roared furiously.

"That's what happened, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Riker pressed, his voice firm, yet gentle in contrast to the raging Klingon, offering the woman a touch of reason in the furious storm of emotions - and perhaps a place of refuge.

He dropped his voice even lower. "That was what happened, wasn't it, Lieutenant?" he asked her gently. "You were assigned to a mission on Cardassia - a mission from which you and your colleagues had little chance of returning. It was hardly a fitting end to a life dedicated to Starfleet - a dedication that was never repaid with position or honor, just with long years of unappreciated work.

"You felt that you had given enough, that enough - more than enough had been asked of you already; that to be told your life was going to be forfeit on what could only be seen as a one-way mission..." He shook his head sympathetically. "You turned to the Cardassians - or maybe they came to you, offering you those very things the Federation had denied you - position, promotion, the opportunities that we had never given you - and you saw a chance to finally get those things you felt we had kept from you. And the cost... They told you they would let the rest of the mission members go, didn't they - said they would question them - then return them under a prisoner exchange. You didn't know - you trusted them..." he continued.

"That's what happened, isn't it?" he coaxed her. "You weren't trying to hurt anyone. I understand - and if you admit it now, if you confess what happened, how you were convinced by the Cardassians that none of the others were going to be harmed... I'm sure it will go in your favor. The death sentence is only for treasoners, Lieutenant; confess what happened, and they'll go easy on you - not even a life sentence. Given your age, maybe only ten years, maybe at one of the lower security prisons... Make it easy on yourself..." he pleaded.

For the briefest of moments, Riker thought he saw a glimmer of hope in the woman's eyes, a need to confess, to admit what happened - then the moment passed, and her eyes clouded over, turning icy - and stone hard.

"Sir," she said firmly, "I cannot answer your question."

"Damn it, Lieutenant!" he railed, his aplomb instantly lost, "Do you know how the execute treasoners? It's not civilized - because betraying the people and the principles you claimed you once held is not a civilized act!

Grabbing the arm of her chair, he spun it around so it faced him, then leaned down to her, his eyes on a level with hers, their faces only inches apart, his voice dropping to a low. "That morning - the last morning you will be alive - they wake you early, take you from your bed, and let you wash yourself one last time. And then they dress you in prison whites and chain your hands to your waist. And then they lead you from your cell to the gallows - the gallows, Lieutenant! They walk you up those thirteen steps - the hardest steps you'll ever climb - and, while whatever priests you may believe in say their final words over you, they put a mask over your head, then put a rope around your neck!

"It's a thick and heavy rope, rough and coarse - it scratches at your skin as they pronounce your sentence - but you can't scratch it, because your hands are manacled together. And then they tighten that rope, and say the final words, and someone, somewhere, pulls a lever... and you drop!" he said.

"You drop - and if you're lucky and they calculated it right, your neck breaks and you die! But if they make a mistake, if you're too thin or too small, you just hang there, slowly suffocating, choking as the rope slowly tightens, unable to breathe, the supply of blood to your brain cut off just enough so you can feel every moment of your death. It's slow and horrible as your body thrashes and convulses - and you're aware of every moment, every second of your death!" he said softly. "It's a hideous death, Lieutenant - but no worse than the ones that you condemned your fellow officers to," he said cruelly. "And there is no one in Starfleet - no one! - who would refuse to pull that lever if they knew what you had done!"

"So confess - spare yourself that end!" he hissed. "You don't deserve that mercy - but we'll give you that one chance - if you confess to your treason - and to your sabotage of this ship!"

Andile stared at him for a long time, slumping as if the vitriol in his words had sapped her of her last ounce of energy. "I never betrayed my ship," she insisted wearily, numbly. "I never betrayed my... crew."

"No?" he snapped back, Riker's tone suddenly sharp and acid once again. "Then why did we find your fingerprints on the communications relay unit - a unit that contained a detonator strong enough to destroy the unit - and to send a surge of power down the line, just strong enough to damage the computer memory section where Security records were contained - a piece of knowledge you obtained when you helped install the replacement memory cells that were required - because you said the iso-linear chips did not need to be replaced!" Riker seethed.

"Sir," she tried weakly, "It's coincidence... I didn't install that comm unit..."

"And is it coincidence that the sensor failure that we have been trying to repair was caused by whoever installed that unit?" Worf rebutted.

"And is it coincidence," Riker asked, "that the power surge that killed the computer memory cell was caused by an electrical surge - that began at the very time you reported you were in the Jeffries tube, writing a report?"

"I..." she started weakly.

"A tube that Cmdr. La Forge reported as having not been properly sealed when he found you there - despite a report from Lt. Paklix that indicates she saw you seal it earlier?"

"I... I..." I can explain! she screamed to them silently - but she couldn't, she reminded herself. She could explain it - to no one.

Even if they would believe her, they could never know. No one could know.

Dying inside, she felt the world around her beginning to fade, even as the questions began to come at her, faster and faster - then suddenly jerked her head up. "What?" she asked blearily.

"I said, 'Where were you at oh-two hundred hours this morning?" Riker repeated.

Deanna Troi suddenly grasped Jean-Luc Picard's arm, clenching it tightly in the blackened corner of the conference room from where the two had watched the proceedings in silence.

Startled - but far too aware and too appreciative of the abilities of the empath not to respond, he lowered his head towards hers, and caught the frantic whisper.

"Something's wrong, Captain!" Deanna insisted. "I've felt almost nothing from her all this time - but just now, I suddenly felt..."

"What?" Picard whispered back. "Guilt?"

"No," Deanna replied. "Terror. No," she amended as the emotion began to identify itself to her. "Fear. Unreasoning, overwhelming panic!"

"Because she's believes we've finally got solid evidence?" he whispered back.

"No!" Deanna insisted. "It's not about that. It's about something else - something far more important... something she's hiding - that she feels must be kept hidden! Captain, you have to stop this - or she will..." She turned to him, her worry suddenly escalating to terror. "Captain, she would die rather than let this truth come out."

Oblivious to the whispered conversation at the other end of the room, "Two hundred?" she repeated dimly. "I... I was in bed," Andile replied, her voice breaking. "But... why?"

"Because at oh-two thirty this morning, we detected a build-up of resistance in the one of the main circuits of the computer," he informed her, almost triumphantly. "Approximately thirty minutes earlier, someone had deliberately killed enough cells to cause life support to the computer core to fail. Until now, there was always the possibility that everything that's happened has been nothing more than coincidence - pure bad luck and a rushed installation.

"But this was the second time that someone deliberately killed a neural cell - and this time, we were ready, waiting for that tell-tale change in the resistance; we were able to remove the damaged cells before the computer circuit could be destroyed! Your sabotage didn't succeed, Lieutenant," he gloated.

"And it was sabotage, Lieutenant; this time there is unequivocal evidence that the damage was deliberate - sabotage of which you were one of the few people on the ship capable of performing. Now tell me, Lieutenant, where were you at oh two hundred hours?"

"I told you..." she began again, only to be interrupted by Riker.

"I know what you told me - you were in bed!" he roared back. "A lie, Lieutenant! Computer logs show there was no one in your quarters at that time..."

Suddenly rising from his chair, Data interrupted the first officer. "Sir," he began, "I can..."

"No!" Andile suddenly cried out, interrupting the android. Jumping up from the chair, she planted herself between the two men. "I admit it!" she shouted at the first officer. "I confess! I'm the saboteur..."

At once, Worf and Data each reached to grab her, one intent on taking her into custody, the other determined to reason with her.

"Lieutenant," Worf began grimly, "you are under arrest for..."

"Andile," Data pleaded, "You cannot do this..." he began, then turned to Riker. "Commander," he started beseechingly, only to be drowned out by Andile's panicky cry. "Don't listen to him!"

"Captain," Deanna whispered urgently as the chaotic scene unfolded before them, "you have to stop this - now!"

Picard studied the terrified Betazoid for a moment - then rose to his feet.

"Enough!" he called out. "Computer, room illumination at norms."

Startled, the room fell silent, all of them freezing in place as the room's lights returned, their attention locked on the man as he stepped toward them, studying the tangle of people as he did so.

One by one, he met their eyes, trying to make sense of the chaos of information and evidence they had presented, studying those he knew best first - then finally turning his focus on Andile.

She met his gaze for a moment - then slowly turned her head away.

He turned his attention back to the group.

"Sir, you heard her confession," Worf began, his hand still firmly wrapped about the engineer's tiny arm, while Data countered with, "Captain, Lt. Andile could not have..." And Riker, still wanting to plead his case, piped in, "Sir, we do have sufficient cause to..."

"Enough!" Picard roared a second time, then raised both hands in plea for silence. Glancing back over his shoulder, he watched as the Betazoid studied the tiny engineer - then slowly shook her head, and silently mouthed one word, "No."

With a sigh, Picard looked back at the tableau before him, then lowered his hands. "Comdr. Riker, Cmdr. Worf, I thank you for your work in trying to resolve this matter - but I will take it from here. You are dismissed," he added to both men's complete astonishment.

"Captain," Will began to protest, "We do have evidence..."

"Sir, the Lieutenant confessed..." Worf protested angrily.

"I am aware," Picard interrupted, his patience obvious - but obviously tried as well, "of the evidence against the lieutenant. I am also aware," he added bluntly, "of the validity of 'confessions' derived under such trying circumstances. We will," he added quickly, "continue this tomorrow - after we have all had some sleep."

"Sir," Worf argued, "at least permit me to assign a guard to... accompany... the lieutenant to her quarters."

Picard nodded. "I understand your concern, Commander - but it will be unnecessary. I will accompany the lieutenant back to her quarters," he said firmly, ready to brook no argument from the Klingon about the matter.

"Sir," Data interjected, "I will accept responsibility for escorting the lieutenant..."

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Data," Picard said, "but she's isn't going to leave quite yet," he informed them all. He looked at the petite woman. "The lieutenant and I need to talk."

Startled, Andile raised her eyes from where they had been locked on the floor to meet the man's - then, for what seemed the umpteenth time that night, felt all possibility of hope flee. Sick at heart, she sank back into the defendant's chair, her hands folded together before her, her eyes locked miserably on their interfaced fingers.

"Then I will wait for her," Data tried again, only to see Picard shake his head.

"That will not be necessary, Mr. Data," he said firmly. "You," he began, then looked at the other two men - and then at Deanna as well, "are all dismissed."

The four looked at each other, then slowly, reluctantly, they began to filter from the room, until only three remained: Andile, Picard, and Data.

"Sir..." the android began, but Picard silenced him with a glance.

"Mr. Data, whatever it is can wait until tomorrow," he informed the man.

Data considered that for a moment. "Yes, sir. However... If your discussion with Lt. Andile is to discuss her possible complicity in the matter of the sabotage..."

"It will include that, yes," Picard conceded.

"Then" Data continued, "I may be able to attest to the Lieutenant's lack of involvement."

Picard stared at the man, surprised by the certitude in the man's voice.

"Indeed?" he countered.

"Yes, sir - providing that I know the exact time frame during which the sabotage occurred this evening," he added.

Picard considered - both the time frame - and the possibility that his friend, and trusted second officer - might lie for the sake of the woman seated between them.

It was a risk, he realized a moment later, that he was going to have to take, whether it be at this moment, or at some unknown time later. And at least now, he added unhappily, he would know there was that distinct possibility.

"Oh one forty-three until oh two eighteen," he informed the android. "The damage to the cells must have been committed during that time frame."

"Then she is innocent," Data replied glibly.

Picard gave the man a dubious look. "Indeed?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Data replied. "Andile could not have been the saboteur - because she was with me."

"No, Data," Andile moaned miserably, dropping her head into her hands and shaking it slowly from side to side. "No, no, no. Oh, gods, Data, don't do this," she cried softly.

Picard glanced at her, now more certain that the android was lying - and finding the small glimmer of hope that his friend would never have to be subjected to another human failing fading quickly.

Data, he realized unhappily, would lie. For love, yes - but lie nonetheless.

Feeling a little of his hope for his friend's innocence fade, he looked back at the android.

"Data," he said gently, "we already know the lieutenant lied about her whereabouts at the time of the sabotage..."

"No, sir," Data countered. "She did not."

"But the computer records..."

"Indicated she was not in her quarters," Data agreed. "That is correct, captain; she was not. She was in mine."

"In yours...?" Picard started - then shook his head, still seeing a problem. "But she said she was in bed..."

"That statement is correct. She was in bed. My bed," he continued.

Picard raised a brow. "Your bed?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Data replied.

Picard nodded, beginning to understand. Andile had stayed with Data the night of the shuttle accident; for whatever reason, she had opted to spend this night with him as well.

But even so...

"Data, when she was sleeping, we're you able to observe her at all times? Was there any time - even for a minute or so - when the lieutenant could have left your quarters without you knowing?" he asked.

Data looked at Andile, considered a moment, then answered Picard. "Sir, she was not under my direct observation - but I do know she did not leave my quarters during that period."

"Data," Picard sighed sorrowfully, "if you couldn't see her..."

"Sir, I did not need to see her to know she was present," the android replied. "I could..." He hesitated a moment, glanced at Andile apologetically, then looked back at Picard. "I could... feel her."

"Feel her?" Picard echoed, appalled at the possibility that raced through his mind. "While she was sleeping? Data..." he began warningly, only to be cut off.

"Sir, she was not sleeping," Data answered.

"Then what the hell was she doing?" the captain roared in frustration.

"She was..."

"Data," Andile silenced him, raising her eyes to look at the android, then at the human - and drew a deep breath. "Captain, we were making love."


	66. Chapter 66

**Chapter 66**

Picard stared at the woman, stunned.

"I beg your pardon?" he said weakly.

"We were making love," Data repeated. "Having sex," he added. "Engaged in sexual congress. Participating in coitus. Having intercourse. Making the beast with two backs. Messing around. Fornicating. Screwing. Doing the dirty deed. Trysting," he continued.

Picard raised his hand as the list continued. "Thank you, Mr. Data - I know what 'making love' means," he said firmly.

"Yes, sir," Data replied, stopping.

But understanding what Data had said was a far cry from being able to accept the implications; dazed, Picard stared at the android, then at the woman seated at the table - then back at the android.

Data, he thought to himself - and Andile, he added a moment later - making love?

Even knowing - or at least, suspecting - the intensity of the android's emotional involvement with the woman, the possibility that Data might develop a desire to express that emotion physically had never occurred to him.

Not that Data wasn't capable, he admitted; he was aware that Data had involved himself - once - with Tasha Yar, but...

But what? he asked himself. But Data was an android?

But Data didn't need sexual fulfillment or physical release? he asked himself. He shook his head. Perhaps Data, the android, had no physiological need - but that didn't mean he might not want to include those aspects of a human relationship in his life with Andile - and above all else, Data wanted to be human.

Then again, Picard admitted, he might not want or need those aspects of a relationship - but if he wanted to protect the woman he thought he loved, there weren't many alibis safer than the one he had used; after all, there weren't many people who would push that topic too far.

Which meant, Picard realized grimly, that Data could still be lying.

But if he was, then why...?

Picard studied Andile for a moment, then turned back to Data. "You're dismissed, Mr. Data."

"Yes, sir," he agreed - but still he didn't leave.

Picard raised a brow in curiosity. "Is there a problem, Commander?"

"Sir," Data said, "the Lieutenant has not received adequate rest in several days, and her nutritional intake has been inadequate during that same period. I am concerned about her well-being..."

"Data," Picard interrupted, "I said I would escort her back to her quarters," he reminded the man. "I will make sure she makes it back safely - when we are through," he added firmly.

Data studied the man for a moment, then lowered himself down beside the seated woman.

"Andile..." he began gently, only to have her glare at him

"Go away," she hissed. "Just... go away."

"Andile..." he tried again, laying a hand stop hers.

Furious, she pulled it away. "Haven't you done enough for one night? Just get the hell away from me!" she snapped, then turned away, refusing to look back at him.

He stared at her, stricken, then turned and left the room.

Alone at last, Picard studied the woman seated before him.

Dwarfed by the massive conference table, she seemed even smaller than she had at their last meeting, every ounce of energy that had filled her that night now gone - and with it, the vitality that had seemed to permeate both her body and the very space around her.

She seemed, he realized, empty. Hollow. An empty shell, with even the thin veneer of her rage worn away now as she stared emptily at where her clenched hands rested on the table.

Hollow, empty - and cold, he added, seeing the tiny shiver run up her arms.

Or tired, or tense, he realized, knowing, however, that the cure for all three was the same.

A minute later, he placed a heavy mug before her - then, seeing that she either didn't see it or couldn't understand its presence, pried apart her clenched hands and wrapped them around the thick ceramic cup.

The heat seemed to penetrate the haze of misery. Reflexively, her hands clenched the warm mug, then raised it to her lips.

She had taken a long deep swallow of the brew before she seemed to realize that it wasn't her usually tea; startled, she pulled the cup away, stared at the liquid - then foggily turned her head toward the man.

"What...?"

"It's Earl Grey," he explained - then forced a polite smile. "You shared your tea with me; I thought I should return the gesture. I hope it doesn't upset your stomach," he added, remembering her concern from the day before.

She stared at him for a moment, trying to comprehend his words, then shook her head. "Doesn't matter," she whispered, then took another long draught of the tea.

Long enough to finish the cup, he realized as she set down the empty mug. Picking it up, he returned to the replicator, refilled the mug - then ordered one for himself as well.

Setting them both down on the table, he drew a chair up beside her, watching as she took the steaming mug in her hands once again. But this time, she didn't drink the tea, only stared down at it, seeming to study the play of the white mist as it rose from the surface of the cup.

He watched with her for a time, then spoke, his voice gentle and low. "Lieutenant, I know it has been a difficult evening for you, but there is something I must ask you," he began - only to be interrupted by a soft, "No."

"I'm sorry," he tried again, "but there is too much at risk here. Was... " He hesitated for a moment, trying to phrase the question as delicately as possible, then started again. "Lieutenant... was Cmdr. Data lying?" he finally said.

She shook her head. "I told you... no," she said firmly.

"Lieutenant," he said, trying not to show his growing exasperation at her refusal to answer, "this is important! Your future - your life may be riding on what happens here, tonight! You must tell me - was Data lying? Were you...?"

"Don't you listen?" she snapped back. "I've told you - no! No, he wasn't lying! And by all the gods, you shouldn't need me to tell you that! Don't you know him? Don't you know the kind of man he is? Gods, fifteen years together - and suddenly you don't trust him? What the hell kind of captain are you?" she raged.

He studied her for a moment, then answered patiently, "One who knows people change."

"Not that much," she informed him unhappily. "Not that quickly. Not that easily. Not for one person - not even for love. He's a good man," she added softly.

"I know. But it doesn't change the fact that I need to be certain..."

"No!" she said emptily, her eyes misting over with grief. "No, no, no! No - he wasn't lying. Yes, we were making love."

"Throughout the time the sabotage was occurring?" Picard pressed.

Andile smashed her fist down on the table, sending waves through the two cups of tea. "Gods curse you!" she swore, "I wasn't watching the damned clock!"

"Lieutenant," he began placatingly, only to be cut off once again.

"But I do know it was around two when we finished... the first time!" she admitted, her face blazing with humiliation, "and we started again a few minutes later - and I didn't fall asleep until just before Cmdr. Riker called me - so yes, we were together the whole time, and No! he wasn't lying! Now are you satisfied?!" she cried out - then buried her head in her hands.

"Then... why?" he asked, confused. "If Data could provide you with an alibi, then why did you confess? Lieutenant, you were on the verge of being tried on a charge of treason and sedition - you were about to face the only crime in Starfleet for which you can be executed - and you confessed rather than let Data give you an alibi? Why?" he insisted.

Her head still buried in her hands, she shook it from side to side slowly, painfully, as if wracked with pain - or frustration, he decided as she finally raised her head and looked at him.

"Because... Because I knew if he told the truth, you wouldn't believe him," she said.

"But..." Picard began to protest, then fell silent, chagrined, realizing she was right.

"And if you, his captain and his best friend didn't believe him," she continued, "if you thought that simply by knowing me, he could be corrupted, then how would others, who don't know him, respond? They'd damn him in the same instant they damned me: treasoners, one and all."

"But Data's testimony means that you are no longer a suspect," he pointed out. "You couldn't have caused the damage to the ship," he reminded her. "You are no longer under suspicion," he insisted.

"It doesn't work that way," she countered softly. "Humans... they don't forget. Once the insinuation has been made, it will stay - at the back of their minds, in the traces of their memories - but it will change everything. Forever," she added certainly, as if she had been through this before. "I... I didn't want that for him," she explained. "He's a good man," she said softly.

And so you chase him away, he thought, suddenly realizing why she had treated the android so badly minutes before; chase him away from you, before you can harm him any further.

But you've been vindicated of the sabotage charges, he thought to himself, so why...?

The corner of one of the padds flashed in the periphery of his vision; he turned to look at it - and began to understand.

Or, he conceded, he thought he did.

Fishing out the offending image, he set it before the woman.

"Then you were on Cardassia?" he asked, accepting at last the evidence of the picture - and of the computer's analysis of the individuals within its frame.

She looked at it, staring at it for a long time, focusing on one small section - which contained nothing more than a shadow and another pile of garbage - then, to his astonishment, straightened, folded her hands before her, and looked straight ahead.

"I cannot answer that question, sir," she replied.

Picard gawked, astounded by her sudden change in attitude - then looked at the picture again.

My God! How could I have been so blind? he asked himself as he turned to the terminal on the table and quickly brought it to life.

Pressing his hand against the plate, he said, "Computer, identify."

A band of light passed over the screen, then a woman's voice, mechanical and flat, replied, "Picard, Jean-Luc. Rank: Captain. Current post..."

"Cancel," he ordered, then looked at Andile. "Computer, detail current Security clearance, Picard, Jean-Luc."

"Security clearance: Alpha alpha omega," it replied.

Pulling his hand off the identification plate, he turned toward the engineer. "Is that high enough?" he asked.

She studied the man for a moment - then nodded. "Yes, sir."

He sighed with relief, shaking his head. "My apologies, Lieutenant. It never occurred to me..."

"To consider an explanation other than the one that made me responsible for the sabotage of the ship?" she asked, unable to conceal the bitterness in her voice.

He looked at her, chagrined - then nodded. "Yes. It was... easier."

"And you wonder why I'm worried about Data?" she pressed him.

Picard studied her for a moment, then conceded the point. "But you must admit, Lieutenant..." He stopped, suddenly uncertain. "It is Lieutenant, isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed. "My service record is as Cmdr. Riker found it."

Or close, she conceded, remembering the strange alteration in her work history at Utopia Planitia - and wondering how many other errors and inconsistencies were lurking there - and how they had gotten there.

"Then you must admit," Picard continued, unaware of her mental digression, "that you could have eased the situation by informing me of your history - in advance. In confidence," he added.

"No, sir, I could not," she replied. "My orders were... are," she amended, "explicit."

Picard raised a brow in surprise. 'Are?' he repeated to himself - meaning you're still working under the auspices of Security, he realized. Even now? he thought, wondering why, if she was here as an agent, why she had done so little to progress the investigation.

There must have been a look of curiosity on his face, because Andile shook her head. "But I'm here only as I appear, sir; as ship's designer - and Geordi's assistant. Nothing more - or less," she added.

"But you couldn't initiate a discussion about - what happened," he clarified.

She shook her head. "Security protocol," she said.

He nodded. "And so you had to dance around it - and hope that I would pick up on your answers," he said.

"No, sir."

"Pardon?" he asked, surprised.

"I answered the questions as I did because that is how Security requires us to answer. I'm... relieved you recognized it - but I had no options in how I answered those questions, sir," she reminded him.

"But if I hadn't... Lieutenant, you could have gone to the gallows!" he pointed out.

She looked at him bluntly. "Which is why we all swear an oath, Captain, when we agree to these missions. That what happens stays with us - and dies with us."

Picard met her eyes, studying them - and, he realized, for the first time beginning to see the woman behind them.

Not the stunningly beautiful professor from the Academy, not the athletic and graceful runner who had brought him the water on the race, not the terse teacher who had dismissed his application, nor even the bad-tempered and foul-mouthed designer who had created this vessel - but a being, far more complex and enigmatic than he could have known from those simple descriptions

And, he realized, far more dedicated than he could have imagined.

She would have died rather than break her oath - even though she knew she could reveal her position to me, and stay within the confines of the regulations.

And she would have died rather than damage Data's position in Starfleet - and on this ship.

Voicing a silent apology to the woman, he leaned forward, curious about the remainder of her tale - and about her.

"And Sipantha?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It didn't happen. Or rather there was a disaster there - but a perfectly natural one. Asteroid impact. It destroyed the old research facility. We used that to explain what did happen."

"To cover up their deaths, you mean," he replied.

Andile bit her lip, then nodded. "Yes, sir. I... didn't like it. They deserved better," she said. "Better than they got."

He nodded, agreeing, remembering the names - and the faces - of the few he had known. They were gone now, gone like so many others in the war - and like so many, their true fates could never be known.

Lost in his reverie, it took Picard a few minutes before he realized that Andile was looking at him. Shaking off the fatigue with the reflection, he drew a deep breath and met her gaze. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, I had nothing to do with the sabotage of this ship," she said quietly.

"I... realize that now, Lieutenant," he agreed.

"Then, if there's nothing else..."

He thought for a moment. "Nothing else, Lieutenant," he agreed, starting to rise from the chair to fulfill his promise to his friend, only to see Andile staring at the padd before her.

"Sir..." she said quietly, reaching for the padd, "may... may I have this?"

He stared at her surprised by the request. It was part of a confidential file - but there was nothing in it that she wasn't already aware of - and, he added, a touch of doubt coming to his mind, even now, there was always a master copy of the data on file at Starfleet.

A fact of which she would have been fully aware, he reminded himself angrily.

"Certainly," he agreed, determined not to allow himself to fall into the too easy trap of suspecting her again. "But if I may ask... why?"

Andile studied the picture, then held it turned it so he could see it.

"There," she said softly, pointing to the corner she had studied before. "You can't make it out easily - but she's there. Hiding. You can just see her," she added, pointing out the outline of a tiny figure concealed against the pile of trash…

A child! Picard realized, astounded.

"Who is she?" he asked.

Andile studied the picture in silence, then brushed her thumb over the image as if somehow she could clear the fuzzy details.

"Her name was Varel," Andile whispered. "She was... my daughter."

Picard felt his jaw drop - then forced his mouth closed. "And where is she now?"

Andile studied the picture for a moment.

"She's dead," she said softly, studying the picture a moment longer - then looked up at Picard, her eyes, empty, hollow, lifeless.

"I killed her."


	67. Chapter 67

**Chapter 67**

No.

Surely he had misheard her; surely she had misspoken, Picard insisted numbly; she hadn't really killed the child; it must have been a horrible accident, or an illness, a terrible injury exacerbated by the engineer's exaggerated sense of guilt.

But she could not have killed a child!

He stared at her, too stunned to react - and waited.

Waited for the retraction, waited for the explanation, waited for the justification, the rationalization - waited for something - anything! - to ameliorate the horror of what she had said.

But Andile said nothing.

Said nothing and did nothing, except stare at the picture, her finger brushing along the tiny outline of the child.

For a long time, neither moved - then Picard reached out, taking the numb woman by the arm and gently maneuvered her back into the chair, then sat down beside her.

"Lieutenant..." he began, only to be interrupted by the woman's voice.

"She wasn't really my daughter," she continued softly as if not hearing him. "Not by birth. I found her - adopted her, I suppose you could say - though you can't really adopt one of them. They don't exist," she added.

"Who don't exist?" Picard asked, confused.

"The Chiemma," she answered softly, her eyes and her thoughts locked on the picture - and on the past - then suddenly looked up as the present came flooding back. "I suppose I should start from the beginning," she said.

Picard shook his head. "Only if you wish to," he replied.

"Wish to?" she said, her eyes widening in pained humor. "By the gods, no - I don't _wish_ to talk about it! I don't to think about it, or ever remember that it happened! Gods, I wish... " she began, then stopped, drew a breath to calm herself, and shook her head. "But what an andile wishes means nothing. Andile," she sighed bitterly. "If I had remembered then what andile were..."

"What you were?" Picard repeated, confused. "I don't understand, Lieutenant."

"I know," she said, then gave a soft sigh. "I am andile, sir."

"I know that," Picard began, but Andile shook her head.

"Not my name, sir - my job... my title. Andile are... _were_ members of our religion. There were... certain expectations of us - behaviorally, emotionally..."

Picard nodded. "I understand," he said. "There are certain cultural and social expectations of many of those who work in different faiths," he replied. "I presume, then, that... andile," he said, trying out the noun, "were no different."

"Yes, sir – and no. What was expected – required – of us was that we were not permitted to have emotional involvements, to have hopes or expectations, to want or wish for anything," she informed him.

"That's hardly realistic," Picard remarked. "You were still human..."

"No, sir," she countered immediately. "We are... _were_ not. Andile were separate, marked by the gods as being... less than human. To presume upon those things that humans were was heresy."

He gawked at her, astounded - then gave a contemptuous snort. "That's ridiculous!"

"No more ridiculous than what many of your Earth religions espouse, sir," she reminded him.

He reddened, embarrassed at her correction, then nodded. "Quite right. My apologies, Lieutenant. I should not have spoken against your faith."

"Not my faith, Captain - just my religion. My faith - that's what I have found here - in Starfleet," she explained, seeing the surprised look on his face.

"Which is why," she added a moment later, "when the time came to take that oath, I could, knowing I would die for something I believed in."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Then... you knew that it was a suicide mission?" he asked.

"We all did," Andile concurred, then turned to face him. "Three years ago, just after we learned that the Breen had entered the Dominion War, things began to go very badly for the Federation. I don't know if you are aware of just how bad things had gotten..."

"I... had some inkling of it," he admitted, remembering the tales that had drifted back to the ship from the repair yard staff.

"Whatever you heard, the real situation was worse," she informed him grimly. "Not only weren't we able to make any headway against the Dominion ships and the Jem H'adar, but suddenly the Cardassian ships began to become more and more resilient, less and less able to be damaged by our weapon systems.

"At Adm. Czymszczak's request, I led a research team into investigating the remains of one of the few ships that was damaged - and we learned that there had been massive modifications throughout the ship - but on such an extensive level that we could not determine exactly what those modifications were - or how to counteract them.

"The only way to really know was to go to the shipyards on Cardassia Prime - and infiltrate the docks," she explained.

"The Admiral put together a team of some of Starfleet's covert operations officers who had a background in engineering - but not real engineers," she admitted. "Both the Admiral and I knew this was a one-way trip - and that the Federation was in no position to lose those people of which it had so few - not when all they really needed were observers... and one person who could put the data together," she added.

"You," he said.

Andile nodded, no hint of pride in her face. "Yes, sir. Me."

"But losing you would have been a real blow to the Federation," he pointed out. "One of our top designers..."

"Of starships," she pointed out. "Of ships of discovery and exploration - but not of warships, sir. That requires a different sort of... expertise," she said.

He raised a brow at her choice of words. "And of conscience?" he realized.

"I am andile, sir," she repeated. "I am not fit to judge other people morals or ethics, only my own. But... I've seen wars, sir; I've seen planets that were laid waste by ships, planets so utterly devastated that nothing - not humans, not plants - not even bacteria - would be able to inhabit the place again. I've seen death in the thousands and millions... and I knew I could not be the cause of those deaths," she said slowly.

"Defense, yes - I have found ways to make us stronger, less prone to damage by other ships - and I have killed, as well, when necessity demanded it. When," she added quietly, "the greater good required it. But to create for the purpose of destruction?" she asked him. "I couldn't do that."

"But you could end your life, knowing that you might save others," Picard realized.

She smiled - a tired, forced smile. "Is there a better death, knowing that you saved others?" she asked him.

He didn't answer, thinking it was a rhetorical question - but when he realized she was waiting, studying him, he finally realized she had wanted an answer.

He thought for a moment, wondering if he still had that streak of nobility within him, or if time - and a harsh dose of Federation reality - had chased it from him.

"I don't know, Lieutenant," he admitted - both to himself and to her.

She gave him a curious stare. "But there are people you would die to save, aren't there?" she asked knowingly.

"Yes," he agreed. "Friends, family... others," he added, seeing their faces flash before him once again.

She nodded, understanding. "I don't have friends - but Starfleet has become my family. And I was prepared to give my life so they might live. And knowing I could not help create the ships and weapons of destruction that Starfleet wanted, I thought this was how I could best serve them, my family.

"And..." she continued softly, "I was tired. Time had taken its toll of me... I was ready to go. At least if I found some way to help the Federation, my life - and my death - would have had some meaning."

Picard found himself staring at the woman, hearing every day of her many long years in her voice - and yet hearing something terribly wrong in her words. Not in her decision to die - but...

But what? he wondered, staring at her.

But she was holding something back, he decided; yes, she had been tired, ready to die - but there was something more to her tale.

Something, he realized equally quickly, that she was not about to divulge - at least not to him.

Not yet.

"So when the Admiral proposed this mission..." Picard prompted her.

"I agreed - providing I went alone. Czymszczak agreed; the fewer he knew, the better. Unfortunately, we immediately realized we had a problem. The prosthetics," she added, seeing his blank expression.

"I don't understand," he replied, glancing at the image on the padd. "They appear perfect. If Cmdr. Riker hadn't had the computer do an identity scan and a retinal match, we would never have known you were you," he informed her.

"No," she agreed. "You would have thought I was a Cardassian - but a Cardassian child," she pointed out - then gave a rueful laugh. "It's bad enough as a human; half my crew thinks I look like a cadet..."

Picard reddened, remembering his own thoughts about the woman at their first encounter - then promptly chucked them aside, and brought his attention back to her words.

She didn't appear to have noticed his blush, for she was still speaking, "...but as a Cardassian, I looked like a child! I would never be able to get a job in the shipyards!"

"Which is when you realized you were going to need others," Picard continued for her.

"Yes, sir. We selected a few covert operations officers who had some engineering background, gave them the information - and let them make the decision, knowing full well that there was almost no chance of surviving the mission," she said grimly.

"I tried to keep the numbers down - but with so few knowing so little, the only way we could get enough information was to take whatever positions they could quality for throughout the shipyards - and that meant more people in the lowest, most unskilled of positions. In all, there were twelve of them.

"Enshar Ouzang was ostensibly their senior officer. No one knew that he reported to me," she continued, "and no one knew thT I had a contact who could relay the information back to Starfleet."

"Less risk to you..."

"I was inconsequential, Captain; the risk was to the Federation," Andile objected.

"Ah," Picard said, nodding. "So if any of you were caught..."

"Not, if, sir," Andile corrected. "When. It was inevitable."

He nodded grimly. "So when you or your team was caught, they wouldn't -_couldn't_ give you away - and therefore you wouldn't give the Federation away," Picard concluded. "Providing _you_ didn't break," he reminded her warningly.

Andile gave him a strange look in return. "That wasn't an issue."

Picard stared at her for a long time before he understood; this was a one-way mission, he thought at last; the members would have been equipped with some sort of suicide device, to prevent them from revealing their mission in case of capture. Her device must have been even more elaborate, her death all the more certain.

"Each day the others would go to the shipyards, gather information, then relay it to me. It was easy - I looked like a child and there would be nothing out of place with a worker sharing a little treat with a child, even during a war. Especially during a war," she added softly. "The Cardassians are very loving toward children... most of them," she added, then gave a shudder.

"No one would have suspected that they were relaying information to me," she continued a moment later. "Not even the Obsidian Order would have suspected a child of being involved in espionage... Against every expectation I had, my size and appearance made it easier for our team to gather, analyze and relay the information. If I had gone in as an adult, the plan never would have worked," she said.

"Then... you did find a flaw in the ships?" Picard pressed, hoping for confirmation from the lieutenant that Czymszczak's claims had been based on lies - and on the lives of others.

"Yes, sir - in time - but not fast enough to save my team," she said emptily. She fell silent for a moment, staring at the table, then shook her head to clear the old memories, and looked up at Picard.

"I'll never know what caused them to be suspected - if one of them slipped and said something, or if they simply fell prey to one of the on-going, unannounced Security inspections. Maybe they intercepted my communications - maybe there was a leak somewhere in Starfleet - but one day, no one from my team made their rendezvous with me," she informed him. "I had to assume the worst - that they were all captured or killed. And I had to assume that they had broken in the process." She glanced at the padd that had held the pictures of the dead agents. "At least I know now what really happened to them," she sighed.

"But even if they broke, it wouldn't have meant my capture was imminent. All they could have told the Obsidian Order was that there was a single agent left - and a cadet at that. I knew the Obsidian Order would see me as no immediate threat - and I knew I would have the grace of a few hours - or maybe even days - to move out.

"And I did. I moved to the one place that the Obsidian Order wouldn't think to look - because they couldn't. I became one of the Chiemma."

"You used that word before," he reminded her.

She nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. It means 'the forgotten ones'," she explained. "The children of the Cardassians who were arrested by the Obsidian Order and the secret police. When their parents were taken, the children were thrown out onto the streets - and left to fend for themselves."

"But you said the Cardassians care for their children..." Picard said.

"And they do. There were those who tried to take in the children, tried to help them - but the Obsidian Order made it clear that the children were not to be helped - that to do so would mean the arrest, perhaps even the execution of those who would help them - and their children would the next ones left to the streets.

"Facing that end, the children were abandoned by the society... officially 'forgotten', as if they had never existed," she explained. "When they cry for food, you don't hear them; when they beg for water, you walk past as if they weren't there. When they die... you step over their bodies, leaving the corpses to rot in the street..." She suddenly fell silent, her eyes closed, her head hanging.

Remembering, Picard realized; remembering scenes too horrifying, too vivid for anyone to have to remember - and too painful to ever forget.

"And you joined them," Picard said after a moment.

"They didn't exist - not even for the Obsidian Order. To search among them would mean to acknowledge their presence - and even they couldn't do that," she reminded him. "Whatever you may think of the Obsidian Order, they were still parents, still mothers and fathers, still the loving and compassionate people they were before the war... War forces even good people to do bad things, Captain; we all - all of us - do things of which we're not proud, things... we rather forget, things we'd rather pretend we didn't do. The Cardassians... they had to pretend they hadn't abandoned a generation.

"Nonetheless," he said, "you were a foreign agent on their homeworld."

"If they knew I was there," she reminded him. "And if they did - well, as far as they knew I was a cadet, running scared, with no support, no backup... I was no threat. I had the grace of their ignorance on my side.

"But I was alone, again. There was no one to gather information - and I wasn't even sure my contact was still alive. It was going to take me time to find a way to complete my mission," she said.

"You were still determined to do so?" Picard asked, curious - but finding himself not at all surprised by the woman's decision.

She smiled emptily. "Twelve good people died for this mission. I was not about to waste their lives - or their deaths."

Picard nodded to himself, knowing that would have been her answer. "How? You said you couldn't work there..."

"And I said that the Cardassians love children. I just took a clue from an old Earth writer - and had the children collect the information."

Picard's eyes widened. "The Baker Street Irregulars," he answered, then narrowed his gaze. "But I thought you said the Cardassians ignored the Chiemma."

"How do you tell the forgotten from another child?" she asked him. "If they're in tatters, bone-thin, haunted by the idea that they've been abandoned - yes, you can tell. But if they've been fed, clothed - and know that they're cared for... How would you know?"

Picard nodded. "And that's what you did? Fed them clothed them - found them shelter?" he asked, more than impressed, barely able to imagine the difficulty the engineer must have had in securing the things the children had needed.

She, however, was not about to accept his silent praise so easily. "I needed their help – so I used them," she countered gruffly. "Without them, the mission would fail," she insisted.

He stared at her for a moment, surprised by her refusal to accept the tacit compliment - then set the matter aside for another day; the woman's psychological make-up was hardly an issue to discuss this night.

"And that was how you found the child - Varel?" he asked.

Andile nodded. "She was with one of the first groups I recruited - not that she would ever be one of my Irregulars," she added. "She must have been an infant when her family was taken - she was so tiny, so weak - I don't think she had had enough to eat ever - she could barely walk - and she couldn't speak. I don't think her brain developed correctly because of the starvation... but she could smile..." Andile whispered, stopping abruptly, and turning away.

Sensing the overwhelming grief in the woman, Picard lay a hand on her arm. "Lieutenant, we could finish this tomorrow..."

"No," she interrupted instantly, turning to look at him, and shaking her head. "I think... I think you need to know this all - tonight."

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded solemnly, withdrawing his hand from her arm. "All right. Go on."

Andile nodded, drew a deep breath. "You think... you think what I did was somehow noble - helping those children the way I did. But there was nothing noble in what I did - I did it only so I could use them - and nothing noble in how I did it. I went through piles of garbage, searching for clothes, food - even garbage that had some trace of nutrition - and when I could find nothing... I stole, Captain Picard. I stole the clothes, the food... I stole money from people, I stole their possessions and sold them... and when that wasn't enough, I sold myself."


	68. Chapter 68

**Chapter 68**

Picard's eyes widened in horror - and disbelief. "I beg your pardon?" he finally managed.

"I whored myself out, Captain," she replied bluntly. "There are those on Cardassia who liked... children. I found them... and sold myself to them. Whatever they wanted - for a price - a high price. High enough to keep my children - my _agents_," she corrected herself viciously, "clothed and fed and warm - so they could do what I needed of them.

"So don't tell yourself that anything I did was noble. I am andile! Nothing is beneath me!" she added, her voice growing harsh and ragged as she rose from her chair.

"Lieutenant..." he said, rising as well, his voice calm and gentle as he tried to ease her rapidly increasing anguish.

"But even using them wasn't enough - they couldn't learn what I needed to know - and so I had to go out, and be with the workers, and try to coax the bits of information from them. And I put it together. I analyzed it, and studied it and reassembled every little scrap of data I had gathered - and I sent it all back to Starfleet, like the loyal officer I was - I used those children because it was my mission to save the Federation!

"And then," she gasped, "And then... my contact disappeared. I don't know what happened - I had to assume he'd been caught - and he, _he_ knew who I was! I had to run! I had to abandon those children, back to the streets," she sobbed tearlessly, "abandoned them just as their parents had - but worse, because they had had no choice! I did! I just left them!

"I grabbed Varel, and I ran..."

"You took the child with you?" Picard interrupted.

"I had to!" Andile insisted. "She was too little, too weak, for the others to care for her - Oh, gods, I don't think they could care for themselves! How could they care for her - and even if they could, for how long? She was never going to be able to live on that world - not alone, not without help... I had to take her..." she insisted.

"We ran, hiding in empty buildings, eating whatever food I could find or steal - but it wasn't enough. Even giving her all the food I could find, she would cry from the hunger, from the pain of not having enough to eat... I had to go back on the streets..."

"And that's how you were caught," Picard realized.

She nodded. "One of the men..." She shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He did what he wanted with me, then... he tried to kill me."

Picard felt the blood drain from his face. "Kill you? Why?"

"Pederasty is a crime on Cardassia," she answered softly. "Those who used children - who abused them - and were caught would be put to death. So there were some who killed the children they abused - and disposed of the bodies. I don't know if the authorities would have prosecuted them for abusing a Chiemma - but they weren't particular about their victims; a few children disappeared every week - some lost during the chaos of the war - but others raped and murdered by those bastards.

"But... But I fought him off," she said, shaking her head. "I fought him off!" she repeated as if protesting the foolishness of her act. "A child - fighting off an adult! Oh, gods, how stupid I was!"

Picard shook his head. "But what else could you have done?" he asked gently.

"I could - I _should_ - have let him kill me!" she screamed.

He stared at her, stunned - but before he could argue the point, she had hurried on. "It was stupid of me; I reacted automatically," she admitted. "When I realized what he was trying to do - I fought him - not with tooth and nail and screams, as a child would do - but with the combat training I had had.

"I broke free - but he must have realized something was wrong - and gone to the authorities! Maybe he hoped that telling them about me would save him from those charges - or maybe they caught him and tortured the information from him! I don't know! All I know is that a few days later, they found me."

"And Varel...?" Picard pressed.

"She wasn't with me," Andile admitted. "I had left her somewhere safe..."

"Then how can you say you killed her?" he asked. "She could still be there - she might still be alive!" he insisted, desperate - for his own sake as well as hers - to try to offer her some hope.

"No," Andile replied, emptily. "She was only safe when I could care for her – but she couldn't care for herself or think for herself, let alone fend for herself... When she was hungry she must have come out from where we had been hiding...

"I'll never know exactly how they found her - but they did," she concluded softly - then looked up at Picard, a strange smile on her face. "I know they did, because they brought her to me.

"It was a week, maybe a little more, after I had been caught," she continued. "They couldn't break me, despite everything they did. Drugs, torture, psychological abuse - it didn't work. I wouldn't talk. I couldn't talk," she added resolvedly. "There was too much at stake if I did. I knew too much about our ships and our people... If I broke, too many might die."

He gawked at her, astounded - and appalled - by the level of self-discipline she had expected of herself. It was unreasonable, he thought to himself - and to see her torturing herself still, after two years... He shook his head, determined to ease at least this one pain. "Lieutenant," he said gently, "no one can resist forever."

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly cold. "No, sir. You're wrong. I could resist - for as long as I was alive," she said bluntly.

"You see, andile are trained never to feel anything. Not just emotionally – but physically as well. We're not human, you see. We're not allowed the privilege of feeling - so the Cardassians couldn't hurt me."

Picard nodded, not entirely sure what she meant when she said she wasn't human - or what andile meant - but knowing that many races and cultures had self-disciplines that could transcend physical torture and pain.

"Yes," he agreed, "but there are other forms of abuse... The knowledge - or worse, the idea - that they are capable of killing you is a far greater weapon..." he began to explain.

"Except they couldn't kill me," she countered. "No one can. I wish... I wish they could," she added helplessly.

Picard raised a brow in confusion, now completely lost. "I don't understand."

For a moment, she said nothing, then reached for her tea mug – and in a flurry of motion, dashed it hard against the table in a flood of warm liquid and ceramic shards.

Stunned by the sudden action, Picard could do nothing but watch as she took one of the shards - then jammed it into her left arm, dragging it from wrist to elbow, severing the thick fabric and the thin tissue beneath it in a wash of dark red blood - and a jet of bright red.

"No!" Picard screamed belatedly, lunging for her, grabbing her arm with one hand, pulling out the long shard with the other, then trying to clamp the severed artery with his hand before she bled to death.

Fumbling, he tried to tap his comm badge to call for emergency medical help - but even as he did so, the spurts of bright red arterial blood began to pulse less and less strongly, even as the purple venous blood began to slow its flow.

As he watched, the two jet ceased to flow. Calmly, Andile used her other hand to press the two sides of the open wound together - and as he watched, the tissue began to close.

It was a slow process, leaving a bright red weal down the center of her arm - but the wound was closing. In an hour or two, he would only know it had been there because he had seen it done - but, he realized, there would be little evidence to prove the event to anyone else. "Lieutenant..." he whispered.

"I carry a gene for incredibly accelerated healing," she said, rather matter-of-factly, "and several for enhanced immunity. I don't get sick; wounds heal almost instantly. Think when you came to Engineering that day," she reminded him.

The accident, he thought; he had seen the large bruise on her forehead when she had first stood up - but by the time he had left the bay, there was nothing more than a faint pink spot.

He hadn't paid attention then - in part because he was busy watching her presentation about the engines - but also in part, he realized, in part because she had kept her back to him so much of the time. To all of them, he realized, remembering how she had carefully divided her attention among them all - so no one would notice how swiftly the injury was changing.

But this wasn't a bruise, he reminded himself; the jet of brilliant red blood that had sprayed over them both meant that she had severed an artery - an injury hat should have meant death if left untreated.

And yet, here she was, still standing before him - pale and shaking - but unquestionably alive.

"Then... you really _can't_ be killed," he murmured, stunned.

"Oh, I can," she admitted a moment later. "Hanging, beheading... I'm not sure what else... At least," she added softly, "I pray I can die... I prayed the whole time I was on Cardassia that they would kill me - because if they ever realized they couldn't..." she managed.

If they realized they couldn't kill her, Picard thought, it would mean... what? Vivisection? he thought, disgusted by the idea - but knowing the Cardassian military would dearly love to understand the human anatomy intimately, so they would know how to kill a human more easily. But if she couldn't feel pain, he added, they would learn little from her that they couldn't learn as easily from a corpse. Then what?

Then they would tear apart her brain, while she was conscious, trying to find out how she managed to blunt that area of her being - and use it to strengthen their own troops into an insurmountable force.

And if that didn't work...

If that didn't work, they might tear her apart, molecule by molecule until they understood how her body managed that incredible feat - and used it as a template for their own adaptation to immortality - or worse, used her body as a factory to produce the necessary chemicals to bring about that change.

Regardless of what they did, it would mean death to thousands of her fellow Federation members - just as surely as if she had confessed everything she had known.

Death, then, was her only way out.

But how?

How do you kill someone who can't be killed?

Curious, he met her eyes once more, her wound now all but forgotten.

"But... you're here," he pointed out. "You escaped. How?"

"I didn't escape, Captain," she said. "No one escapes. Not from there. I left the way we all did - on a garbage scow, as one body out of a thousand to be buried in an unmarked grave on some unknown world, where no one would ever know who or what we were," she said.

"I don't understand," he admitted.

"They killed me - or came as close as they could," she said.

Picard studied her, a part of him not wanting to know how that end had come to be - and another part knowing he had to learn the truth - for her sake, if not for his own. "How?" he asked quietly.

"I made them."

"How?" he pressed, his voice growing more strident as he began to suspect the stories horrifying outcome was rapidly approaching.

"They... found her," she whispered.

"Varel," he echoed, nodding in understanding - but not understanding. Not yet, a part of him aching to hear the tale even as a part of him recoiled at what he knew he was about hear.

Andile nodded. "I don't know if they found her that first day or not - but they found her. Found her and fed her and dressed he in clean clothes... I had never seen her in clean clothes, Captain," she said, looking up in desperation, a trembling smile on her lips. "I had never seen her without being covered in filth... She was so pretty, my baby was so pretty," she whispered, her eyes closing at the memory.

For a time she was silent, remembering what had been, what might have been - then she opened her eyes and looked back at him. "They brought her to me - and for a moment, I thought... I thought they were going to help her, to take care of her.

"And then, I looked at my jailor's face - and I realized the truth," she said.

"What truth?" he asked flatly, reigning in his emotions.

"They weren't going to care for her," she cried. "They weren't going to love her! They were going to use her, to torture her, rape her, abuse her and kill her - in front of me. They were going to kill my baby!" she said, her voice rising to a hoarse and stricken cry. "They were going to kill her – just so they could hurt me!

"I couldn't let them do that! I couldn't let them kill her. I didn't care what they did to me - it didn't matter! I'm andile, I'm not even human - they couldn't hurt me! But they were going to kill her - my baby, my Varel!"

She turned to him, her eyes wide in desperation, and clutched the front of his tunic, silently begging him for help, for understanding - for the exoneration that she could not grant herself.

"They were going to kill my Varel - I couldn't let them. I asked them - I begged them to let me hold her one last time... And they let me, knowing how much sweeter the pain would be if they dashed every hope I had with it.

"They let her come to me..." She fell silent again, and when she spoke next, her voice had dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. "She came into my lap, and sat down, and put her arms around me... and she loved me," she insisted. "I know she did. And I loved her.

"But andile aren't permitted love - and the gods had to punish me for my hubris, my pride in thinking I was worthy of that glorious honor. In thinking I deserved to be loved - even by something as lowly as that wretched child.

"But I did love her, Captain! I did! I loved her... enough to spare her what they planned... No," she said harshly, suddenly, "Not to save her. To save myself!"

"Lieutenant," Picard began, but Andile was long past hearing anything, seeing anything except the memories of two years before.

"They let her come to me - and I held her - and while she looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, I wrapped my arms around her - and then I broke her neck."

Appalled at the memory of what she had done, Andile dropped the front of his shirt, and stepped back, terror rising in her eyes. "It took them a few seconds before they realized what I had done - but when they did, they were furious! They were so angry... They didn't care about breaking me. That didn't matter anymore! All that mattered was that their plans - their plans to hurt me, to hurt my Varel were ruined. The commandant... He was livid, out of control with his rage! He grabbed an axe that was in the hall..."

She held up her hands, staring at them in horror. "My hands were still around her neck. He... He swung the axe, chopping off my hands - and my Varel's head..."

She fell silent, staring down at her body as if watching the axe swing once again, watching as her hands tumbled to the straw covered floor once again, still clutching the tiny girl's head, her dead eyes staring up at her, still loving her, still trusting her.

With a cry of unbearable grief and pain, Andile grabbed the padd, and raced toward the door.


	69. Chapter 69

**Chapter 69**

Too stunned to follow the engineer, Picard stared at the door - then slowly lowered himself back into one of the chairs, desperate to make some sense of the story he had just heard.

He didn't want it to make sense, he realized at once; he wanted her story to be full of lies and flaws so he could poke holes into it and disregard it and pretend it never happened - but it did make sense, in a disgusting and perverted way.

It explained almost everything - including the mysterious report of the destruction at Sipantha - and the fact that no one - no one! - had ever heard about the research that was alleged to have been carried out at that remote site. True, he had not been in the thick of the issues during the last months of the war - but in an organization as large as the Federation, there was no such thing as a truly secure site. Someone, somewhere would let a remark go by in passing - and somehow, it would end up, making its journey around the captain's table at Starfleet - just as the deliberately planted story of Sipantha's destruction had done.

Admittedly, he would have been among the last on the rumor rounds to hear the tale - but he would have heard it - eventually.

But covert operations? Now that was another story indeed - and a secret mission there would remain a secret for as long as it needed to remain so. If and when it needed to become public, they would make it so - but at the precise moment when its political impact would be most heavily felt - and by those people they wanted to feel it.

Which would explain why this mission had never become public knowledge, he realized; it had failed - early and quickly - evidence of either an error on the part of the set-up team, a mole within the Federation security system - or, to the shame of the Federation covert ops department, because of superior Cardassian intelligence.

Probably not the latter, though, Picard reminded himself. Despite the advances the Cardassian fleet had been making against the Federation, the internal security of that world was still in shambles after their civil war. What little effectiveness the Obsidian Order may have had regarding Andile's alleged mission was as much luck as intelligence.

No, he corrected himself, not an alleged mission; whether the details were exactly as she remembered them or not, he had no doubts the mission, with all its horrific outcomes, had happened. As an engineer and an officer, she was capable of many things - but there was no actress al/ive who could have faked the desperation and pain she showed in those last few moments.

Or failed to show just a glimmer of pride at what she had accomplished, he added; despite her insistence on justifying her actions with the basest of reasons, she _had_ managed to clothe and feed and shelter - how many? - children from the horrors their people had abandoned them to - and, somehow, had managed to get enough information back to the Federation for Czymszczak to discover and exploit the weakness in the Cardassian ships.

That was still a feat Picard didn't understand. Czymszczak was no engineer - and the flaw discovered had been so minute, so unexpected that only an expert would have even thought to search it out.

An expert who understood the inherent flaws and weaknesses in ships, he suddenly realized; an expert who knew them - because she designed ships.

My God! Czymszczak hadn't been the one to solve the problem of the ship weaknesses - it had been Andile!

Using the data the others had collected, continuing to collect it even after they had been killed, she had studied it, analyzed it, found her contact and relayed the information back to Starfleet...

And single-handedly may have brought about the end of the war.

And never known it, he added bitterly. Learning, realizing that she might have been the one to save thousands of her fellow officers - that might have helped her through the trauma of what she had done to that child, giving her a sense that the loss of the child's life - and her team members' lives and her own pain - had not been in vain.

But Czymszczak was not about to share the credit with her; Picard realized equally quickly. He couldn't. To do so would be to admit that he had sent a team to Cardassia in the first place - without approval, Picard began to realize, and in disregard of Federation policy. That was why it had to be a suicide mission; Czymszczak had to be sure that none of them would come back, that none would ever be able to connect his claims of discovery to the truth.

All Czymszczak had to do was sit and wait - and hope that enough of the team survived long enough to find and transmit the information he needed.

And then...

And then he didn't need them anymore.

Dear God! Picard gasped silently. When Andile had made that last contact, when she had transmitted the information that had proved the key in finding the weakness in the Cardassian ships - she had signed her own death warrant.

For a moment, Picard refused to consider the idea - but the circumstances were a little too accurate, the timing a little too precise to be coincidence.

Andile had found the information - and shortly thereafter, the Obsidian Order knew she was on the planet - and this time, they were determined to find her.

Czymszczak had betrayed her to the Cardassians.

He had sold her out - so he could look the hero, and never risk anyone having to threaten his claim.

Appalled, Picard stared into space for a long time - then slowly eased himself up from the chair.

Entering the corridor, he walked slowly, his mind focused on the cruelty and duplicity of his superior officers - and trying to find a way to rectify the situation. If there was a situation to rectify, he added; Andile was emotionally devastated from the disaster; would she want to endure the questions and proceedings that would come out of making the mission public? And to have to relive the death of her child - at her own hands - time and again...?

But twelve Starfleet officers had died! A thirteenth had had her life destroyed! Didn't they deserve the right to have their heroism be known, at least within the halls of Starfleet, even if not outside them?

The evening-darkened corridors of this deserted passage seemed the ideal place and time to lose one's self in such troubling questions; alone, undistracted, his mind focused on the problems - and barely noticed the small mound that lay against the corridor wall.

Indeed, he had walked past it before it registered - then stopped, turned around and walked back, dropping to one knee to investigate it - and immediately had one hand on his comm badge. "Picard to Crusher. Medical emergency!"

"What?" a half-asleep voice replied, then added a moment later, and with a touch more clarity, "Where?"

"Deck fourteen, corridor three - by the aft lifts. Hurry!" he added urgently, then gently touched the mound.

It was Lt. Andile; he had known that even before he saw her face, knew as soon as he touched her shoulder. Who else would be here at this time of the night? Who else was so small, so pale, so... empty?

It struck him like a blow, the feeling of utter vacancy in the woman, as if every trace of life had been drawn out of her - as if, he realized, she were dead.

Shaken by the thought, he carefully turned her over, simultaneously damning her for her decision to reproduce a planet's natural patterns of day and night - and the dim corridor lights that were a result - and worrying about her in the same instant. Placing his fingers at the side of her throat, he sighed relievedly, finding her pulse: she was alive - but only just, he realized. The pulse was weak, irregular, racing.

The wound, he realized; she might have healed herself - but she had still lost a lot of blood. Remembering his first aid, he peeled off his jacket, bundling it up, placing it beneath her feet - then wondering what was taking Beverly so damned long!

He was about to reach for his badge again when he heard a voice behind him.

"What is it..." Beverly began - then seeing the body, instantly knelt down beside him. "Lt. Andile?" she said, recognizing the gaunt face, even in the semi-darkened corridor.

He nodded at her - then heard her gasp as she saw his face. "My God!" she said at the sight of his face and the front of his uniform splattered with blood - then gasped again as she saw the blood soaked uniform that Andile wore. Sinking to her knees beside the two as she pulled out her medical tricorder, she asked, "What happened?!"

"She cut herself..." he began.

"Where? On what?" Beverly interrupted.

"Her arm - on a broken cup," he replied, answering by rote, then shaking his head. "But that was half an hour ago," he added, trying to clarify the matter for the doctor. "It healed, then she left..."

Beverly stopped her scan, and looked at him as if he were mad. "It _healed_?" she echoed incredulously.

"I'll explain later," he insisted, realizing how absurd he must have sounded. "It healed, she left - then I found her here. Like this," he added.

Beverly stared at him a moment longer, then turned her attention back to the unconscious woman, beginning her scan once again - then swearing under her breath.

"Damn! Tritanium ghosts again," she muttered, snapping the scanner off - then reached to the side of Andile's neck, her fingers gently feeling out the carotid artery.

"Her pulse is racing - erratic, weak... she must have lost a lot of blood," she said, more to herself than to him.

Had she? Picard asked himself. He hadn't realized it at the time - in fact he hadn't even considered the idea until now - but there had been blood everywhere in those frantic moments - spraying over both of them at first, covering his hands and uniform as he tried to stop the flow, soaking both their uniforms, splashing across the table and floor - it had all seemed to begin and end in an instant, he thought, looking back - but the longer he thought, the longer the time seemed to have taken - and the more horrifying and real the event seemed to have been.

Why, then, had he dismissed her injury so readily? he asked himself. Had the need to hear the end of her tale been so important or so compelling that he could ignore the danger she was in?

Or, he wondered, had there been something else?

His mind slowly waking from the fog that encompassed it, he turned his attention back to the physician - who had ignored the captain's failure to answer her.

"She's in hypovolemic shock, certainly," she announced, "but I can't tell if there's anything else wrong with her here. At least not here. We need to get her to Sickbay," she said, then added, "Jean-Luc? We need to move her. Now."

He stared at her, surprised by what sounded like an order to pick up the tiny woman - then realized it was.

Looking around for the first time since Beverly had arrived, he realized that Beverly had not brought an anti-gravity stretcher with her.

Or any assistants.

And, he realized with a dawning awareness, she was wearing a lab coat - pulled over a nightgown.

"Beverly, I'm sorry. I thought you were on duty..." he began realizing what he had done, only to be quieted by the touch of her hand.

"Jean-Luc, I've never refused your call for help - on duty or off - and I never will. You can apologize later - after we get Andile to Sickbay - and after I get her stabilized," she replied. "Now, pick her up and let's go," she repeated.

He raised a brow at what was now unquestionably a command, then nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said, sliding his arms beneath the tiny - and, to his surprise, terribly light - woman.

Lifting her up, he followed Beverly as she guided him down the corridor, worry and concern heavy on her face.

"You said that the injury had healed - and then she left," she began. "Left where?"

"The conference room," Picard replied. "She was being interrogated about the sabotage..."

"At this hour!?" Beverly interrupted, appalled. "Jean-Luc, it's four in the morning!"

"It wasn't four when we began," he started to reply.

"So you mean you've been at this - and at her - for hours?" she snapped "That's lovely! She probably worked how many shifts today - one, two? - and you decide tonight - this morning! - is the optimum time to harass her," she grumbled, then stopped as they reached the lift doors.

"The idea of an interrogation is to wear down the defenses of a

suspect, Doctor," he replied tartly, "not to question them at the time of

their greatest resistance."

"Why not just beat them into submission?" she snapped back as they entered the lift. "It would be faster - and it would have the same effect," she added, glancing worriedly at Andile's limp form.

"Beverly..." he replied, exasperated.

"I'm serious, Jean-Luc. For all I know - and for all you know - Lt. Andile's collapse may have been as much a result of the harassment you put her through as from the accident," she informed him grimly - only to see him look back in confusion.

"Accident?" he repeated.

"Cutting her arm," she said.

Picard looked at her for a moment, then at Andile, then back again. "Beverly, it wasn't an accident."

She stared back, as if unable to understand what he was saying. "You mean...?"

He nodded. "She did it intentionally."


	70. Chapter 70

**Chapter 70**

For a moment, Beverly could do nothing more than stare at the man beside her, her eyes wide with horror - but before she could do or say anything, the lift doors opened.

Reacting to their soft whush, she gestured for Picard to lead the way out - then followed, staring at Andile all the time.

Entering Sickbay a moment later, she gestured at the central bio-bed. "Put her there," she ordered, then called out, "Alyssa!"

The ship's second physician stuck her head out from the office - then seeing the arrival of a patient, hurriedly moved to join the two senior officers.

"Dr. Crusher..." she began, but Beverly shook her head.

"You've gone off duty, Alyssa. You weren't feeling well," she said.

Alyssa Ogawa stared at the woman for a moment, then at Picard as he lay Andile's body on the central bio-bed, then at Andile herself - then nodded, turned and left the room.

"I'm glad it was Alyssa on call tonight," she said. "I'm not sure how I would have been able to dismiss Dr. Matthews without arousing more suspicion than it was worth. At least Alyssa won't ask questions... " She sighed, then studied the too-pale woman lying on the bed.

"Suicide?" she whispered sorrowfully. "But why?"

It took a moment for Picard to understand, then he shook his head emphatically. "No! Oh, no, Beverly. She wasn't trying to kill herself! Quite the opposite."

Beverly stared at him, now completely confused. "What...?" she began, then stopped as Alyssa re-entered the room, pulling on her lab coat as she did so.

"Alyssa..." Beverly began in protest.

"I'm not here, Dr. Crusher," Alyssa replied with a smile. "I went off duty early - sick. Don't you remember?"

"I'm serious, Alyssa," she countered sharply.

"As am I - and our patient's waiting while we argue," she reminded her superior.

Beverly started at the gentle reprimand - then smiled gratefully at her former nurse and now-fellow physician - then helped arrange Andile's body on the bed as Alyssa secured a medical scanner for each of them.

"Dr. Crusher," Alyssa muttered a moment later. "I can't get anything beyond a reading of tritanium - but there's far too much for it to be bone replacement... There must be a glitch in the processor..." she said.

Picard hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Assume..." he started, then hesitated, wondering how much he could reveal to the two without breaking Security protocols - or the engineer's seeming trust in him.

But she had suffered enough for one life, he decided after a moment's thought. That, at least, ends here and now.

"Assume," he told them, "for the sake of argument, that it is bone replacement."

Alyssa opened her mouth to argue with him - then closed it. The captain wasn't a doctor or even a medical officer - but that didn't mean he didn't know what he was talking about, she reminded herself. Setting aside the tricorder, she turned to another cabinet and pulled out a second set of tricorders. She handed one to Beverly, who turned to Picard, explaining, "These are the scanners we use for Data. They've been calibrated to mask the signature from his tritanium skeleton while revealing any underlying problems...though usually we're looking for mechanical problems, not human biological ones," she admitted - then suddenly stopped and looked at him. "She is human, isn't she?" she asked.

He hesitated, her words pouring back through his mind. We're not humans - we're animals, she had said - but her blood had been the dark red of a human's blood, as red as his - while it flowed.

"Her file says she is," he replied, "but I'm not certain."

"I'll leave the scanner on that setting then, until we know more," she said.

Alyssa touched the switch on the device in her hand, then drew a sharp breath and looked at Beverly. "Doctor," she started softly.

Seeing the look on Alyssa's face, Beverly turned on her own scanner, stared at the screen in shock, then looked at Picard.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing the look of horror on her face.

"Her skull... "

"What about it?"

"It's almost entirely a tritanium lattice," she informed him solemnly.

"And that's why your scanner wouldn't work?" he asked.

Beverly gave him a curious stare, then realized he wouldn't understand the import of Alyssa's finding. She nodded. "Yes," she answered solemnly. "It explains her face as well."

"Her face?" he asked, as she turned back to her patient.

"The sharp angles on her jaw and cheekbones," she said, gesturing at Andile's features, "the sharp ridges on her brows. It's almost all new bone growth on the lattice - but there's been almost no remodeling of the bone." She stopped her scan, looking up at him to explain. "Once the lattice has been put in place, the calcium matrix begins to grow into it - but as with any bone growth, first it over grows, then slowly remodels - pares itself down," she translated, "to a smoother, more normal appearance." Beverly frowned, then looked up at Picard. "If the accident happened two years ago, as you said, that process should have already started - and some time ago," she murmured, puzzled. "Remodeling is a slower process than deposition - but it should have begun by now."

"Then why hasn't it?" he replied.

Beverly shook her head. "I don't know, Captain, but I intend to find out. Alyssa?" she called out.

"Erratic heartbeat," Alyssa replied, citing her own findings - and concerns, "BP is seventy over twenty, stroke volume is decreased... "

"She's in hypovolemic shock," Beverly agreed. "Let's start a saline infusion - a bolus of three hundred ml, then reduce to ten ml per minute..."

"Hypovolemic shock?" Alyssa echoed, startled. "From what? There's no indication of any internal bleeding..."

"Her arm," Beverly replied gently, gesturing at the blood soaked sleeve - but Alyssa shook her head.

"I already checked, Doctor, when I saw the blood - but there's no wound there," she insisted.

"Nothing?"

"Well, a scar - but it's at least a few weeks old," Alyssa insisted. "She's got to be bleeding someplace else."

Beverly glanced at Picard, then walked around the bed to Andile's side, peeling back the stiff material - and finding, as Alyssa had said, little more than a pale pink line of slightly raised flesh. She looked at the captain, then stepped back to his side. "Are you sure?" she whispered. "Maybe the shard didn't penetrate the skin..."

He raised his hands, both still smeared with dried and drying blood - and remembering, all too vividly, the jet of brilliant red blood that had spurted from the woman's arm. "I'm sure, Doctor."

Perplexed, she stepped back to Andile's side, bending over to examine the arm in closer detail - then gave a soft gasp, which she quickly checked.

Standing upright, she nodded to the other physician. "However she was injured, she's not bleeding now," she informed the other doctor. "Let's start the infusion, Alyssa - and I'd like a type and cross on her - and a gene map, just in case. Let's make sure she's fully human before we prepare a transfusion."

As Alyssa left the room, Beverly quickly closed the bed's life diagnostic array over the unconscious woman and turned it on. Narrowing the scan on her arm, she studied the read-out, then looked back at Picard, her face covered with astonishment and marvel.

"It _is_ healing," she whispered in awed amazement. "My God, Jean-Luc, I can see the tissues fusing! It's incredible! I've never seen anything like it!" she gasped - then glanced at the balance of the machine's read-outs. "It's also drawing the energy out of her," she added, her amazement fading to worry as she watched the life signs slowing dropping. "She may not bleed to death," she said as she touched a button, allowing the diagnostic panel to retract into the bed once more, "but if we don't boost her metabolism, she may die anyway."

"Beverly, there's something I need to tell you..." he began - then fell silent as Alyssa reentered the room a moment later, pushing an infusion pump ahead of her.

The CMO gave him a quizzical look - then understood. The revelation, whatever it may be, would have to wait for a more private moment.

For a few minutes, the two doctors worked in silence, then Alyssa looked at the senior physician. "Doctor, her pressure is coming up - but her heartbeat is still erratic - much more than can be accounted for by hypovolemic shock." She frowned at the read-out. "I think we should run a cardiac enzyme panel," she said ominously.

"Add a liver and kidney panel while you're at it," Beverly agreed, equally worried. "There's a metabolic imbalance, and I'm seeing extensive scar tissue in both organs... hyperplasia of the adrenal cortex as well," she murmured, then looked up at Picard.

"Overdevelopment of the adrenal glands," she explained. "Some over-development is not abnormal - but what I see in the lieutenant is excessive. It's probably a response to the diminished nutrient balance - or possibly to the increased stimulation because of her position at Utopia - she can't draw on energy from her body's nutritional stores, so she's adapted to generating excess adrenaline - and her glands have developed to compensate. Overdeveloped," she added. "It explains the stringy muscle tissue, the extreme low body fat - even some of her emotional responses. That may explain her lack of metabolic response to the... damage," she added. "She's overtaxed her system one time too many."

She continued to study the read-out - then heard Alyssa give a soft gasp. Looking at the other physician, she saw the look of shock on her face as she read her screen - then saw the pain in the other woman's eyes as she met her eyes.

Worried, she followed the woman's gaze to the board - then drew a sharp breath of her own.

"Alyssa," she said calmly, her voice tense under strict control, "would you please run those panels? Now?" she added firmly.

Alyssa Ogawa nodded, then stepped from the room, leaving Picard and a silent Beverly alone, the latter turning back to the bio-bed's readout - but the hand that adjusted the reading was shaking - badly.

After a few more minutes, she turned the machine off, allowing it to withdraw to its place within the sides of the bed frame, then, without a word, left the room, returning from her office a moment later carrying, to Picard's surprise, an old, hand-woven blanket.

The throw was one of Beverly's prized possessions, Picard knew, one of the few material items Beverly had brought home with her after her grandmother's funeral on Caldos - and one she turned to for comfort at those times when nothing else seemed able to ease her personal pain.

As he watched, Beverly unfolded the cover, and gently, almost tenderly, covered the unconscious woman, tucking the blanket in around Andile as if she were a child - and Beverly a worried mother - then gestured to Picard to follow her to her office.

There she closed the door behind them - and whirled on him with undisguised fury.

"You son of a bitch!" she shouted. "You knew! You knew about this - and you didn't tell me!"

"Knew about..." he began, only to be silence as she continued, her rage swelling.

"Or are you going to stick by your story - that all this..." She held up the tricorder furiously, "... was caused by an explosion!"

"Beverly..."

"Oh, maybe the broken arms, and the damage to her kidneys and liver - and I'll buy that the explosion caused her skull to be so badly fractured that she required a tritanium lattice to support the fragments, and that she lost both hands and had to have cloned cybernetic replacements - but explosions do not cause spiral fractures of the femur!" she roared.

He stared at her, astounded by the vehemence in her outburst - and confused.

"Spiral fractures?" he asked, bewildered.

"Spiral fractures!" she snapped in reply. "They happen when a bone is twisted into breaking - when it's being forcibly dislocated! No wonder she limps - the head of the femur was snapped out of the socket, breaking it - and the acetabulum!

"Maybe... Maybe I would have believed it - maybe somehow, some horrible accident could have managed that - but there is no explosion known to man that could have caused this, Captain!" She thrust the tricorder at him, leaving him to read it.

_Gross scarring of the anal and vaginal mucosa_, it displayed.

He read it, understanding the words - but not the meaning behind them - or the reason for Beverly's fury.

"I don't understand," he admitted.

"No?" she asked acidly. "Then I'll put it in layman's terms. She was raped, Captain; raped and sodomized, repeatedly and brutally - and there is no way she could have incurred those injuries in an explosion!

"She was tortured; tortured and raped - and you knew it - and you didn't tell me," she added, heartsick at the realization. "I could have helped her - but you wouldn't let me! Damn you, Jean-Luc! Damn you!" she railed furiously, prepared to refuse the explanation he would have to offer - claiming some need for Security or safety... Damn it! she swore silently. There could be no way to justify what he had done - and what he hadn't, she added angrily.

Except...

Except there was no denial on his lips, no excuse ready to explain away his actions.

In fact, she realized with a slowly growing sense of horror, there was nothing on his face but an expression of shock as he stared at the tricorder.

"Oh, God," Beverly whispered. "You didn't know."

"I knew..." he started - then shook his head. "I knew she had been captured by the Cardassians during a mission... "

"And you didn't tell me?" Beverly cried angrily.

"I didn't learn about it until a few hours ago, Beverly," he countered, quickly resuming his professional aloofness. "And I had every intention of telling you as soon as I saw you. But I didn't know..." He held up the padd, unable to speak the words - unable to accept the hideous crime that had been committed against the woman's body, against her spirit, "... about this."

Beverly let out short sigh, then shook her head in shame. "Jean-Luc, I'm sorry. I jumped to a conclusion - I thought the reason you hadn't wanted her to come to Sickbay was because you knew about this - and you didn't want me to find out, and risk a Security breach."

"And in some circumstances, I might have to do just that," he reminded her sternly. "But not this time." He glanced at the tricorder, then looked at her again. "Beverly, are you sure? About... this?" he asked, holding up the device.

"The scarring is extensive," she insisted, "brought on by repeated brutal sexual assaults. There's no other way it could have happened. And..." she added quietly, soberly, "it is a common practice with female prisoners, Jean-Luc. In fact, with all prisoners. The jailors, the guards... You were spared that indignity, Jean-Luc, when you were captured by the Cardassians - possibly because you were a man - but more likely because of your rank. But Lt. Andile - a woman, a tiny delicate-looking woman?" she asked grimly. "No, they would have raped her, repeatedly, degrading her physically and emotionally."

Picard considered her answer for a moment, then gestured at the tricorder. "And you certain this couldn't have happened any other way?"

"Another way?" she asked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Could she have suffered this sort of scarring - if she had prostituted herself?" he pressed.

It was Beverly's turn to fall silent, shocked by the very notion - then shook her head. "I don't think she would have willingly endured an assault like this more than once. The pain... is indescribable, Jean-Luc, like being torn apart by a red-hot knife. To suffer this, over and over again - willingly?" She shook her head - then realized there was another aspect to this tale that she had yet to hear. One, she added, that she might not want to hear.

But her patient's health depended on as complete a history as she could find. Gently pushing the still shocked Picard into one of the two chairs that sat before her desk, then took the other.

"Jean-Luc, why did you ask that? What is it you're not telling me?" she pressed gently.

He looked at her, unwilling for a moment to share the grievous truth he had learned - then reminding himself he could do Andile no good on his own - though whether he could make anyone else understand why she had done what she had done was another matter entirely - and the chance they could possible find an iota of sympathy for her was even more remote.

But Beverly could find a professional detachment if nothing else; she had - and would again - remove her own feelings from a patient, and give them the best care she could provide - regardless of how she felt on a personal level.

Settling himself into the chair, he began to retell the story.

"Dear Lord," Beverly gasped some time later, horrified.

"Beverly," Picard said beseechingly, almost pleading with the doctor for understanding, "you can't judge her. She had no choice. If she didn't kill the child, the Cardassians would have - and brutally. It sounds callous - but what she did spared the child..."

"Jean-Luc," she interrupted him gently, "I'm not judging her - for anything. God knows I don't know if I could do what she did in her place - first trying to keep all those children alive - doing what she did to keep them fed and clothed... I don't know that I could have done that - put my body - and my soul - on the market. Could you?"

He shook his head. "I've been asking myself the same thing ever since she told me what had happened - and honestly, Beverly, I don't know. I just don't know."

"At least now we can do something to help her - that, is, she added worriedly, "if you're certain she's no longer a suspect in the sabotage."

"I'm..." he began to reply - then stopped, a new suspicion - and a new worry coming into his mind.

"Beverly, this... scarring," he began cautiously. "Would that affect the lieutenant's... personal life?" he asked.

She stared at him, confused. "Her 'personal' life?" she echoed.

He reddened, then shook his head. "Her... sex life," he clarified, embarrassed. "Would it prevent her from having... sexual relations?" he managed uncomfortably.

Beverly's eyes widened in surprise. "Jean-Luc, you may be the ship's captain, but there are some areas of the crew's life that are off limits, even to you..." she started,

"Beverly!" he snapped, interrupting her, "this is important! You know I wouldn't ask," he continued a moment later, the anger and embarrassment fading, "if it wasn't important."

And it was, he reminded himself, hating to have to ask about something so personal about any of his crew - but if she couldn't have been with Data - then they both were lying, and...

Beverly shook her head, stopping his escalating worries in mid-stream. "I don't know," she conceded. "Technically, yes, it's possible - but I can't imagine it would be very comfortable for her. If her lover were exceptionally careful, and exceptionally gentle, then..."

He interrupted her with a raised hand. "A simple 'yes' or 'no' would suffice, Doctor," he informed her, the blush growing unmistakably up his cheeks.

Beverly nodded. "Then 'yes'," she agreed.

He sighed, relieved.

"Why do you ask?" she pressed, then gasped, "Jean-Luc! Did you...?"

"Beverly!" he roared back, seemingly outraged at the suggestion.

"I had to ask, Jean-Luc," she countered, raising a hand in concession. "You don't usually concern yourself with the crew's 'personal' life..."

"I'm not _concerning_ myself with her 'personal' life," he insisted. "I needed to know... for other reasons. And in any case, my personal life is none of your..."

"Jean-Luc, you don't have a personal life," she countered. "That's why you're here, on this ship, instead of being in the Briar Patch with Anij," she reminded him. "Speaking as your friend, and as your physician, however, I think you should develop a 'personal' life. It would make you a healthier - and probably happier - person. And there's nothing wrong with the idea of being involved with Lt. Andile - other than the fact that she's ill, and that Data's in love with her and that she's a suspect in the sabotage of the ship," Beverly reminded him.

"All of which would effectively limit any relationship," he reminded her. "However, she is no longer a suspect in the sabotage," he added.

Beverly's eyes widened, surprised at the sudden conviction in his words - and relieved for her patient's sake. The added strain of being considered a suspect could not have helped Andile's condition she reminded herself. "Well," she said a moment later, "I'm glad about that..."

"Don't be too happy," he countered sourly. "Even without the charge of sabotage, the lieutenant's situation is not good."

Her eyes widened again - then she shook her head in denial. "Jean-Luc, how much worse could it possibly get?"

"A lot," he sighed worriedly. "Bev," he said slowly, "I think the lieutenant was intentionally betrayed to the Cardassians - by Adm. Czymszczak."

"Jean-Luc!" she gasped. "I don't like him anymore than you do, but..."

"Hear me out, Beverly," he insisted. "Lt. Andile's mission failed within weeks of its inception - probably due to some mistake on that team's part. However, the Cardassians not only did not find her after that disaster, but she managed not only to survive for months on Cardassia without any support from Starfleet - and continue to work on her mission. I'll admit she did not survive easily or well - but she survived nonetheless, without the Cardassians seeming to have any clue to her presence on the planet - right up until the time that her information yielded a real result.

"But the moment that she had managed to accomplish her goal - the moment Czymszczak realized her work could lead to the end of the war, she became a liability to him," he informed her grimly. "If what the lieutenant said is correct, I suspect Czymszczak created and developed this mission without the Admiralty ever being made aware of it. If it succeeded, he could make its mission public - and garner the acclaim, and the success for himself."

"But if it failed, he would be able to pretend he knew nothing about it," Beverly agreed.

"I suspect that when the team members were killed in those first few weeks, he wrote it off as just such a loss - and most likely, found a way to cover his tracks, to completely disassociate himself with the mission, should it ever come to light," Picard continued. "I don't think he actually expected Lt. Andile to continue on her own, if he was even aware she hadn't been killed with the others - let alone to succeed. So when she did find a flaw in the Cardassian ships, he suddenly realized he had a claim to a solid position in the admiralty - and possibly in the Federation Council itself - with absolutely no one to reveal how it had come about."

"Except the Lieutenant," Beverly murmured, understanding.

"As I said, she became his liability - a threat to his political life," he replied. "That is, if she came back. If she died there, however, the truth died with her - and there would be no one to gainsay his version of what had happened."

"And so he betrayed her to the Cardassians," Beverly said, her fury growing.

"It's an assumption," Picard reminded her. "It could be that things happened as she suspected - that she was revealed to the Obsidian Order because of what happened with one of the men. We could be wrong," he added - though he seemed to hold little hope of that possibility.

Beverly gave him a scornful look, preparatory to an equally caustic response when Alyssa Ogawa appeared at the door, a padd in her hand - and a grief-stricken expression on her face.

Instantly concerned, Beverly waved her into the room, then took the padd from her, read the results - and looked at Alyssa again. "Thank you, Alyssa," she said softly, then added, "Give her a hypo of fifty milligrams of benaxaprine. That should keep her sedated until while we get her moved into a regular bed." She smiled gently at the woman, then added, "I'll be out in a minute."

Alyssa nodded, then turned as Picard rose to see what had so troubled the young physician.

"What is it?" he asked.

"There's significant damage to her heart, Captain. Her self-starvation has started to affect her muscle function - including her heart," she replied.

"But... you can fix it - can't you?"

Beverly hesitated. "Yes, under other circumstances, I could help her - medication to strengthen the muscles, clone a new heart entirely - even replace her heart, if I had a pediatric replacement heart on the ship - but..." She fell silent.

"But what?" he pressed.

"It's not just her heart. The damage to her liver and kidneys is too extensive, too far progressed.

"Jean-Luc," Beverly said softly, "she's dying."


	71. Chapter 71

**Chapter 71**

Picard stared at her, silent, stricken - then shook his head. "That's not possible," he insisted. "I just saw her cut her arm to the bone - and it healed! How can she suddenly be dying?" he insisted.

"Because she didn't heal herself completely – and this isn't sudden, Jean-Luc," Beverly reminded him. "Yes, the wound on her arm closed - but it left a scar. The bands on her wrists are scars. She heals - but she doesn't have the energy to heal completely, not enough to avoid having scars. In the case of the internal organs, her body repaired the gross injuries - but in doing so it left scar tissue. That tissue is blocking the tubules of her kidneys and liver, so they can't function - and there's no surgical technique sophisticated enough to repair that much damage, on that microscopic level. I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," she added sympathetically.

He stared at her for a long time, then shook his head defiantly. "You said the scars on her arms are only a few years old," he reminded her.

Beverly nodded. "One - maybe two at the longest."

"Did you find any scars older than that?" he asked.

She considered a moment longer - then shook her head, adding, "But my examination was cursory..."

"But you didn't find any older scars!" he insisted.

She hesitated - then nodded, conceding the point.

"Then something happened - probably around the time of the mission - that caused her to lose her ability to heal completely," he announced. "If we could determine what it was - one of the injuries, perhaps, or exposure to some chemical or radioactive source on Cardassia..."

Beverly's eyes widened. "Or maybe it's something far simpler than that, Jean-Luc. What did you say she told you? That she was reduced to having to scavenge for food - to eating garbage when she had to? And remember what I said while her arm was healing - that she was using a huge amount of energy? Could it be that simple? Could it just have been a matter of poor nutrition?" she mused, astounded at the simplicity of the idea.

Picard studied her, then shook his head. "But that was only while she was on Cardassia, Beverly. When she returned..."

"When she returned, she had been beaten, almost to death. Her internal organs were almost destroyed," she reminded him. "The doctors would have put her on an extremely modified diet to reduce the work that her organs would have to perform - and they would have kept the calorie levels as low as possible - when what she really needed was as high level as she could handle. Without energy, she couldn't heal - and so she formed the scar tissue rather than completing the healing process as she would normally have done," she murmured, amazed at the simplicity of the answer - and at the irony of it. "But once the scars formed, her liver and kidneys could no longer process as much food as before her injuries - so more scars developed as she continued to repair herself - which further reduced her ability to use food..."

"And the cycle just escalated - until now," Picard said slowly.

"If only the doctors at Starfleet Medical had known," Beverly sighed miserably.

"But can't you just increase her food intake now?" Picard asked. "Wouldn't that interrupt the cycle?" he pressed hopefully,

But to his dismay, Beverly shook her head. "The scars are formed now, Jean-Luc; the body has no way to remodel scar tissue like it remodels bones. Once that tissue is formed, there's no way to remove it, short of surgery - and there is no surgical technique I know of to remove enough tissue to restore function to her organs.

"I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," she said gently, "but the most I can do now is to make her comfortable. Maybe we can give her a few extra days by pheresing off the toxins and dialyzing her as her kidneys fail... but the damage is too extensive, too far past salvage... Damn it!" she swore furiously. "Damn it! If I had just ordered her to come down here earlier... If Greg hadn't blown off her injuries after the shuttlebay accident, maybe I could have done something..."

"Done what?" Picard asked gently. "What could you have done?"

She looked into his eyes, aching, then looked away, shaking her head slowly. "Nothing," she admitted. "Maybe a year or two ago - but the damage is too far gone now. Damn it!" she added bitterly.

He looked at her, understanding the pain she was feeling, knowing how she hated the idea that there was nothing she could do for her patient - but desperately searching her mind for something more, some desperate measure that could - and would - pull the woman through.

And there should be, he added angrily. Damn it! This was the Enterprise! he reminded the universe. This was the ship where people could make miracles occur!

"And... there's nothing you can do?" he asked quietly.

Beverly shook her head. "We'll make her comfortable, make sure she's not in any pain. For tonight, we'll keep her sedated, under observation - and tomorrow I'll ask Deanna to meet with her. Maybe she can help her deal with what happened with the child. I think... I think that might make these last days easier, if she could come to terms with what she did."

Picard shook his head slowly. "Beverly, I'm not sure a few counseling sessions are going to be able to help with what she went through. She's been living with this for the last two years."

"I know," she agreed. "But we have to try. And right now," she added, pushing her chair back from the desk and rising to her feet, "I have to help Alyssa."

Stepping back into the main room of the Sickbay, she was surprised to find that the bed had already been emptied.

I guess we were talking longer than I thought, she mused silently, and praising Alyssa for her quick and efficient work - then felt a slight wave of uneasiness come over her.

The bed was empty, yes - but the afghan had been carelessly dropped on the floor, something the meticulous Alyssa Ogawa would never have done - and more to the point, the infusion pump was still running, a small pool of saline gathering on the bio-bed's mattress, slowly easing its way toward the edge, where it dripped onto the floor in a widening puddle.

Alarmed, she turned about ready to call out to Alyssa - only to see the other doctor walking toward her.

"I've set up space for her in the rear section, Doctor; it's quiet there and..." Her voice ran down as she looked past Beverly and spied the empty bio-bed - then looked at Crusher in shock.

"Where is she?!" Alyssa gasped.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Beverly replied.

"She was... right here," the smaller physician insisted. "I had just checked her readings, then I went to set up her bed!" she insisted. "I couldn't have been gone more than five minutes!"

"And you gave her the benaxaprine?" Beverly asked.

"As soon as you ordered it!" Alyssa insisted. "That's why I was checking the readings! I wanted to be sure she was completely sedated before I left her!"

"Then how...?" Picard interrupted.

"Let's forget the hows for the moment, Captain," Beverly said firmly. "We have another priority right now. I've got a patient with end stage organ failure and a heart condition wandering the halls of this ship, loaded with enough medication to knock her out for a day. If she collapses in some obscure corner of the ship, we might not find her in time. Computer," she interrupted herself, "Locate Lt. Andile."

"Lt. Andile is in Sickbay," the computer answered simply.

Beverly looked at Picard in confusion - but Alyssa was already moving, rifling through the folds of the afghan, searching for Andile's commbadge - then suddenly reaching into the narrow gap between the mattress and the frame, and pulling out the gold pin.

"Here. It must have fallen off when you brought her in - or when she got up," Alyssa answered.

It hadn't, Picard realized; comm badges didn't come off uniforms easily, anymore than it would fall into that miniscule and inconvenient location on its own.

Andile had pulled it off, put it there - then made good her escape.

"Doctor, is there anything in her condition that would allow her to... _overcome_ the effects of the drug this quickly?" he asked.

"No... Yes!" she amended a moment later. "Adrenaline. Her over-developed adrenal glands! It's possible that she came to enough to realize where she was and what was happening - and knowing how much she dislikes Sickbay, she could well have produced a surge of adrenaline - enough to block the drug from taking effect.

"For the moment," she added. "When the adrenaline levels drop, however, the benaxaprine is going to take effect - and she's going to drop, wherever she is. Captain, we need to find her before that! The question is, where would she go?"

"Someplace she feels safe," Picard surmised.

"I'll call Engineering," Alyssa said immediately.

"And Ten Forward," Beverly reminded her. "We should check her quarters," she added, glancing at Picard - and him give and almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"No," he said softly. "I think I know where she'll go. I'll get her," he said.

"I'm coming with you," Beverly replied.

"Bev," he protested.

"She's my patient, Jean-Luc - and... and I judged her badly when I first heard about her," she admitted. "I thought she was simply one of those overly self-absorbed engineers who thought nothing for themselves - or worse, were proud of the destructive levels to which they drove their bodies," she told him soberly. "I know that as a physician, it would have made no difference in her condition - but as a person... I'm not proud of what I did," she said, ashamed.

"I don't think any of us are terribly proud of our actions in the last few weeks," he agreed, "except the one person who never did judge her," he added, a knowing look on his face

Beverly's eyes widened. "Data?" she asked, then understood. "You think she's on her way to his quarters?"

He nodded, then starting moving toward the Sickbay doors, followed hurriedly by the physician.

"And if she's not?" she pressed as they hurried through the corridor.

"Then we'll try her quarters," he replied.

"And if she's not there?"

He glanced at her, a small smile on his lips. "Are you always this optimistic at five in the morning?" he asked her.

"Only when I've been dragged out of bed - and haven't been given my coffee," she replied tartly.

"I'll make it up to you," he promised, "_after_ we find her. And in response to your question, if she's not in her quarters, I'll have Security start looking for her," he added.

They entered the lift, let it carry them further into the depths of the ship, then hurried through the doors into the dimly-lit corridor, racing down its length, turning right, then left, then right again - then Picard suddenly pulled up.

Beverly stopped beside him, then saw the reason for his pause: fifty feet ahead of them, a figure, small, limping, almost falling against the walls of the corridor as she stumbled, slowly, determinedly, making her way toward one set of doors.

"Jean-Luc, we've got to help her..."

"No," he countered softly. "She needs to do this, Beverly - on her own. She needs to think she's safe..."

"And we've not been the ones to make her feel that way on this ship," Beverly realized solemnly.

Steeling herself against her natural desire to want to help the injured woman, she held back, watching instead, cringing at each new stumble, almost calling out when Andile began to sag against the wall, only to see her pull herself to her feet, and force herself ahead one more step - until she reached her goal.

Exhausted, at the ends of her strength, she fumbled with the door pad - then managed to step across the threshold as the door opened in response to her touch.

The sound must have startled the android within, for Beverly saw his head jerk up - then saw the look of exquisite relief as he saw the face of the intruder.

The expression faded as quickly as it had come, though, for as she watched, Andile began to sag down; it was only through Data's inhuman speed that he was able to catch her before she hit the ground and lifted her into his arms.

Shocked, he held the unconscious woman for a moment - then looked up and saw the two officers approaching.

"Doctor," he called out, lifting Andile into his arms and stepping into the corridor, proffering her to the physician in desperate plea - then found himself at a loss for words.

He stared at Andile, then back at Beverly - then finally managed, "Help her. Please."

Beverly nodded. "I'm going to, Data," she said, then gestured for him to re-enter the room. Picard followed the two, watching as Beverly directed Data to set the woman down on the bed.

"Is she ill?" Data managed as Beverly pulled out a tricorder.

"I'm afraid so, Data. Very ill," she added soberly, raising her eyes to meet the android's, knowing the terrible news she had to break to him.

And finding she couldn't.

"She collapsed after the... interrogation," Picard replied.

Data looked at Picard, worry heavy in his eyes.

"Then should she not be in Sickbay...?" he began, only to see Beverly shake her head.

"She was, Data - but despite being sedated, she managed to find her way here. I think," she said with a gentle smile, "that she would rather be with you. If you don't mind. I don't think she'll do anything except sleep for the next few hours," she added, setting the scanner back in its case. "The sedative has finally taken hold."

"I do not mind," he agreed, watching the sleeping woman, and tenderly brushing back a loose strand of her long black hair.

Beverly smiled kindly at the gentleness, then said, "In that case, would you mind replicating a nightgown for her, Data? I think she'd sleep better if we got her out of that uniform and into something more comfortable."

"That will not be necessary," Data replied, stepping to the dresser and retrieving a folded garment from one of the drawers.

Beverly gawked - then reminded herself that Andile had spent a night here before - and Data had probably replicated the gown at the time.

Though why he had kept it was another question.

Sentiment? she wondered, still unused to the fact that the android had sentiments, let alone that he was beginning to express them - and in such human ways, she thought.

Well, then I had better get used to that fact, she chided herself as she began to open the front of Andile's uniform - only to realize that Data attempting to help her.

Stopping, she smiled and him, appreciative of what he was trying to do - but knowing that it was inappropriate, even for an android, bereft of human sexuality and modesty as he was. Thin and ill as she was, Andile was still a woman, and Data was... well, not a man, but close enough in appearance that his help would have been improper, she decided.

"Data, I think I had better get her ready for bed by myself," she said gently. "If you two gentlemen wouldn't mind?" she added, glancing up at the hovering Picard.

Startled - first at the request, and second by the implication of his remaining, Picard turned away, hurriedly leaving the woman's bedside.

Less aware of the impropriety, Data hesitated for a moment, staring at the physician, then slowly turned away, joining Picard outside the sleeping alcove.

"You are now convinced of her innocence in the matter of the sabotage, Captain?" he asked Picard as they waited.

"Yes, I am, Data," he said.

"I am relieved - as I believe Andile will be," the android concurred. "The past few weeks have been very difficult for her," he added.

"Data," Picard said slowly, "I think that it has been even harder for her than you think..."

"Because of her involvement in Starfleet covert operations - or because of her capture by the Cardassians?" he asked evenly.

Picard's eyes widened momentarily - then he narrowed them again, refusing to react further.

"I understand, Captain," Data replied a moment later. "Security protocols mean that you can neither confirm nor deny what Andile has told you. Let me assure you, however, that Andile did not breach those protocols with me, either. Rather, my knowledge was based upon an interpretation of her responses during the interrogation, and my subsequent interpolation of comments and behaviors she has made during the three months we have known together. And," he added, "your own response to my surmises."

"Data, I did not respond," Picard pointed out.

"Sir, may I remind you that I have spent the last three months studying human body language - and while I am not as adept as Andile, I am quite well versed in its application. You did not need to consciously respond in order for me to assess your reflexive reactions."

"Indeed," Picard harrumphed.

"Yes, sir," Data agreed. "However, that knowledge shall remain a secret. I suspect that even if Andile could reveal what happened to her, she might not wish to do so. There are certain aspects to her cultural upbringing that seem to permit her to perform certain activities that other deem distasteful - and that she believes will demean her in the estimation of others if they were made aware of them," he informed the captain.

Picard studied him, curious. "But not in your estimation?" he asked.

"No, sir. She is..." He considered for a moment. "... a good person. Good enough to do what must be done - even when the consequence of the act would be intolerable for others to consider. There are many who consider that tenacity to be emblematic of a distant emotional response, hence her sobriquet, 'The Bitch Goddess of Utopia Planitia.' However, she is not distant - merely resolved to do what must be done, regardless of personal cost. That determination is a characteristic that I find admirable," Data went on, "even when human standards might not consider it so. Fortunately, however, I am not human."

"Fortunately," Picard agreed, a wave of relief surging through him for both his second officer, and his newest engineer - only to be followed by a wave of worry.

"If you understand that Data, you need to also understand that what she did in the interrogation room..." he began to caution the android.

"Was to preserve my well-being," the android interrupted, agreeing. "I understand, sir. She was attempting to remove me from her personal sphere of influence because she did not want my reputation imprecated because of our association."

Picard smiled, relieved again. "You're a wise man, Data."

"No, sir. Not yet," he objected sadly - but also with a certain assuredness. "However with Andile's assistance - and yours, sir - I am learning."

The two stopped speaking as Beverly entered the room, sliding her tricorder back into her lab coat pocket as she did so. "She's resting comfortably, Data," she said with a smile, "and I expect her to do so for the rest of the night. But..." she said, growing serious, "she _is_ ill. Very ill. I need to see her back in Sickbay tomorrow."

"To begin her treatment?" he asked.

Beverly looked at the android, seeing a level of desperation and hope she had never seen in his face before - but one she had seen - and disappointed - too many times, in too many humans.

Uncertain, she looked at Picard - then back at Data. "To discuss her treatment," she corrected.

"She will be there," he assured her, then glanced back at the alcove where the engineer lay asleep. "May I...?" he asked, a growing hint of anxiousness in his voice as he looked at her.

"Of course," she assured him. "She's sleeping soundly - but I think she'll sleep better if you're with her. But don't forget to tell her - Sickbay, first thing."

"I shall, Doctor," he agreed, then hurried back to the darkened room.

Beverly watched him for a moment - then felt a tug at her hand, and looked up to see an angry Jean-Luc Picard glaring at her.

Surprised, she let him escort her from the room - then turned on her as soon as the doors shut.

"How could you do that, Doctor?" he whispered furiously. "You told me there was nothing you could do!"

She looked at him, an almost-blissful expression on her face - then smiled softly.

"That's why you asked, isn't it?" she said softly.

"What?" he said, taken aback.

"Those questions - about her... personal life? That why you needed to know," she continued. "Data's her alibi, isn't he?"

Picard stared at her, astounded by the unexpected remark - then slowly nodded.

"They were in bed, weren't they?" she pressed.

His eyes widened at the second deduction - but this time he refused to answer.

This time, his silence earned him a tender smile. "A gentleman to the end, Jean-Luc. But you don't have to tell me; I know. I thought she might prefer her hair unbraided when she slept, so I looked for her hairbrush – and found it. In a drawer of her lingerie. She's living with him, isn't she?"

"I don't know," Picard replied.

"It doesn't matter," Beverly conceded. "What does matter is that he's in love with her," she said - then gave a soft, sweet, joyous laugh, ignoring the rising fury in Picard's face.

"I am as aware of his feelings for her as you are, Doctor - but that doesn't justify you concealing the truth from him!" he replied.

"I didn't," she replied calmly.

"But... You told me there was nothing you could do for her!" he replied, still angry - but confused now, as well.

"There isn't," she agreed.

"Then...?"

"I can't do anything to help her - but there may be something _you_ can do," she replied enigmatically.

"Me?" he replied, astonished by the suggestion, then shook his head. "I don't understand, Doctor."

"The cause of her debilitation is that the tubules in her kidneys and liver are too scarred to function - but the organs themselves healed relatively well. If I could remove the scar tissue..."

"You said there was no surgical technique that existed that could do that," he reminded her.

"No surgery that I could perform," she agreed. "If the surgery was to work, it would have to be at the cellular level. That's beyond any abilities I have - but it's not beyond the ability of nano-probes," she said. "All I'd have to do is program them..."

"But there are no nano-probes aboard the ship," he reminded her, "except... he added, slowly realizing what she intended.

"Except in you," she agreed. "Borg nano-probes. I can pherese off some of yours, reprogram them and infuse them into the lieutenant - and given time, they can clear the tissue blockage in her organs."

"And you're sure that will work?" he asked, somewhat leery.

Beverly grew serious. "No. All I do know, Jean-Luc, is that if I don't try something, she will die. Now, will you help me - or are _you_ going to tell Data we could have tried to save Andile - but didn't?" she asked.

He hesitated, then sighed. "What do I need to do?"

"Roll up your sleeves and come with me, my dear captain," she said, then, taking his hand, led him back toward Sickbay.


	72. Chapter 72

**Chapter 72  
**

She dragged herself forward, her eyes wide with terror, pulling herself forward with her arms, her broken legs unable to help push her to freedom - then heard the deep, hard laugh.

"Oh, no you don't," he laughed, grabbing an ankle, pulling her back. "It's my turn now."

She heard the sound of the belt buckle loosening - but could not react. She was beyond screaming, beyond begging. Whatever plea she would have made once escaped now only as a gurgle of incomprehensible pain, burbling out through a mouth filled with blood and vomit.

And then the pain began.

The pain.

Oh, god, the pain!

Picard sat bolt upright in his bed, the scream torn from his throat filling the room - then stopping as abruptly as it has begun, as the slow realization of where he was - and who he was - sifted back into his consciousness.

He stared at the blankets that were tangled between his legs and clenched between his hands...

Hands, he realized, astonished - and relieved. I have my hands back.

He stared at them, seeing all too clearly the moment when the Cardassian had chopped them off with the axe, the severed, broken bones sticking through the ruined flesh, the blood spurting from the severed arteries, spraying her face, her body... Varel's body, he thought, a welling-up of grief catching in his throat... but they were here now, he reminded himself. The surgeons had replaced them... how many times? he wondered, opening and closing them slowly, amazed - and terrified. How long would they last this time? A week? A month? How long until the pain and rejection took them away again...

As they should, he grieved. How can I keep the hands that killed my child, my baby...?

Stricken, he raised himself from his bed, stumbling toward his desk, where he kept the knife that Darmok had given him years before. Grabbing it, he began to draw it against one wrist, determined to cut off the hands that had killed his Varel, that had murdered his baby...

He thrust the knife toward his wrist - then dropped the blade as a sudden spasm of pain ripped through his arm.

Grabbing it, he stared at the aching limb - and saw not the thin and delicate arm he had expected, but a darker, more heavily muscled one - and one embraced by an equally unfamiliar hand.

He stared at it, finding it both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time - then shook his head as it slowly began to clear.

A dream, he realized - then stared down at the blade by his feet.

A particularly vivid one, he added, thankful he had woken when he did.

Picking up the knife, he set it back in its case - then made his way to the replicator.

"Tea," he ordered. "Earl Grey - hot."

A moment later, the cup appeared - and he seized in thankfully, sipping the hot brew - and feeling the warmth ease into his aching wrists...

Arms, he corrected himself. Beverly said my arms might ache somewhat from the nano-probe extraction, not my wrists.

So why, he wondered as he made his way back to his bed, did his wrists ache so damnably much? They hadn't felt this way since...

Since I was on Celtis Three, he reminded himself soberly.

Picard let out a long sigh as he sat back on the bed. Is that it? he wondered. Is this another one of those nightmares? One brought on by what Lt. Andile had said - and my own memories of what they did to me? he wondered, gently massaging away the ache that he still felt from time to time in his wrists and arms.

Or was this simply his mind's way of explaining away the dull ache he truly did feel in his arms? he wondered - then pushed himself up from the bed, determined not to give into his discomfort and fatigue. It was, after all, he reminded himself, well after ten hundred hours - and well past the time a starship captain should be on the bridge, he chided himself.

Striding into the bathroom, he allowed himself the indulgence of a longer-than-usual shower, savoring the warmth of the water after the bitter cold of the prison floor...

Startled, he shook his head to clear it once again, wondering if he was so exhausted from the last day that he had lapsed back into sleep even while he stood in the shower...

Or, he realized, looking down at the hands that somehow refused to feel completely familiar, was it something else?

Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and hurried into the main room.

Thumbing the comm switch, he called out, "Picard to Cmdr. Data."

"Data, here, sir," came the instant - if slightly bewildered reply.

"Data, is Lt. Andile with you?" he asked worriedly.

"No, sir. She left for Sickbay several minutes ago," he informed the captain.

"You didn't go with her?" Picard replied, surprised.

"No, sir," Data replied. "She stated she preferred to go on her own. Is something wrong?" he added, his voice beginning to grow as worried as Picard's.

Hearing the stress, Picard quickly reigned in his surging emotions, then shook his head. "Nothing that I'm aware of, Data; I was just... checking," he added, hoping the reason didn't sound as weak to the android as it did to him.

Apparently, it didn't, for the android nodded. Picard signed off, then thumbed the switch again, this time calling out for Beverly.

"Doctor," he began as soon as her image appeared, "Has Lt. Andile come in yet?"

"No," she replied, confused. "I wasn't expecting her for a while..."

"Data said she just left his quarters," he interrupted. "Let me know when she gets there," he added.

"Of course," she replied, then studied him. "Are you all right, Captain?" she added.

He was about to give her a glib response - then stopped, and thought for a moment - then looked at her. "I'm... not entirely certain," he admitted. "Tell me, Doctor, last night, Dr. Ogawa was stated that she had administered the sedative to Lt. Andile - and that it had taken effect - and yet the lieutenant managed to leave Sickbay nonetheless. Have you determined how she was able to do that?"

Beverly shook her head. "Not really. I thought it was an adrenaline surge - but the more I thought about it, the less likely it was. After all, if the benaxaprine had taken effect, then Andile shouldn't have woken enough for any adrenaline surge to have been possible. I thought there may have been a mechanical failure in the monitor, so Alyssa would have been misled about the effects of the benaxaprine - but I checked the read-out this morning..."

"But there was no mechanical problem," he said with a certainty that surprised the woman.

"No," she agreed. "What's stranger yet is that the readings that were logged in to the computer indicate that the benaxaprine hadn't taken effect when Andile left - even though Alyssa insists that the readings said it had. Captain," she added plaintively, "I know Alyssa. She wouldn't lie..."

"And I don't believe she did," he agreed with her, leaving her to stare, confused, at the screen.

"Then... what?" she asked.

"I'm not sure, Doctor - but I have an idea. I'll let you know if when I find out. In the meantime, let me know when the lieutenant gets there," he repeated.

"Of course," she agreed.

Relieved, he sat down in his chair - then felt the damp towel resting against his skin - and realized the cause for both Data and Beverly's odd responses to his questions. As a rule, he thought as he returned to the bathroom, the captain of a starship does not go about making communicator calls while wearing nothing more than a towel - not, he added, unless it was a hell of an emergency.

Which either meant, he thought as he finished drying himself and began to dress, that either I am more tired than I think - or that this is an emergency.

Unfortunately, he had a pretty good idea which answer was right.

A few minutes later, he tugged his tunic into place, checked his image in the mirror, and, satisfied, started toward the door.

Immediately, a soft chirp on his commbadge stopped him.

"Crusher to Picard."

"Picard here, Doctor," he answered. "I take it the lieutenant has arrived?"

"No," came the worried response. "It's been ten minutes - she should have been here five minutes ago. Jean-Luc, I'm worried. After last night..."

"I understand," he agreed.

Hearing something in his voice, Beverly hesitated, then asked, hopefully, "Then you think you know where she's gone?'

"No. This time I don't have a clue," he admitted.

"You don't think she'd do anything... untoward?" Beverly said.

"Untoward...?" he started to reply - then realized what she meant. Not untoward - but suicidal.

"No," he said firmly. "Absolutely not. Andile are forbidden to suicide," he pronounced definitively.

A stunned silence met his proclamation - both Beverly's and his own.

Where the devil did that come from? he wondered, then quickly added, aloud, "I mean, it would be out of character. I'll have Security begin a search - but I suspect she's probably just trying to find a place where she can think - alone," he added.

"And unfortunately, that could be almost any place on the ship," Beverly agreed sourly, "including a dozen that only she knows about - and could fit into."

He nodded. "I'm aware of that, Doctor," he agreed, equally caustic. "I'll let you know if I find her..."

"And I'll let you know if she shows up," Beverly agreed.

Unlikely as that is, he thought as he signed off, then tapped his badge once again, calling for his Chief Security officer.

"She is no longer a suspect," he explained a moment later. "It is her safety that is at risk - not the ship's," he added firmly.

Worf growled his grudging - but still disapproving - acceptance of the order.

My telling him - or anyone who may have come to doubt her loyalty - that she is not a threat to the Federation is not going to be enough, he reminded himself. There was a degree of faith that his crew had to have in him - but there was also a point at which he owed them factual support for at least some of his statements.

But the truth, in this case, would do Andile no benefit; indeed, if anything, it would destroy her reputation - not only among this crew, but among everyone at Starfleet.

And, he added grimly, it would do the Federation no favors.

Already distrusted by the smaller alien races for their uneven or absent support, to find out that one of their own admirals had sent out covert missions - most likely without official approval - would only further destroy what little remaining credibility they had.

No, the truth, in this case, would help no one - and could destroy them all.

As it was already destroying Andile, he reminded himself grimly.

At least there was something they may be able to do about that.

Stepping back into the room, he thought for a moment - then shook his head. Despite Beverly's suggestion, he dismissed the idea that Andile would have secreted herself in the depths of the ship somewhere; while she might ache for the solace of isolation, he agreed, such an act would be as out of character as suicide would have been.

After all, he reminded himself with a smile, there were very few projects she could accomplish whilst hidden in the bowels of the ship - and a lifetime of engineering and dedication were not about to be chased away by the need to be alone.

So he knew where she wasn't - which left the remaining ninety-nine per cent of the ship.

He thought for a moment - then tapped his computer control.

"Computer, detail all engineering projects scheduled for today," he ordered the machine.

"Plasma conduit maintenance..." the feminine voice began to read out.

No - that required three people - and it was too public.

"ODN conduit repair is section four..."

That was private, he agreed, and only took one person - but it was so complex that she would have to focus all her thoughts on it - and right now, Picard thought, she needed something a little simpler, something that would require less concentration.

He continued to dismiss the tasks enumerated - then stopped, startled, when he realized the list was finished - and he still didn't know where she was.

Damn! he swore, frustrated by his lack of success at what should have been a simple task.

Perplexed, he thought for a moment - only to hear his own thoughts echo in his mind.

Simple task.

During a high-profile mission, he reminded himself, simple tasks were put off, make work for the quieter times in a less critical assignment. After all, the simpler tasks were usually the less important ones, significant only to someone who was fixated on the performance of the ship in every detail.

His eyes widened - then he hurriedly tapped the computer back into life. "Computer, detail all minor engineering repairs on the 'hold' list."

"Replace defective light panel in Ten Forward flooring panel..."

Again, Picard listened to - and dismissed - the items recited from the computer's list.

"Repair optical cable in Jeffries tube oh-seven three. Tube functioning at seventy-three point oh-two per cent efficiency. Correction; seventy-two point oh-four per cent efficiency. Correction: seventy-two point oh-five per cent efficiency. Correction..."

Spinning on his heel, he hurried from the room, leaving the computer to continue its recitation of slowly increasing numbers.

Increasing, he thought, more than a little smugly, because someone was working on the repair.

Ten minutes later, his self-assuredness had faded - not because he was less certain about where Andile was - but because he hands and knees were feeling the effect of his prolonged crawl along the rough metal flooring that lined the tube.

Still, as he approached the well-hidden, and difficult to find juncture, he knew he was right; the soft glow of a work light - and the intermittent flash of a phase welder - told him that someone was working ahead of him - and as he turned the final bend in the corridor, he knew he had been correct.

For a moment he studied her, watching as she sat on the edge of the open floor panel, the thick cable of optical fibers pulled across her lap, one hand rifling through the vast array of broken lines - then suddenly darting into it, pulling out a thread-like line, clamping it in place - then finding its mate on the opposite side.

Tedious work, he reminded himself, have spent more than a few days doing the same thing; tedious - and yet strangely soothing, allowing the mind to focus on any other topic while the hands continued their automatic task.

Automatic - and mammoth, he added, looking at the size of the sheath resting across her lap.

Easing his way to her side, he lifted the cable, settling it down on his lap - and watched, silently.

"Geordi should have assigned Cho and Dulfer to fixing this," she finally said.

"It's a low priority," he countered.

"I know," she grumbled. "Low enough that it's been turned into punishment - and the cable showing the signs," she added, sliding her finger under a fiber, and raising it for his inspection. "Look at that weld," she growled disappointedly. "The phase welder wasn't properly heated - and the cable isn't correctly matched. Drops the line's efficiency - and worse, makes it prone to breaking under strain.

"Whoever replaced the housing wasn't much better," she added, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at a piece of oft-repaired cable sheathing.

Picard studied the metal for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

"Probably easier to simply put the old one back in place than to bring a new one down here," he surmised.

"Lots of things are easy," she reminded him. "It doesn't make them right."

"It doesn't make them wrong, either," he pointed out.

She looked up from the cable at him, studying him for a moment, then turned back to the cable, her hands easily returning to their task.

"You think I took the easy way out?" she asked after a few minutes' silence. "Coming down here - instead of going to Sickbay?"

"Based on what little I know about you, Lieutenant, I doubt you ever take the easy way out," he informed her sincerely.

That earned him a second scrutinizing look - then a shake of her head as she once again returned her attention to her work. "That's... not true. Sometimes..." She hesitated, then looked at him again. "Sometimes... I knock on doors," she said.

Picard gave her a puzzled look. "I don't understand."

She forced a smile. "On starships, on starbases, people don't knock on doors. They touch the annunciator pad - and the chimes go off inside. They know you're there. But if you knock, the people inside don't always realize that someone's at the door – they don't recognize the knock for what it was - and they don't answer. Then I can say to myself, 'Oh, I went there. I knocked - but no one answered. I'm absolved; I did my part'.

"But coming down here... I wasn't trying to take the easy way out. I just needed to think," she said.

"And work," he said.

She gave a soft laugh. "No use wasting an opportunity. And this repair really needed to be done - correctly - for once."

"Not to mention that it's located in what is possibly the most remote section of the ship," he agreed, unable to resist a gentle jab.

"That, too," she conceded.

"Nonetheless, you were under orders to report to Sickbay," he pointed out

"No, sir," she objected. "I was not. Data said Dr. Crusher told him to tell me to come in when I woke up. He did not say it was an order - and you know Data: if it had been an order, he would have said so. He's very literal," she reminded him.

As, Picard thought, are you. I'll have to remember that next time I'm giving orders - or relaying them, he added - then watched a slight tinge of pink rise to her cheeks.

He stared at her for a moment - then felt a surge of self-congratulation mounting - a surge he quickly checked. Blanking his mind, he watched Andile continue the repair for a few minutes - then reached for the second phase welder in her kit.

Startled, Andile stopped her work, then watched as he fanned the broken cables, his fingers awkwardly seeking out the first damaged line, then clamped it, somewhat clumsily, before searching out the second.

The second fanning went as unevenly as the first, but as he placed the two lines in the clamp and brought the welder down to join them, she could tell that he had done the procedure before.

Still, as he was about to place the repaired line back with the others, she pushed his hand back, taking the line in her own hands and inspecting it minutely - then nodded.

"Nice work," she murmured. "Clean weld. You would have made a good engineer," she added.

Picard stared at her, surprised - and a touch resentful. "I thought so, too - once."

She nodded, clearly unaware of what he meant - then looked up at him. "But you make a better captain," she added.

He raised a brow in surprise, then dropped it. "I think that remains to be seen," he replied, releasing the fiber from between his fingers and beginning the search for another.

"Oh?"

"A good captain tries to ensure that his people make good decisions..."

"Even about their personal lives?"

"When it affects the performance of their duties - and the performance of the ship," he answered. "Certainly when it affects their very life," he added, locating and clamping another fiber, then turning to look at her.

She met his gaze, a look of relief - and fear - on her face. "Then... you know? That I'm dying?"

"I know you've chosen to die," he amended.

Andile shook her head. "It's not a choice, Captain. It's an inevitability. And in any case, choosing to die would be suicide - and my culture does not permit andile to suicide."

He gave her a curious look. "You've used that word before - andile - as if it was something other than your name."

"It is," she agreed. "Andile are - were - members of the religious order in my culture."

"And what culture is that?" he asked.

Andile stared at him, surprised by his supposed interest - but saw nothing but sincerity - and sincere curiosity - in his expression.

"There wasn't a name for it. You only need a name for a culture when there's more than one - and we only had the one. But my planet was called Parash - so I suppose we were Parashians," she said.

"Were?" he echoed. "What are they now?"

"They're dead, now," she said bluntly. "Our sun novaed when I was young; I made it off world with a few hundred of the others - but they died, too."

"How?" he pressed.

Her eyes grew empty for a moment as she replied, "Shriven. Saved. Not alone," she murmured - then focused on him, truly surprised by his interest - and shook her head. "It's a long story, Captain."

"I'm not going anywhere," he reminded her.

She shook her head again. "I'm flattered - but you have more important things to do. Otherwise, you'd keep working on that line," she pointed out, gesturing with her welder at the two fractured fibers in his hands.

Chagrined, he quickly - but neatly - made the weld, and began searching for the next broken fiber.

"You could," he said a few minutes - and several fibers - later, "at least tell me what an andile is. Or was," he amended.

"It's hard to explain," Andile replied. "You're from a culture where religion doesn't play as much of a part in your daily life as it did in ours..."

"It did - once," he countered. "I was born in France - and much of our political history was developed and influenced by the church," he informed her.

"Your _history_," she countered. "Our religion was our present; it was part of our daily life - and our death," she added.

His attention was caught by the emphasis she placed on the last word. "Then andile were involved in... what? The funeral rites?" he asked, stopping his work in mid-repair.

"No. We were there - before death," she said, stopping her own work as well. "You see, we believed that at death, the soul could ascend, could rise to the heavens and join the Ascension - where our gods lived - if it was pure and untainted by sin."

"Many of our religions taught the same thing," he agreed.

"And at death, one of your priests would absolve the person of their sin," she nodded. "I know; I've read something of Earth religions. For many years - for centuries, that was what andile did - we went to the dying, heard their sins, and granted them peace and assurance that they would join the Ascension. We were... welcome, even honored among our people," she said softly.

"But that changed," he said, seeing a shadow of grief cross her face.

"Yes. The priests... they began to wonder," she answered quietly. "What happened to the sin? Did it cease to exist just because the person had been absolved? If you tie a balloon to a rock, the balloon cannot rise - but untie the string, and it floats. Does that mean the rock no longer exists? Of course not. The rock was still there, unchanged.

"Likewise, if the sin was enough to keep the soul from rising, then removing it would allow the person to be freed - but the sin would still exist. So where did it go?" she asked.

Picard's face began to fall as he began to understand. "To the andile?" he asked, knowing the answer.

She nodded. "Andile, the priests decided in their infinite wisdom, may be able to absorb away the sins of others - but the sin would stay with them. Indeed, maybe sin stayed with andile because it had a natural affinity for us - because we were inherently vile, the carriers of sin. Where once we were welcome, even cherished, we were soon disdained, shunned - and worse.

"The priests ordered us away from the rest of society, exiled us to live away from others - except at the final moments of death - and even then, we had to sneak into the homes of the dying, hearing their confessions, seeking out their sins, freeing them to ascend - then fleeing before the family, in their grief, would come after us. We were death incarnate; we were sin. We were filth," she whispered. "And yet, that was our safety; no one dared kill us, lest we die there and leave our sins with them."

"Then... why did you do it?" he asked, appalled.

"Why?" she asked, equally appalled - though at his obtuseness rather than at herself. "Because we had no choice! Because we were cursed - and because only andile could! Because only we could know their sins completely - and only we could save them!"

He stared at her for a moment, then said, "Because you were telepaths?"

Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, astounded – and terrified. "By the gods... How did you know?" she gasped.

"I didn't know," he explained, "not until now - but there were too many coincidences for there not to be some other missing factor involved," he revealed. "What I don't understand is why you've hidden your ability," he said.

"Because... Because being a telepath on Parash was a death sentence," she informed him. "Most of us... most of us were found at birth - and put to death," she said, ignoring the horror in his eyes. "We were abominations, filth! Killing telepathic babies was considered a blessing - ending their lives before any more sin could adhere to their souls. They were andile, they could never rise - but they would not have to suffer the life of the wretched, either.

"The parents of telepaths were sterilized as soon as the abomination was destroyed. Having once brought forth such a monstrosity, they could never be allowed to have another child and risk polluting the world again!" she said bitterly.

"And yet... the laws were strict in both ways; the abominations must be destroyed if they were found upon examination - but any child who survived past the age of examination - a year - could not be killed. And every year a few of us escaped. Some because their skills were latent and didn't develop until later - others because their parents loved them, even though they were nothing more than filth, human garbage.

"My parents..." she started, then drew a deep breath, "My mother loved me. She was an engineer - my father a ship's captain. When I was conceived..." Andile bit her lip, then drew a slow breath, trying to calm herself.

"They realized what I was before I was born," she continued a moment later, her words - and her feelings - under strict control. "My mother told me I was very strong - so strong that they could hear me, feel my emotions and needs, even before I was born. It terrified my father - he would have had my mother have an abortion if he could have - but the priests would have realized why - and my mother refused. She loved me, even then.

"So they hid me, sailing from port to port, lying about my age, my testing, hiding me away whenever they had to so that no one would suspect..."

She fell silent, thinking, remembering. "My father hated me for what I was. Because of me, he could never become a successful captain; because of me, he and my mother could never have a normal life - or a family. But my mother loved me - and he loved her so much that he would do whatever she asked - including hide me until I was of age - or forever."

After a moment's silence, Andile looked up at him, her eyes empty. "And then, just after I turned eight, they died. I was turned over to the priests - as all orphans are. And they realized what I was."

She shivered at some old memory, then sighed wearily. "I spent eight more years learning how to dig every iota of sin - of memory, of remembrance - out of someone's mind and learning how to memorize it. The priests hated us, hated our abilities - but they knew we were necessary to the spiritual survival of our people. They forced us to stretch our minds to the very limits, to seek out every trace of sin in a person's being and memorize it instantly and perfectly - then take it unto ourselves, lest we somehow leave a trace of it behind and keep the person from rising. They made us practice, memorizing hundreds of things at a time - and beat us if we didn't learn them and recite them flawlessly."

Andile closed her eyes, lost now in an old nightmare. "Half of us died from the beatings... There were posts driven into the sand in the yard where we exercised. If we failed, they'd chain us there - and beat us. Beat us until we could no longer feel anything, beat us until every ounce of rage and frustration they felt at being dependant on such creatures - such animals! - was expunged, beat us until our flesh was gone... I can still see the sand, red from the blood, the bodies just hanging there, half dead, dying... Half of us died there; another half again died from the teachings."

"Died?" Picard echoed, bewildered. "From being taught?"

She shook her head. "From what they were teaching us," she clarified, then looked up at him. "Do you know what it is like to be told you are worthless? That you are nothing more than garbage?!" she asked him emptily, hopelessly. "To be told that you are not human, that you are not entitled to feel, or to care, or love, or even to cry? To be told you cannot even be touched by a person... I saw a man cut off his own hand after he accidentally touched one of us," she whispered. "It was an accident! He brushed against her robe... and rather than bear that shame, he cut off his own hand!"

She shuddered - then stilled the pain. "And yet... that was our safety, our security. They dared not harm us, lest the sin be left with them - and they dared not kill us all, or they would never ascend.

"For we, wretched and disgusting as we were - we were their salvation," she continued, shaking her head, then looking up at him in disbelief. "For all my people did to me, I still believe - I still know! - that I saved them. That I allowed them to rise - by taking their sins from them, by taking their filth unto myself," she whispered.

She fell silent, staring blankly at the cable in her hands, unable to move, unable to do anything, but stare ahead - and into the past.

After a long time, Picard gently said, "Lieutenant, you are not filth..."

"I murdered a baby," she countered. "What would you call that?"

"I would call that a desperate act," he answered quietly, "brought about by desperate need..."

She shook her head, unable to accept his gentle approbation.

"Lieutenant," he said, "thousands - maybe tens of thousands of people were saved because of what you did. Your information helped end the war - years sooner than it might otherwise have ended. Because you were willing to fulfill your mission - despite what that day - and the last two years - have cost you."

"They cost me nothing!" she sneered. "They cost Varel her life!"

"They cost you a part of your soul," he replied gently.

She grimaced bitterly. "Andile don't have souls!"

He glared at her, suddenly angry. "Perhaps andile don't. You do!"

She stared at him, stunned by the fury in his voice - then slowly shook her head. "I am andile..."

He shook his head. "Lieutenant, you are many things - but you are not... andile. You are not filth; you are not sin. You are something much, much more... more than your people, or your priests - or anyone - could ever have imagined."

"No..." she whispered piteously, shaking her head as a single tear began its course down her cheek.

Picard stared at it, horrified for a moment that it was the beginning of some cathartic emotional outburst - then steeled himself for the impact.

Andile must have seen the look on his face - and perhaps, he realized an instant later, sensed what he was seeing, for she numbly raised her finger to her cheek, and pulled away the drop, staring at it as if she had never seen it before.

But the expression on her face rapidly changed from astonishment to fury; before he could react, she reached back and slammed her hand across her face, once, twice, starting to pummel herself a third time - until he grabbed the offending limb.

"Stop that!" he shouted.

"Andile aren't permitted tears!" she cried back, trying to wrest her hand free. "We're not allowed to cry! We aren't allowed..."

"They aren't!" he shouted back, then dropped her hand, grabbed her shoulders, and shook her soundly. "They aren't - but they are dead! All that's left is you! And you... you," he repeated, his voice dropping as he stopped his violent agitation of the woman and stared at her face, stained red from the impact of her own hand, "are not andile."

"But I am," she gasped, then pulled away from him. "I have to be!" she said, then looked up at him emptily. "I have to be andile, sir; it's the only way I can live with what I did," she said - then looked away.

For a long time, neither said anything, each trapped in their own thoughts - then Picard said quietly, "I have had to learn to live with the fact that I was responsible for the deaths of ten thousand of my fellow officers at Wolf 359," he said.

Andile looked back at him, stricken at the pain in his voice. "It's not the same thing," she insisted softly. "What you did... wasn't because you wanted to. You didn't have a choice. The Borg used you..."

"I have never been able to fully accept that, Lieutenant," he said. "There is a part of me that will always believe that Wolf 359 happened because I wasn't strong enough. It doesn't matter that I know better - I do. But there are times that I cannot stop myself from thinking 'Things could have been different - if I had been stronger - or better - or wiser'.

"It's time for you to accept the same thing - that what happened - happened. Not because you were 'andile' or any other reason - except for the truth: that you did the only thing that you could do," he told her solemnly.

She looked at him, her eyes blank, lost in a different world, a world light years from here - a world he could never know - and yet knew all too well. Finally, she whispered, "Every morning I wake up - and I see her eyes, staring at me... and I think, 'I could have saved her'."

Picard nodded - then reached for the woman's hand, taking it in his own. "One morning, Lieutenant, you will wake up - and realize that you couldn't. And it will be the worst day of your life," he said grimly. "But from then on, it will get better. I promise," he added sincerely, then looked down at the tiny, too thin and too pale hand in his - and raised his eyes to hers. "I'd like to give you the opportunity to reach that day," he added. "Dr. Crusher and I spoke last night - and she thinks she may have a way to reverse the damage to your body."

"Captain..." Andile began to protest, but he cut her off.

"At least give her the chance to explain what she has in mind. Hear her out. Don't just knock on the door this time," he added.

Andile fell silent for a long time, then asked, "And if I decide against it?"

"I'm hoping you won't," he countered.

"But if I do?"

"Then... I'll honor your request," he agreed unhappily.

She considered a longer time this time - then finally nodded. "All right. I'll talk with her," she agreed solemnly.

Sighing with relief, Picard began to push the cable from his lap - only to be confronted with a disappointed glare from the tiny woman. "I guess I was right - you are a better captain than an engineer. And it's a good thing too," she growled. "No engineer would leave a job half-finished."

His eyes widened in astonishment at the unexpected rebuke - then Picard sighed, lifted the cable back on his lap and reached for the welder.


	73. Chapter 73

**Chapter 73**

Picard sighed wearily. It had already been a long day - and the afternoon had barely begun.

First had been the nightmares that wouldn't end, then the long crawl through the Jeffries tube - then the better part of two hours hunched over that cable... He rubbed his fingertips, feeling the tiny blisters where the welder had singed them, wondering if her would ever regain the feeling in them... then finding Worf waiting for him at the end of the Jeffries tube, a half dozen Security guards waiting for him - and for Lt. Andile - and the non-argument that had followed as he explained to Worf in no uncertain terms that she was no longer a suspect.

An argument, he knew, that Worf didn't accept. Instead, he had ridden in the lift beside the captain, glowering silently, knowing himself to be right - but knowing there was a level of respect to which the captain was entitled.

When the lift doors finally opened with a whush and Worf exited, he left a weary - and worried - Picard behind.

Before Picard could give a sigh of relief, however, a body stepped slowly into the lift, instantly followed by a yellow and black uniformed Security guard.

Tar Zumell looked up at Picard, and smiled charmingly. "Good afternoon, Captain," she said as the doors' closed.

"Madame Ambassador," he replied.

"I hope you do not mind sharing your ride with me," she said sweetly.

"Not at all, Ambassador," he answered.

She smiled again. "Captain, I have been an ambassador for only a few days. I have been a teacher muchly longer of my life. Please, call me Tar," she said.

"Tar," he agreed - then glanced at the books in her hand - and the larger stack in the guard's.

She darkened in embarrassment. "My apologies - I seem to have forgotten how strongly my appetite for reading am. The books I brought with... I thought they should have lasted my entire trip. Instead, they lasted until this morning," she admitted shyly. "Then I remembering you say your ship has a library - and my escort took me there. We have had a lovely time, looking through your books - and you have manyly more of them in the computer!" she sighed blissfully - then let out a sadder, slower breath. "I am regretting the day when I must leave - and leave these books behind me," she added.

"You are more than welcome to download as many copies as you wish, Tar," Picard informed her. "Your escort can show you how to work the computer..."

"Thank you - but I think there will not be time to finish these," she gestured to the books in her hands and the guard's, "before I go."

I wouldn't think so, Picard agreed, looking at the number of books and topics the two carried - then realizing they were all in Federation Standard. It would be slow going for the ambassador - but it might help her with her understanding of the Federation's peoples - if not with her vocabulary, he added.

"Yes, Tar," he agreed, "but I meant you could download the books - and take them with you."

Her eyes widened - then she shook her head. "But I might not return this way again..."

He smiled. "Books are not meant to sit in libraries - or in computers. Books... 'live longest when they are worn under the eyes of countless readers'," he recited.

She stared up at him, impressed. "Korath of Tentura. One of Cardassia's greatest philosophers."

"I studied his philosophy at Starfleet Academy..." Picard began.

"I taught him," she countered.

It was Picard's turn to stare - impressed - and awed.

"You taught Korath?"

"As a child," she conceded. "One of my better students. I always thought he would go far - but even I did not expect to meet him again on a Federation starship," she teased lightly.

Picard smiled back, once again finding the elderly teacher delightful.

She seemed to grow equally at ease with him, for she smiled back - and looked at him hopefully. "Speaking of children," she continued, "I was of wonder, Captain... The little one I met yesterday - the one who speaks my language? Would it be possible for her to assist me in my study of your language?" she asked.

Picard shook his head, confused. "The little one?" he asked.

Zumell shook her head uncertainly. "I did not hear her name. She wears one of your uniforms, but she is yet a child... very thinly, with very long black hair..."

Picard nodded. "That would be Lt. Andile. I'm sorry, Ambassador, but..."

"But she is upset with me," she said, nodding disappointedly. "I understand, Captain," she sighed. "The old angers - they die so hard. But... seeing such fearing in one so young..." Zumell sighed sadly. "If we must wait for all those who now fear one another to die before we can have peace between our people - and to find one so young already touched by this pain - I fear for us all, Captain Picard," she said.

"As do I, Tar," he agreed. "However, the lieutenant is unable to join you not because of what happened the other day - but..." He hesitated, uncertain whether to tell the truth or not - then hedged his bet. "She's in Sickbay - our health center," he added, seeing the blank expression on Zumell's face at the word.

"It is not seriousness?" Zumell gasped back.

"Our doctor is with her," he replied vaguely. "I... I'll speak to her - when she recovers - about meeting with you."

Zumell smiled. "I would like that. I would like to take the fear away from one person. It would be a good ..." She hesitated, then looked at Picard hopefully. "_Zu-fath'_?" she asked.

"A good omen," he translated.

She smiled as if having caught him in an error.

"Perhaps the little one is not the only one who could assist me in my studies," she teased - but there was a hint of suspicion in her voice as well.

Picard smiled back, shaking his head. "That, Tar, taxes the limits of my Cardassian. _Ushra_..." Hello, "_Vor'ent_..." Good-bye, "_Fi'esk_.."

Zumell gave a soft gasp, a dark green blush rising to her cheeks. "Vi'esk," she corrected immediately. "_Vi'esk_ means 'good day'. _Fi'esk_ is... a word my children do not say," she explained good-humoredly.

Picard cringed inside. "My apologies, Tar..."

"No need, Captain," she countered. "It is not an obscenity, but rather a... familiarity; between men and women who are... of great closeness?" she suggested coyly. "It has been longly since any man has asked me that - and at my age, I had thought that I should never hear it again."

Picard felt a blush rising to his own cheeks, suspecting he had just propositioned the woman - but not entirely sure.

One more question to ask the Lieutenant when she recovers, he reminded himself - then grimly added, if she recovers.

"You see then," Zumell continued, "why I would like the little one to assist me? One small sound makes such a difference. One mistake - and our worlds may suffer. And..." she began - then hesitated.

"And?" Picard prompted her.

"And... If I knew that this one child's fear could be erasured, that I could make her understand that what has passed has passed, then I would believe this mission of our would success," she said.

"It would be... _zu'fath_," Picard agreed.

The lift doors opened as he spoke, displaying the bridge. Zumell glanced at the room - then pulled back.

Picard sighed, relieved. While diplomats often guided around the bridge as part of the standard ambassadorial tour, the situation with the unknown saboteur had made that idea untenable. Without knowing who the saboteur was, every restricted area of the ship had instantly become off-limits to the visitors, including - especially! - the ship's bridge.

Had Zumell expressed an interest in the bridge, he would have had to find some diplomatic way to refuse her request - without insulting her - a challenge with the often sensitive Cardassians, he reminded himself.

Fortunately, though, the older teacher seemed to have no more than a passing interest in the place, more interested in her treasure trove of new-found books than in the command center of the ship.

With a polite farewell, he stepped from the lift, then watched as the doors slid shut behind him.

"Mornin', Johnny!"

Picard cringed at the familiar - indeed, overly-familiar - voice of Jay Tillerman - but before he could reply, the voice continued. "I was beginnin' ta wonder if you were ever going ta show - but I guess a starship captain gets ta pick his hours," Tillerman gibed as he stood beside the lift doors, a Security officer flanking him on one side, Data on the other.

"The bridge is off limits to the delegates of the conference, Ambassador," Picard replied quietly but sternly.

"The Cardassians and the Romulans, sure - but I'm Federation," Tillerman reminded him. "More 'an 'at, I'm Starfleet!"

Ex-Starfleet, Picard corrected with a tired sigh; 'ex' being the operative phrase. "Nonetheless, all of the ambassadors, regardless of the governments they represent, were to be granted equal rights - and limitations - during this journey," Picard pointed out.

"I was about to escort the ambassador to his quarters, Captain," Data explained.

Tillerman shook his head at the android, then frowned at his old friend. "Still a stick in the mud, Johnny," he grumbled. "No wonder everyone's so grim," he added, looking at the officers situated across the bridge.

Picard followed the man's gaze - then silenced the retort that had almost sprung to his lips. Yes, they would have had a right to be grim - this was a serious mission, one which had too many lives dependent upon its outcome - but looking over the assembled officers, he saw no signs of any unusual severity. Rather, each of the officers seemed to be working smoothly, steadily, quietly and efficiently attending to their duties.

He smiled to himself, satisfied that Jay hadn't managed to goad him into reacting - then turned back to the man. "Indeed," he replied blandly. "However, that doesn't change the situation, Jay; you - and the other delegates - are not permitted on the bridge."

"Not even if Starfleet's ordered me to give you an update on the situation?" Jay countered.

Picard's eyes widened in surprise - then he nodded at Data, who released Tillerman's arm, and gestured for Jay to accompany him to his ready room.

Once the doors had shut behind them, he motioned for the tall man to take a seat at the desk.

"Tea?" he asked, then amended, "I forgot; you don't drink tea. Coffee then?"

Tillerman grinned. "Actually, I could use a stiff belt."

Picard deigned not to react; whether Tillerman was simply trying to provoke a reaction or really wanted a drink at this hour, he didn't know - and was determined not to find out. Opening a cabinet over the replicator, he pulled out an old and rarely tapped bottle.

"Computer, Earl Grey tea, hot - and a glass of ice," he added, remembering.

A moment later he placed the bottle and glass before Tillerman then took his own chair, watching as the New Texan poured a healthy measure of the dark amber liquid over the ice - the swallowed it down in one gulp.

Picard shook his head.

"You disapprove, Johnny?" Jay asked.

"Of putting good Scotch on ice? Of course," Picard replied smoothly. "And not savoring it? Absolutely. Scotch - especially _that_ quality of Scotch - was meant to be drunk neat - and slowly," he informed the man.

Tillerman grinned - though somewhat tersely, Picard thought, wondering if his friend was unamused by the realization that his one-time protégé was no longer so simple to goad. Pouring a second drink, he sipped it this time, then sighed and sat back in the chair.

"There's trouble, Johnny," he said.

"It's Jean-Luc, Jay," Picard reminded him.

"There's trouble, Jean-Luc," Jay amended. "Starfleet's seen increasing movement in a lot of small-arms traders..."

"We're aware of the situation, Ambassador," Picard agreed. "The increase in Ferengi and Orion trader ships on the border - and we've detected the presence of ruthian particles in their holds," he added grimly. "They're carrying Breen weapons - but what involvement the Breen have in this seems to be undetermined as yet," he admitted.

"Not quite," Tillerman replied. "Starfleet Intelligence is fairly sure that the Breen aren't directly involved."

"Indeed?" Picard answered, a brow raised in apparent surprise.

"Well, at least Starfleet doesn't think they're in this for profit," Tillerman conceded. "There's not enough weapons moving - and those that are going through too many middle men, too many brokers for anyone to be turning a real profit on their sales."

Picard nodded once; that information agreed with his officers' surmise - though it did nothing to illuminate the Breen's reasons for moving the weapons at all.

"We think," Tillerman continued as if he heard Picard's silent question, "that they are supplying weapons - not selling - to some of the smaller members of the Federation."

"Hoping to capitalize on the failure of the mission - if it fails?" Picard asked, wondering silently if the Breen could somehow be behind this spate of internal problems the ship was having.

But that possibility had been fairly well rejected by his staff - and, he was relieved to see, apparently by Starfleet as well - as he watched Tillerman shake his head, finish his drink - and pour a third.

"More likely they're trying to increase the dissatisfaction between the smaller worlds and the Council," Jay replied. "The way the Breen pulled out so suddenly just before the end of the war indicated to Starfleet Intelligence that they may have suffered some internal problems that forced them to back out. We're not sure what - perhaps their losses were greater than we knew about, or the percentage of soldiers lost was greater than the population could afford... Hell, it could have been as simple as political opposition to the war, Jean-Luc. The truth is we just don't know why they pulled out.

"Whatever the reason, we do know that they're playing their hand this time around - but in a small way. You want my opinion?" he asked - rhetorically, Picard thought, knowing that Tillerman was going to answer the question whether he wanted a response or not. "The Breen aren't the ones to worry about. They're not in a place to pose any real danger - this time," he added warningly.

"Then who does Starfleet think is behind all this?" Picard asked.

"A good question," Tillerman replied, then seemed to hesitate.

Picard raised a brow at the man. "Jay?" he pressed.

Tillerman sighed, then shook his head. "Sorry to have to break it to you this way, Jean-Luc, but... there's good evidence that it's the Klingons," he said.

"The Klingons?!" Picard replied, disbelieving. "That's ridiculous! We've been at peace - or as peaceful as the Klingons get - for almost a century!"

"And that's the problem," Tillerman replied. "They're not a peaceful people, Jean-Luc - and a century of peace seems to be rubbing a lot of them the wrong way. Look at their new leader..."

"Martok?" Picard said.

Tillerman nodded. "He's not from a noble house, you know - he's one of the warriors, who ascended by killing Gowron - an ascension which the Klingons haven't seen for hundreds of years. For a lot of them - especially for the High Council, it's a sign that the old ways have been reaffirmed; that the time of war has returned, and that peace with the Federation - a peace which has also seen a decline in their internal political structure and an increase in corruption and despotism - is inherently against Klingon tradition."

Picard gawked at Tillerman, astounded. Worf had said nothing about these changes in any of their discussions, and Martok... Martok had shown absolutely no sign of a growing animosity toward the Federation.

Admittedly, a politician could hide his feelings when a situation warranted such an action, Picard reminded himself - but even the most stone-faced of Klingons wore his heart on his sleeve when it came to tradition - and Martok was a traditionalist above them all.

And yet the Klingon Emperor had been positively friendly - or as friendly as a Klingon could be - when the two had spoken at Worf's transfer. Unless, Picard admitted to himself, I somehow misread the man, misunderstood his meanings, his offer to meet again and share blood wine.

It was possible, Picard admitted, though he had worked with enough Klingons and studied their culture long enough to make him doubt the error.

But how could he be right - unless all of Starfleet was wrong? he asked himself.

Jay gave him a sympathetic look. "I know you've got one of them aboard - and I know that he was one of your officers for a long time - but that was years ago," he reminded Picard. "And people change."

Not that much, Picard argued angrily. Not that fast... He stopped, suddenly realizing he had heard those same words just a few hours before - and had had a difficult time believing them about someone he had known and worked with for years.

But Andile had been right about Data; even under the tremendous influence of newly emerging emotions, Data had not changed the person he was - any more than Worf had.

No, Starfleet must be wrong - but arguing with Jay would resolve nothing.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Picard agreed.

"You better do more than that, Johnny," Tillerman cautioned sternly. "You've put him in charge of this sabotage investigation of yours - that might be a bit like putting the fox to guard the hen house. You want my advice? Pull him out, put him in charge of something else - say securing your engineering department," he suggested.

Picard nodded, considering the idea. "You may have an idea there," he conceded.

"Well, you think about it," Jay concluded, then tipped back the last of the drink and rose from the chair.

"Thanks for the drinks," he said. "Now that I know where you keep it..."

Picard nodded - but silently vowed that Jay would not be given another chance to use his former position to gain access to the bridge again. It would be too easy for the other delegates to claim his presence had affected the negotiations, too simple for his presence to...

Oh, hell, Picard thought abruptly. He won't be allowed back, not because of any political damage his presence might cause - but because I don't want him on my bridge.

I'd rather he not even be on my ship, he admitted, surprising himself with the truth.

Startled by the self-realization, he rose to his feet, silently guiding Tillerman from the ready room to the main lift - and into the waiting presence of his Security escort.

Even then, he waited until the two had entered the lift and the doors had shut before he turned his back - then frowned.

"Mr. Data," he called out as he approached the second officer, currently seated at the helm position. "Locate Mr. Worf. Tell him to report to my ready room," he ordered, then turned and strode back into his ready room.

A moment later, the door chime sounded.

"Enter," he called out.

As the doors opened, Data stepped into the room. "Mr. Worf is on his way," he informed Picard, who nodded his approval, then reached for one of the reports on his desk.

He studied it for a moment - then looked up, realizing that he hadn't heard the doors open and shut as the android left the room.

Probably, he realized at once, because the android hadn't left the room.

"Was there something else, Mr. Data?" he asked - then realized the question - and the obligatory response - were unnecessary: of course there was something else - or Data would have simply informed him of Worf's response by using his communicator.

"Sir," Data said, stepping slightly closer top Picard's desk. "May I ask a personal question?"

Picard considered for a moment, then gave a hesitant nod. "I'm not certain I can answer it," he admitted, "but..." He gestured for Data to make his inquiry.

"Captain, have you ever been lonely?"

Picard's brows raised in surprise at the question, then lowered as he thoughtfully considered his reply.

"Alone, certainly," he answered a few moments later. "Everyone has been alone at one time or another - but lonely?" He thought a few moments longer, then shook his head. "Loneliness infers a feeling of being... isolated, without friends, without companions..." He fell silent, thinking once again - then shook his head once more as he stepped back, perching himself against the edge of his desk.

"I've been alone, Data," he conceded, "perhaps more times than I like, and often at times and in places where I would not wish to be alone - but always, there was the certain knowledge that there were people out there for whom I cared deeply - and whom, I believed, cared about me as well," he admitted. "I think, then, that I have never truly been lonely. Not as most people would define it," he added, then studied the android carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"Because, until recently, I was not aware that I could be lonely," Data explained. "Unlike you, however, my certitude was born less of a confidence in the existence and continued emotional support for - and of - those whom I would call friends, than by a lack of understanding of what it is to be a part of greater whole."

"But you have always been a part of this crew," Picard reminded him gently. "An important part - with a great number of friends who care for - and about - you."

"I was aware of this, sir," Data replied, "but I am discovering that there is a difference between the intellectual acceptance of this concept - and the emotional comprehension."

Picard studied the man - then nodded. "But now that you are beginning to make those emotional ties, the realization of what their loss - or their potential loss - is becoming clear to you," he said gently.

Data nodded. "Last night, after you and Dr. Crusher left, I thought about what she had said - that she and Lt. Andile would 'discuss treatment'. I interpreted this to mean that either there is no proven course of cure for Lt. Andile's condition - or that Andile might refuse treatment. In either case, there existed the potential that the lieutenant... might die," he said, his voice dropping to a painful whisper. "And if she dies... I will be lonely, sir," he admitted. "She is dying, is she not?"

There was a tremor of fear in his voice that Picard could not remember hearing before, a soft ache that he had never expected to hear from the android.

And had never wanted to hear, he realized.

Not that he had ever wished Data had not continued his toward his goal of increasing humanity, he told himself - but there were too many things about being human that he wished he could spare his friend. Grief, loss, jealousy - loneliness... those were not the attributes of humanity that he wanted his friend to know, he thought angrily. Why could he not have found only the positive feelings, the more joyous ones - and experienced only about those aspects of being human?

But what was joy without sorrow, he reminded himself a moment later. What was love - without the risk of loss? Humans don't exist in a world of idealized pleasures only; if Data were to be human - or as human as he could be, he would have to know - and suffer - as anyone else did.

"I don't know," he finally answered. "Dr. Crusher says her condition is precarious – but she has been working on a plan of treatment. It's highly experimental - and she has no idea if it will work - or if the lieutenant will agree to it.

"And it must be her choice," he added, seeing a flicker of hope in the android's eyes, hating the fact that he might be quashing that hope - but knowing he owed the truth to his second officer.

"But as her captain, you could require her to undergo treatment..." Data began to protest.

"But as her captain, I must also respect that she is of sound mind and capable of making that choice for herself," he reminded him.

"But is she dies... " Data began - then stopped, and looked at Picard. "Sir... I am scared. For her - and for myself. I do not wish her to die."

"Nor do I, " Picard replied gently. "But..." He hesitated, not wanting to speak the thoughts that filled his mind - then reminded himself that he owed his friend at least that much. "But she has the right to choose," he reminded his friend softly. "And if that is what she chooses... All I can say, Data, is if that is her choice, if the lieutenant does die... we will be there for you. And you, unlike us, will always have your memories of her," he reminded his friend

But Data only shook his head. "It is not the same, sir."

"But when your daughter died..." Picard protested.

"I did not love Lal," Data countered. "I was incapable of loving her - or feeling any emotions toward her. In remembering her, I can recall the precise details of her existence and our interactions - but there is no emotional connotation that permits me to enjoy the pleasurable moments - nor suffer the sorrowful ones. She existed in my life - but there was nothing more than that. My memory of her is... a holograph, sir," he said simply. "A perfect representation of what was - but without emotional flavor."

"But now that you have emotions, can't you remember the lieutenant in that context?" Picard asked curiously.

"I can," Data concurred, "but it is... different."

"How so?"

"Sir, it is the difference between making love - and remembering the act of making love. Both are enjoyable - but they are not the same," he said.

Picard's eyes widened slightly - then he nodded. "No, they aren't," he admitted, then sighed. "Data, you're relieved of duty, pending the outcome of the lieutenant's examination..."

Data looked at Picard, stunned. "Captain," he interrupted, "while I am aware that my concern over the lieutenant's condition has occupied a larger portion of my processing time, I was not aware my performance had become inadequate. If this is the case..."

It was Picard's turn to interrupt - gently, and with a kind smile. "Your performance has been adequate – indeed, exemplary," he added, "considering the new emotions you've been experiencing," he conceded.

"Then why am I being relieved of duty?" he asked, concerned.

Picard gave him a surprised look. "I thought you might wish to spend time with the lieutenant," he explained.

"No, sir," Data countered firmly.

"No?"

"No, sir," Data repeated. "Lt. Andile has always been adamant in her position on our professional responsibilities; I do not believe she would approve of my being with her instead of performing my duties."

Picard sighed. "Under normal circumstances, no - but these are not normal circumstances. If Dr. Crusher is unable to reverse her condition..."

"Sir, based on my interpretation of the situation, the lieutenant's condition is chronic, not acute," Data countered. "That would suggest that should the treatment not be efficacious or if the lieutenant chooses against treatment, there would be adequate time for me to reach Sickbay and spend time with Andile prior to her... her death," he said, suddenly faltering. "This is what she would want me to do," he said - though with far less certainty than he had had a moment before.

Picard studied the man for a moment, surprised by the sudden change of tone at that last word - as though Data finally realized the seriousness of Andile's condition - and the potential loss it held. He considered the request for a long time, then asked, "Are you sure, Mr. Data?"

"No, sir," Data conceded after a moment's thought, "I am not 'sure'. I have never done this before. A part of me wishes to do as she asks - but another part of me wishes to spend every moment I can with her," he added. "Am I doing the right thing, Captain?" he asked, looking at Picard plaintively. "Acceding to her wishes, rather than following my own?"

Picard sighed, having no better answer to the question than Data had. "I don't know," he admitted, then looked at the android. "That's the hell of it, Data. In the end, no matter what any of us do, we always end up asking ourselves, 'Did I do the right thing?' 'Could I have done better?' Perhaps it is that self-doubt that makes us human - that, and the desire to 'do it better' the next time around."

Data cocked his head to the side, considered the man's words for a time, then straightened. "Yes. sir. In that case, I would like to accept your offer to be relieved of my bridge duties for the time being," he replied.

Picard smiled. "I'm sure the lieutenant will appreciate your being with her," he began.

"No, sir," Data countered. "My position regarding attending the lieutenant in Sickbay has not changed; I believe my presence would upset her more than it would benefit her. Rather, I would like to use this time to find the real saboteur and vindicate the lieutenant. That, I believe, will provide the lieutenant with greater comfort than my being with her would do."

And it probably would, Picard thought to himself, trying not to smile at the strange relationship that had blossomed between the two. But what other type of relationship could they have, he asked himself, if not a strange one? After all, if there were any two stranger people on his ship, he had yet to meet them.

"All right," Picard conceded. "Do you have any ideas on where you'll begin?"

"Yes, sir," Data replied evenly. "I will begin with the fact that there is a saboteur on the ship."

"Data," Picard replied, "we know that. We've known that for some time."

But the android shook his head. "No, sir. In fact, we did not know that until last night. Until that time, every problem the ship had experienced could have been explained as simply glitches, errors that had occurred in the hurried installation of equipment and personnel caused by our unexpectedly rapid mobilization. Indeed, that is one of the reasons why the lieutenant was a possible candidate to be the saboteur - for she was one of only a few people aboard the ship who could have disguised their actions as such glitches.

"However, last night the sabotage was unmistakable - and deliberately done," he pointed out. "At that point, we were provided with two pieces of incontrovertible evidence. One, that there was a real saboteur aboard - someone who would deliberately damage the ship - and two, that it was not the lieutenant. She was cognizant of our uncertainty; she would not have confirmed the reality of the sabotage, even to provide herself an alibi. That uncertainty was the greatest boon the saboteur could have had," he added ominously.

Picard's eyes widened - then he nodded in agreement. "Providing, of course, that he - or she - was unaware that we had doubts."

"That is one consideration that must be investigated," Data conceded.

"One?" Picard asked, surprised, thinking it an obvious approach. "What is another?"

"That the saboteur is... inexperienced," Data said bluntly.

Picard raised a brow. "How so?"

"Sir, the saboteur, seeing an opportunity to implicate the lieutenant, did so - without realizing full the impact of his - or her - actions. This suggests a naiveté, a lack of history or experience in such a field. It also suggests something about his or her ability, or more correctly, the inability to think through a problem from beginning to end," he concluded.

"It also suggests that that there are two saboteurs," Picard added. "If the previous problems were, indeed, the result of sabotage, then the damage was carefully couched in the milieu of other ship's problems - which indicates someone who can think a problem through from beginning to end."

"It also suggests that the two do not have frequent opportunities to discuss their actions," Data concluded, "leaving the less experienced one to act on his own on occasion."

Picard studied the android. "Data, you think you know who it is, don't you?"

Data nodded. "No, sir - because we still do not understand the saboteur's motivation - and without that, we cannot begin to determine who is responsible. After all, sir, we do not have any concrete evidence that any real sabotage has taken place."

"Excuse me?" Picard injected.

"Aside from the events of last night, we still cannot prove that any of what has transpired has, indeed, been more than it appears - glitches and minor system problems," Data pointed out.

"Last night, however," Picard began.

"May not have been sabotage in the sense in which we use the word," Data countered. "It is possible that the events of last night were staged in order to remove Andile from the active crew roster," he said.

"For what reason?" Picard replied.

"Sir," Data replied smoothly, "it is not without reason that she acquired her nickname. She has made many enemies, many of whom would derive satisfaction from seeing her denigrated by such an accusation - and loss of position - especially a loss in such a public manner."

"Then you think this so-called sabotage that we're seeing maybe nothing more than coincidence - and the deliberate attempt solely done to humiliate the lieutenant?" he asked doubtfully.

"Sir, an accusation of sabotage infers treason as well - and that is one crime that is still punishable by death," Data reminded him. "To move in such a way that the lieutenant would stand accused of such a crime infers an intent not to humiliate the lieutenant, but her removal - permanently."

Picard felt himself grow cold. If his thoughts about Czymszczak were correct, someone had tried to kill Andile before - and very nearly succeeded. But to eliminate her in this way? After a long and very public trial that could easily expose what he had done? No. But who then? - and why? kill her before. "But why? Rather, why permanently?"

"Because she is the one person who might notice a pattern in the glitches, that would lead to an understanding of what the saboteur has done or will be doing," he listed. "Because she might be the only person who would be able to correct said sabotage. Because her removal - her death - might signal the end of these trials on the trans-temporal engines, placing the Federation at a tactical deficit in comparison to the other powers.

"The possibilities are extensive, sir," Data concluded.

"But all of which suggest that the lieutenant's demise would work to someone else's advantage," Picard sighed. "And without knowing who - or what - that removal would benefit, we can't afford to lose her."

"Sir," Data began, hope lighting his eyes, "in that case, may I remind you that under the auspices of Starfleet Regulation four-two-three, paragraph seven, subsection three, that you...?"

Picard nodded, already knowing what Data was about to suggest - then dismissing it. "That I can force her to undergo these treatments, as being necessary to the safety of the crew and ship?" he asked. "I am aware of the regulation Data - but it doesn't apply here. Dr. Crusher cannot state unequivocally that this treatment will help the lieutenant - and without that certainty, I cannot force her to undergo an experimental procedure. This has to be her choice, for her reasons - and as her captain, I must her support her decision, even if I don't agree with it," he replied.

Data studied him - then gave a brief nod. "I understand, sir. Might I add, however, that had you informed her that you would respect her decision not just because you are her superior officer, but because you were her friend, she might choose otherwise."

"But... we are not friends, Data," Picard reminded him. "I barely know her - and, as you know, it's almost impossible to lie to the lieutenant," he reminded the android.

Data nodded. "Her grasp of the subtleties of human body language are exceptional," he conceded.

Picard's eyes widened at the remark. Surely Data knew... Of course he didn't, Picard realized in a rush. She wasn't about to advertise her ability - even to her lover. Especially to her lover, he added; telepathy was the most vile of abilities among her own people, marking her different, requiring to keep a separate life from everyone else... Why would she proclaim that ability to the one person with whom she had become close - and risk the very relationship she had been willing to go to the gallows to protect?

But telepathy in this culture was not a curse, he reminded himself... For that matter, he added, puzzled, it was no longer considered a curse in any human society - anywhere?

So where the devil had she come from that would have marked her and her kind a pariah, reduced them to the lowest of castes, and exiled them? he wondered.

Filled with an overwhelming curiosity, he met Data's gaze, then nodded. "She is, indeed, quite adept, Data - at that and many other things. And while we might not be friends, I would regret losing the opportunity to change that - or at least to get to know her better.

"But I will not order her to undergo the procedure," he said - then added, "nor will I emotionally coerce he by claiming a friendship that doesn't exist. I will, however, tell her what you have just told me, regarding the possibility that she was implicated deliberately, with the intent of removing her from the ship. Then she can make her choice based on all the information we have. It's the least I can do," he assured the android.

It was a hell of a lot more than that, he told himself a moment later as Data left the room; it was nothing short of emotional blackmail - telling her that the lives of her crew and the survival of her ship might well depend on her decision to proceed with the treatments.

But a captain does what he has to do - for the good of the mission, the good of the ship - and the good of his crew.

Sometimes - indeed, almost all the time - the needs of the many did outweigh the needs of the few.

But that didn't mean the needs of the one weren't important, he added, thinking.

He considered for a moment, then stabbed the communicator button.


	74. Chapter 74

**Chapter 74**

"You would accuse the Klingons? When the traitor is already known?!" Worf roared, his voice rising with every word, his growing fury unmistakable.

"I am not accusing the Klingons, Mr. Worf," Picard interrupted, his voice stern. "But I do know that Lt. Andile is not our traitor - just as I have information concerning the situation on Q'onos regarding the Klingon High Command - and their attitude about the possible dissolution of the Federation Council. And if we are to find the true traitor, then I must follow-up on that information - just as you felt obliged to follow through on your investigations," he added.

Worf's inner rage flared. "But _I_ am not a traitor," he seethed.

Picard sighed silently - then gave in. This was not the time for that discussion. "No," he agreed, "but you must admit that there are those on the Klingon High Council who would like to see the Federation fall," he reminded the Klingon.

Worf hesitated, reluctant to give up his rage - then rose from the chair placed before Picard's desk. For a moment he paced the room, then stopped and turned back to face his captain. "There is some support for the end of the Council," he conceded slowly. "There are those who see the end of the Federation as a sign of a return to the old ways..."

"...and Martok's assumption of the position of Chancellor through his killing of Gowron has reinforced that opinion," Picard added.

Worf's eyes widened at the man's perspicacity - then nodded. "That was seen as a return to the old ways, Captain - but not every house agrees that a return to what once was is what is best for the Klingons now!" he added defensively.

"What _is_ seen as being best for the Klingons now?" Will asked, leaning back against one arm of his chair, watching his friend closely.

"The Dominion was has affected us as severely as it affected all the other participants," Worf admitted. "The economy is on the verge of sinking in to a depression..."

"A depression that could be blamed on the Klingons' involvement Federation," Will added.

"A war could boost a sagging economy," Picard reminded him.

"A short war," Worf countered. "Chancellor Martok is well aware of that, Captain - but he is also aware that the war that would result from the dissolution of the Federation Council would not be a short war - and that the Klingon Empire would be expected to not only defend themselves - but to defend the planets that look to us for their defense. It is not well known, Captain," he added, his voice dropping, "but we do not have the forces or the equipment to provide those defense at this time. The Dominion war has affected us far more severely than we can admit. We have enough to maintain the pretenses of being warriors - but we do not have the resources to back up the pretense for long."

"You would if you could usurp a few planetary governments," Will reminded him. "Take them over - and take their resources as well."

"We could," Worf admitted, then added, "on one planet. Maybe two - but only at the cost of leaving Q'onos undefended. Captain, Commander, the Klingon Empire has overextended itself in trying to assist the Federation during the Dominion war. That is one reason that Chancellor Martok was willing to send me to join you; he wished... he wished for me to make the first overtures to the re-established Council for assistance in rebuilding our Empire," Worf admitted, shame-faced.

A request that the Empire had had to make to the Federation almost one hundred years before, Picard realized - and then again after Nerendra Three, he added, suddenly understanding the Klingons official aloofness from the situation - and understanding Martok's willingness to send his personal benefactor and friend on such a potentially dangerous mission.

That Worf was an eminently qualified Security officer was unquestionably understood by the Chancellor - but more importantly, Martok must have understood that Worf, alone among all his emissaries, could bridge the cultural and personal gaps between the two cultures.

But at the same time, Picard realized that Worf was facing an equally daunting personal risk: if he, Worf, failed... then his would be the name to carry shame and distrust for generations to come.

It was an intimidating task, even for someone as dedicated and determined as Worf - and one that, Picard realized, would not meet with approval from all members of the Klingon High Council. Indeed, he thought, the Klingons had broken into civil war over lesser matters; to learn that Martok was petitioning the Federation for assistance once again would break apart what was left of that once proud, but now fragile world.

No wonder Worf had said nothing until now; indeed, Picard added, he probably was under orders to reveal what he knew only when this mission was completed and there was a steady Federation Council to which he could apply.

But if no one knew that Worf was here on a secret mission... then who had provided Jay Tillerman with his information? he asked himself.

"My apologies, Mr. Worf," Picard said sincerely. "But... I had to know if you were the one."

Worf grunted his resentment - but added, "I understand, sir."

"Thank you," Picard replied sincerely - and relievedly - then turned to Will. "Number One, it was the information from Cmdr. James that led you to find the most recent case of sabotage?"

Will nodded. "Yes, sir. She was explaining the damage she found on the memory cells that led to the replicator failure - then told me what to look for if more cells were to fail. Apparently, there is a tell-tale change in the power consumption as the deteriorating cells begin to fail and the circuits look for new pathways to complete themselves. That was how we were able to find the latest round of sabotage - and how we were to prevent it from causing any real damage."

"Did she say how the damage could have been caused?" Picard asked.

"Any number of ways," Will replied.

Picard nodded, digesting the information - then looked at the two men in his ready room. "Then start tracking down those ways, Number One, Mr. Worf, and see how many people had access to any of those routes at the time in question. With any luck, our saboteur may have placed themselves in an untenable position when he or she attempted to implicate the lieutenant: the hour was late and not most of the crews on duty are in their assigned posts. With any luck, someone may have seen something... or someone," he added.

Will nodded again. "Yes. sir - but depending on the number of approaches, this may take some time. If I were to get some help..."

"No - the fewer that know about this - about any part of this," he added, looking at the three, "the better for all of us. Until now, we had no firm evidence to substantiate our theory that a saboteur was present; the fact that someone has gone to the effort to confirm that theory means they had to be aware of the theory in the first place.

"A leak?" Worf said with a frown.

Picard nodded. "There must be - and we're going to need to find it and seal it if we're to get to the bottom of this situation - and quickly. Keep me apprised, gentlemen," he added.

"Yes, sir," they both replied, Will rising to his feet as he heard the tacit dismissal in his captain's voice - only to hear the man add, "A moment, Mr. Worf," he said, glancing at Worf, then added, "Walk with me."

Worf raised a brow in surprise - then nodded, following Picard from his ready room to the bridge to the lift. It had been a long time since his captain had made such a request - but, he added, Chancellor Martok had sought out his company on many such occasions, often walking with him for hours on end, saying little or nothing - and yet somehow finding counsel - or peace, or whatever he required - in the silent company the warrior provided.

And, as he did with his Chancellor, he found himself stepping out of the lift and walking, silently, through the corridors of the ship.

After a few minutes, however, Picard stopped - then turned to his companion.

"Mr. Worf, I understand your concerns about the ship, but your continuing insistence on trying to implicate Lt. Andile is... dangerous," he said. "I am concerned your determination to implicate her will blind you to other evidence, other information that would indicate the real saboteur."

"Captain, I must point out that there is no solid evidence that she is not the saboteur - or one of them," he replied.

Picard hesitated for a moment, frustrated by the man's stubbornness - then nodded to himself, realizing that it was that same determination that made him the first-class officer he was. But even Worf's stubbornness was usually borne out of some cause, some reason to believe what he believed - and while there was ample circumstantial evidence against Lt. Andile, it wasn't enough to generate this level of tenacity, even in Worf.

Picard studied him for a moment, then spoke out, "Mr. Worf, is there something personal between you and the lieutenant?" he asked. "Some conflict from your Academy days - something in your history on another ship?"

"No, sir," Worf replied. "I have never had the... privilege... of serving with the lieutenant before," he replied tautly.

"Then..." Picard said, "why this animosity between you two? It's obvious neither of you cares for the other..."

"She has no honor," Worf announced instantly.

Picard's eyes widened. No honor? he thought to himself, astounded. The woman put her life - her soul - on the line for Starfleet - and Worf says she has no honor? he thought.

"Explain," he ordered.

"The lieutenant is well known in Klingon history. She is... the _ Sogh veqlargh_," he hissed.

The Demon Lieutenant, Picard translated, stilling the smile that threatened. Not that he disagreed with the name, he added - God knew if there was anyone who met the description of a demon, the lieutenant certainly qualified, he thought, idly rubbing the tiny blisters that marked the spots where the welded cable had spattered on his skin.

"I'm not familiar with that part of your history, Worf," Picard coaxed.

"It is _not_ something of which we are proud," the Klingon replied - then drew a breath, knowing he owed the truth to his captain.

"The... lieutenant... was a member of the Starfleet crew involved in the first negotiations between the Klingons and the Federation after the Romulan raid at Nerendra Three," the Klingon explained. "One of the key demands in the negotiations was access to the Federation ship-building records; our own ships were aging, decaying... As the technology officer in that negotiation, it was her place to grant that concession - and yet she refused us that access," he growled.

Picard shook his head. "That isn't dishonorable, Worf. If anything, it's the opposite; she was honoring her commitment to Starfleet and her own people. I have to admit the idea of revealing such information to the Klingons at that point in our relationship... Worf, there were as many factions that did not want the Klingons negotiating with the Federation from your side as there were from ours! Access to that information would have given you a technological advantage that we might never have recouped from - if your people had chosen to use it against us," he said, knowing full well that there were more than few Klingons who would have done just that.

"It is not just her denial of the technology that was dishonorable, Captain - it was what she did... after," he muttered.

"After?"

"A compromise was achieved; we would not be involved in the design or construction of the ship, but the Federation would build them for us, using their most current technology. The Lieutenant was to be responsible for their design and construction."

A technology, Picard realized warily, that could be back-engineered - and the technological information revealed to the Klingons. It would take time, he added to himself, and it would take considerable effort, but if they were determined - and one thing Klingons could always be considered was determined - it could be done.

And combined with their own technology... Picard shuddered at the possibilities.

Possibilities, he realized instantly, that hadn't manifested themselves. He looked at Worf. "What happened? She refused?"

"No," Worf snarled. "She did not. She built the ships - ships that far exceeded our ships in power and speed..."

"So what was the problem?" Picard asked.

"The designs were incompatible with our weapons and defense systems," Worf snarled. "She deliberately created ships that could not be cloaked, could not have weapons systems added, and possessed only rudimentary shields! They were technologically advanced, sir - but they were ships of peace, exploration and discovery! They were not vessels suited for a warrior!" he grumbled.

"And we accepted them," he continued, his face darkening at the remembered insult. "Accepted them - then realized what we had received."

"But the contract had been fulfilled," Picard said, understanding.

"There was nothing we could do. We could not even place an oath of vengeance upon her - for we were as responsible for accepting them," he grumbled.

Picard gave a slow shake of his head. "It sound somewhat... Machiavellian, Worf," and damned clever, he added, impressed once again by the woman's cunning, "but I still do not see the dishonor in what she did," he admitted.

"She tricked us!" he complained. "But then..."

"Then...?"

Worf gave a low growl. "When a Klingon is out-witted, he has two responses; anger - or cunning. Anger was inappropriate - we had just signed a treaty with the humans - and more importantly, our Chancellor found the latter more useful in dealing with humans. Realizing the Lieutenant's potential, he offered her the opportunity to seal the rift that had formed between the Empire and the Federation - unless she preferred that anger resolve the problem," Worf explained.

"He wanted her to build him another ship - one that was compatible this time?" Picard surmised.

"No, sir. He offered her marriage," Worf countered.

"Marriage?" Picard gaped. "The Lieutenant - and your Chancellor?"

The idea was almost unimaginable to Picard; Klingons didn't marry humans as a rule - and certainly the Klingon Chancellor would never chance the societal division such a marriage would create! he insisted to himself. It would divide their culture, risk a civil war at a time when they could least afford it... except, Picard reminded himself, here was a woman who outwitted those same Klingons, who bested them at a game they were the masters of. To ally himself with her, to join that wit, talent and skill to their own would benefit them greatly - and, he realized slowly, benefit the Federation as well. How better than a marriage to show the Federation how serious the Klingons were about finding and maintaining a peaceful balance?

It was brilliant, Picard realized - or rather, he amended, would have been brilliant - had Andile accepted.

So why hadn't she? he wondered, truly puzzled. She had seemed so distraught when she had talked about the wars she had seen, the death and destruction - and her refusal to build any warships... why, then refuse this first real chance for peace between the two races?

"She turned him down," he said aloud.

"No," Worf replied. "One cannot refuse an offer of marriage from the Chancellor. Instead, she insulted him, belittled him in front of the High Council, impugning his ability as a warrior, his strength, his leadership in battle... To be insulted so, and before his own court, he had no option but to retract the offer - but not before he suffered the humiliation and disgrace of being embarrassed by an off-worlder - a human!

"If the treaties had not been signed, if the contracts had not been fulfilled..."

And if the Klingons hadn't been in such desperate straits, Picard added silently, realizing the unspoken aspects of Worf's monologue.

"... we would have gone to war with you - again," he added gruffly. "A war we could not afford - and could not have won," he admitted. "We were forced to remain at peace with the Federation, outmaneuvered by the _Sogh veqlargh_," he announced.

A demon, Picard agreed, to the Klingons, perhaps - but to the Federation, she had been a savior. Whoever had negotiated that truce had made an egregious error, promising to share the Federation's technology - before realizing that the Klingons would use that technology against them as soon as their honor would permit.

In a way, it was almost funny, Picard thought - or it would have been if Worf's determination to see the demon lieutenant done in hadn't almost succeeded in having the woman sent up on charges of treason. He smiled to himself, envisioning the tiny engineer besting a bad compromise in the treaty - and almost ending up marrying the Klingon Chancellor as a result.

"Mr. Worf, as much as I can empathize with your cultural teachings against the lieutenant, I need you to tell me if you can put aside you personal feelings and focus on the matter at hand - finding the saboteur."

Worf considered the request solemnly, then gave a deep nod of his head. "Yes, Captain," he said.

"Good," Picard replied. "In that case, I want you to put a guard on the lieutenant the moment she's released from Sickbay," if she ever is, he reminded himself grimly.

"But..." Worf began to protest.

"And I want it quietly advertised that she is still considered our chief suspect in the sabotage," Picard added.

Worf stared at him, then slowly nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, understanding. "If the lieutenant is still publicly purported to be the saboteur, then the real saboteur may feel free to proceed in their original efforts."

"Indeed - but that's only going to happen if he or she believes or attention is on someone else exclusively," Picard concurred.

"However, our attention will actually be focused on... on what area of the ship?" Worf asked.

Picard sighed. "That, Mr. Worf, is a good question - and one for which we have only thirty-six hours to find an answer," he added.

"Thirty-six hours?" Worf replied.

"Thirty-six hours from now," the captain answered, "we will be at our most vulnerable. All the delegates will be aboard - and the Romulan delegate's ship will have moved out of communications range. We will be running on communications silence with Starfleet, per our mission orders. At that point, we will have nothing to defend ourselves against whatever plan the saboteur may have devised - unless we can determine who the saboteur is before that time, and what their intentions are."

Worf grunted disapprovingly. "It is not much time, sir."

"No," he agreed. "I'm just hoping it's enough."


	75. Chapter 75

**Chapter 75**

Deanna Troi studied at the chair set in the middle of the small alcove of the main room of Sickbay - and smiled.

Not because the chair was so large that the woman who lay ensconced in its depths seemed dwarfed by its high arms and deep cushions - though it would have been a comical sight on another occasion - but because the chair was, well, an old friend.

Not really, she admitted a moment later; this was just a standard psychologic biochair, built to constantly assess the physical condition of a patient, giving a trained analyst the ability to see the patient's blood pressure, temperature, pulse and skin conductivity - in essence a lie detector, she reminded herself - and in no way different from any other biochair.

But there had been a chair once, a long time before, that had looked similar - except, she reminded herself, that it had been far older, the upholstery worn thin by the constant use, the padding beaten flat by the weight of a young girl sitting on the arms - despite her mother's constant warnings - and it had usually carried the constantly smiling face and loving arms of her father.

He had loved that old chair, Deanna thought; loved it even though it was falling apart, loved it even though Deanna's mother had hated it and banished it - and her father - to a distant den in a remote corner of the house, loved it so much that it had followed him from Earth to Betazed, despite the cost of shipping so fragile a piece of furniture - and the fact that it was, Deanna admitted, not very well built.

Every memory she had of the chair included some repair to patch the torn upholstery or mend a broken spring - but her father had never seemed to mind the state of the chair - and neither had she. Almost every night that he came home, he would settle into its depths - then pull her into his lap and listen, patiently, lovingly - and with complete attention - to ever detail of her day's activities. And almost every night after dinner, it was there that she would crawl into his lap, and listen to his stories, and fall asleep in his warm and loving arms, knowing she was cared for.

And it was there, she thought, a tear coming to her eye, where she had run after she had learned of his death, and breathed in the warm and fragrant smell of his scent, locked deep within the cushions - and cried.

The tears had ended - but the memory of the chair had not. She had kept it - against her mother's wishes - as long as she had stayed on Betazed, finding comfort and solace in its depths every evening, taking succor from the gentle and loving memories it offered - and offering them back to the world in her first graduate thesis.

"The Use of Non-Threatening Physical Stimuli in Treating Patients Suffering from Post-Torture Syndrome," she remembered - a pretentious title for what was, she reminded herself, a pretentious paper - but the premise had been valid, her professors had decided. After all, patients who had been physically abused - by torture or other means - needed physical comfort, but were often unable to tolerate the touch of another person. Why not, then, use a chair, designed to be over-large, soft and deep, safe, all-encompassing, that would allow the patient a degree of physical contact with no threat involved.

All that had remained was to add the biometric sensors - and the psychologic biochair was created. It was, ironic, then, Deanna thought, that I designed the chair, in part - and yet almost never use one. But Betazoids didn't need the sensors built into the chairs to see if their patients were telling the truth, she thought - and the few patients I've had who have been tortured had been never been so severely abused that they had needed the chair.

And so it sat in her office, another piece of standard issue equipment that placed on every ship in the Federation - unused.

Until today, she added, when Beverly had requested the transfer of the chair to Sickbay, claiming its size, biometric capabilities - and the fact that it would allow her patient to recline or sit up as the mood suited her - would optimize the treatment she was implementing on the petite engineer. The fact, however, that it was not a standard Sickbay bed was not lost on the empath - even if the reason for Andile's terror of that realm of the ship was.

There was no mistaking her fear of the room, Deanna thought, unable to miss the panic that filled the woman's eyes - filled them, that was, until they clenched shut as she began to groan, clutched at her stomach, and turned her head, trying to heave up the contents of her stomach once again.

Selya Ufara, the blue-skinned Pandrolite nurse attending her, immediately moved an emesis basin beneath her head - but there was nothing for the basin to catch. There had been nothing for the last hour - but the fact that Andile's stomach was now completely empty was not stopping the spasms from wracking her body.

Selya set the basin back on the table beside her, then gently wiped the tiny strand of spittle from the woman's mouth - then patted away the sweat that beaded her patient's forehead.

That seemed to be too little, too late, Deanna thought; Andile's hair was matted down from the sweat, clinging to her face in sodden tendrils, it black richness standing out in stark contrast to the grey-white skin and the blue lips - lips that were barely moving as the nurse moved the basin out of reach once more.

"Thank you," Andile whispered hoarsely, patting Selya's hand as if to reassure her - then looked up at her beseechingly. "Another blanket, please? I'm so cold, Selya," she whispered.

Selya nodded, then glanced back at Deanna - and, Deanna realized, at the physician standing beside her – before rising from her place beside the engineer.

"She's having a rough time," Beverly said softly, watching as Selya neatly arranged the blankets over the woman, carefully placing them around the lines that snaked under them and burrowed deeply into Andile's chest, continuously drawing out and returning the engineer's blood. "Not only am I seeing every reaction you'd expect - hypotension, fluid shifts, hypocalcemia, nausea and vomiting - but her body isn't reacting like a normal person's. Her cells have been living in that toxic waste so long that they've adapted to it; the infusion of saline and albumin have been like feeding her poison!" she complained. "I've had to slow it down twice and pray her body can make the adaptation back more quickly than it made the change to accepting that muck... but even at the lowest speed, she's still reacting," she said worriedly.

"But what really worries me," she continued, eyeing the read-outs as Selya covered the woman with another blanket, "is her cardiac rhythm. It's unstable - but everything I could give her to regulate it is plasma bound; it's going to come right off as we clean her blood," she said.

"Cleaning her blood?" Deanna asked. "Then... she's agreed to the treatments?" she said, puzzled. The captain had asked her to come talk with Biji about undergoing the treatments - but if she had already agreed...?

"No," Beverly said quietly. "She hasn't - nor has she decided against them," she added.

"Then why...?" Deanna asked, gesturing toward the pale-faced engineer.

"Because this," Andile answered weakly from her place in the chair, "wasn't an option."

Deanna stepped up to the biochair, which was now reclined to its fullest extent, nodded politely to the nurse, then knelt down beside Andile. "I don't understand," she admitted.

"The toxins in my blood were so high, they were affecting my judgment," Andile explained wearily. "Or so the good doctor said," she added. "She claims that any decisions I made at this stage would be of questionable validity - and if I refused treatment in a questionable state of mind, she could order the procedure, claiming I was _non compos mentos_."

"And even if she chooses against the proceeding with the treatment, apheresis and dialysis will give her some relief from the side effects of the organ failure," Beverly said. "Unfortunately, it's not a cure, and as the toxins build up once again, the symptoms will return - so regardless of her final decision," Beverly concluded soberly, "we will have to continue this process. But it will get easier with each procedure - and she will get relief from the symptoms," she announced.

"Oh, yes, I feel _so_ much better," Andile groaned as another spasm ran over her. She gestured feebly for the counselor to draw closer, then whispered conspiratorially, "Personally, I think she just wanted to use all this equipment. She probably doesn't get much chance to deal with someone in my condition."

"You caught me," Beverly conceded with a smile. "It was time for the annual quality control on all these pieces - so I thought 'why not use it on the lieutenant?' "

"Practical," Andile agreed through closed eyes and rapidly blueing lips. "That's what I like about you, Doc; you're practical," she whispered, then reached out a trembling hand, searching for her nurse. "Selya..."

But the Pandrolite was moving even before Andile called to her; with one arm slipping beneath the tiny woman, she lifted her slightly, holding the basin beneath her head once again - and once again, catching nothing, despite the tremendous effort Andile's stomach muscles made at regurgitating any traces of food or fluid it had once contained.

"I can get you some ice," Selya said as she lay the woman back a moment later - but Andile just shook her head. "It'll just come up," she reminded the nurse, then opened her eyes to look at Beverly. "See?" she said. "My judgment is getting better. I know better than to put anything in my stomach."

Beverly smiled. "And pretty soon you can decide about what you want to do with the rest of your treatments."

"Yeah - do I want to go through more of this - or do I want to become a Borg?" Andile replied wearily. "Some choice."

"That's not the choice - and you know it," Beverly reminded her.

"Well, _I_ don't know it," Deanna interrupted. "What's this about becoming a Borg?" she asked, perplexed.

"She wants to turn me into a Borg," Andile replied, somewhat - but not entirely - in jest. "She says that the Borg nano-probes will repair the damage to my internal organs."

Deanna stared at Beverly, appalled. True, an infusion of Borg nano-probes would cure her - the nano-probes took continuous care of the body's well-being - but they had to, since the owner of the body would no longer be capable of caring or performing any sort of self-care, the cure should work - but to deliberately inject Borg nano-probes into someone, to deliberately turn them over for assimilation, even to save a life... Deanna opened her mouth to voice her horrified protest - then stopped. Beverly would never do that to one of her patients - and even if she were willing to go to that extreme, where would she get functional Borg nano-probes? she thought, now thoroughly mystified.

Seeing her friend's troubled expression, Beverly smiled. "Modified Borg nano-probes," she clarified. "They've been reprogrammed to perform one function - and one function only - to remove scar tissue from the renal and hepatic tubules. After that, they'll cease to function - and your body will excrete them like any other dead tissue," she added, turning to Andile. "They will not turn you into a member of the collective..."

"You say that like you're certain," Andile argued.

"I am," she replied.

"Beverly," Deanna objected, "_are_ you certain? All the information we've gotten from Starfleet Command about the Borg indicates that the nano-probes become inactive on the death of the Borg host - and to inject them from a living host - even if you could modify them - would lead to assimilation..."

"Unless the host was no longer a member of the collective," Beverly countered.

Deanna stared at her for a moment - then her eyes widened with comprehension. "Oh! I see!"

"Well, I don't!" Andile injected, pushing herself a little more upright in the chair. "Tell me!"

Deanna turned to the engineer. "Beverly is planning to extract nano-probes from a former member of the collective. Because he's no longer under their control, neither are the probes - and neither will you be."

"Actually, I've already got the probes," Beverly said with more than a hint of pride.

Deanna's eyes widened in astonishment. "Really!"

" 'Really' what?" Andile objected.

"I mean, knowing how much he dislikes coming down here..."

"Who dislikes coming down here?" Andile demanded.

"...and he let you extract them?" Deanna said, amazed.

Beverly nodded. "It was basically the same procedure as the lieutenant is going through now," she said, "except we had to use his peripheral veins, rather than a central line like the lieutenant has. And aside from a few spectacular bruises and sore arms, he did fine - and we collected enough probes to initiate treatment on the lieutenant - if that's what she wants," Beverly added.

"He who?" Andile demanded, feeling her anger grow at being left out of the conversation. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying you have a Borg on this ship?" she added instantly suspicious.

"He is no longer under the control of the Borg," Deanna replied firmly. "He hasn't been for more than ten years."

Andile stared at her for a long time - then the slow dawn of comprehension rose in her eyes. "You mean... Captain Picard?"

Beverly nodded. "Although he still possesses Borg nano-probes in his body, they are inactive - but not dead. He allowed me to extract several million of them with the intent of my reprogramming them to perform the micro-surgical repairs on your liver and kidneys."

Andile gaped at her for several minutes, then shook her head, disbelievingly. "But... he didn't even know if I would agree to the procedure," she said.

"He hoped you would," Beverly replied softly. "And knowing that if you did, time would be of the essence, he agreed to let me perform the procedure."

The engineer stared at her for another few minutes, then shook her head. "Agreed?" she muttered to herself, realizing the word was in the past tense. "You mean... he's already done it?" she asked, confused.

"Last night," Beverly replied, then corrected herself, "or rather, early this morning - after you went... home," she said.

Home? Home where? Deanna repeated to herself, curious at the doctor's mysterious choice of words. Flashing Beverly a inquisitive glance, she expected a promise of an explanation - at a later date - and was surprised when she received nothing more than a self-satisfied - but unexplained - smile in return.

"But then... he knew..." Knew about Cardassia, knew about the disastrous mission, knew about what she had done, knew about her capture, about Varel...And still he did this? She felt a sudden pang at the base of her breastbone.

"Lieutenant?" Deanna said, feeling a sudden and unexplainable wave of grief, only to see Andile shake it off.

"I'm just... confused," Andile said. "Why would he do that - for me?" she asked.

Deanna smiled back. "Because you're a member of his crew," she explained.

"And he would do that - for any of us?" she asked.

Deanna smiled to herself; despite her constant references to the crew being a team, this was the first time she had heard Andile refer to herself as a part of that team.

"Maybe not donate nano-probes," she conceded, "but he does what he needs to for the good of the crew - as a crew, and as people."

"But... then why didn't he say anything about it this morning?" she asked plaintively. "I talked to him for two hours - and he didn't say anything! If I had known..."

"If you had known he had donated the nano-probes," Beverly replied, "you would have said 'yes' - because he had done that for you," she said. "That's not the reason he wants you to say 'yes'; he wants it to be because it's what you want," she explained.

Andile nodded, understanding - then affixed Deanna with a hard look. "If that's so - then why are you here?" she asked.

Deanna reddened, feeling caught out - then forced the embarrassment back. "I'm here - because the captain was concerned about you."

"You mean because he thinks I'm going to say 'no' - and he wants you to try and convince me to say 'yes'," Andile countered.

Deanna nodded solemnly.

"But a few hours ago, he wanted me to decide for myself - and my own reasons," she muttered to herself - then gave the two women a hard look. "Which means something's changed; something's happened. What?" she pressed.

Deanna looked at Beverly, who nodded at the blue-skinned nurse in dismissal, then stepped forward and settled herself into the empty chair beside Andile.

"Biji, you know the key event that led to your interrogation was the confirmation that sabotage had occurred," Deanna began.

Andile bit her lip. "I didn't do it," she said miserably.

Deanna smiled. "I know - but that's the problem. You have been the chief suspect - but very few people on board were aware of that. The question were facing is - how did the saboteur know to implicate you?"

The engineer stared at her for a moment - then drew a sharp breath.

"Gods," she whispered, "it's one of us!"


	76. Chapter 76

**Chapter 76**

Picard watching in bemused silence as Beverly savagely stabbed her fork into the morsel of chicken on her plate - then ravenously devoured it.

"Hungry?" he teased gently, reaching for the baguette that sat in the bread basket at the dinner table in his quarters and tore off a piece for himself.

"Very," she replied, adding, "and I have a right to be - I'm eating for two."

He froze, the bread halfway back to his plate.

"Anyone I know?" he managed a moment later, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Actually, you do," she replied, gathering a forkful of the salad - then smiled brightly at him, enjoying, once again, the opportunity to tease the man. "Lt. Andile," she explained.

Picard heaved a silent sigh of relief as he felt his heart start beating once again - then resumed placing the bread on his plate. "Indeed?" he murmured.

"Indeed," she agreed, then set down her fork and looked at him in earnest. "Do you know she hasn't eaten anything solid for over two years? Can you imagine what it would be like, being reduced to consuming only liquids - and then having that reduced bit by bit because everything you ate made you sick? It's no wonder she's looks like she's starving - she is!" she said, then stabbed another piece of chicken, stared at it appreciatively - then ate it. "So I'm going to enjoy this meal for myself - and for her... until she can," she added quietly.

Picard raised his eyes from his dinner plate. "Then she has agreed to the treatment?" he asked.

Beverly sighed. "She agreed - but not for the right reasons." She shook her head regretfully. "Jean-Luc, the only reason she agreed to the treatment is because she believes that the ship need her - not because she wants to recover from this illness."

"Nonetheless, she agreed," he reminded her gently. "You got her to say 'yes' - even if it wasn't for the reasons you wanted. Now, you have the opportunity to build on that answer, to make her want it for herself..."

"That's easier said than done, Jean-Luc," she replied. "In order to talk someone into wanting something, you have to understand them."

"Data understands her," he opined.

Beverly frowned. "I hope you're not suggesting that I use emotional blackmail, Jean-Luc. If this is going to work - if the treatments are going to be successful and they are going to last, then she has to want it - for herself, and only herself."

"I am intimately aware of the psychology of recovery," he reminded the physician acerbically. "And I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort, Beverly - I only meant that Data is... well," he hesitated.

"Her lover," Beverly completed the thought for him, smiling at the realization of how well she understood the man seated across the table from her.

"Yes," he replied uncomfortably. "Indeed."

"But you know as well as I that lovers often don't know each other well, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "Sometimes not at all - and seldom as well as friends," she added, reaching across the table to lay her hand on his, gently brushing the back of his hand with her thumb.

He watched her hand for a moment, then opened his hand to embrace hers.

I do know you, he admitted to himself, probably as well as I do because we... you, he amended, have chosen to make friendship the only way we know each other. How much of this closeness, he wondered as he tightened his grasp of her hand, would we have had if we were lovers? How much of this would we have lost, or never had - but how much could we have gained? he added soberly.

And yet he knew Beverly was right - at least in part. Andile and Data were lovers, he thought to himself - but even so, Data didn't know her at all. He had no idea that she was a telepath, a spy, the savior of the Federation... or a murderer. No one knew that all... except me, he added grimly.

"At least you bought her - and yourself - some time," he said. "Time to get to know her. Time to convince her to do this for what you consider the 'right' reasons."

"You disagree?" Beverly asked in a surprised tone of voice.

"No - nor do I agree. As her commanding officer, I would say she is doing it for the 'right' reason - the good of the ship," he explained.

"Thus speaks a starship captain," she replied, more than a trace of disapproval in her voice.

"That's who I am," he countered softly.

"No," Beverly objected. "It's _part_ of who you are - but only part." She studied him for a moment, as if tempted to pursue the topic further - then drew her hand back, smiling mysteriously at him. "Just as being a brilliant physician is only part of who I am," she said.

"Brilliant?" Picard echoed, taken aback. "Not that I disagree," he demurred hastily, realizing equally quickly that she was changing the subject - and tacitly agreeing to it, "but what's brought on this sudden attack of modesty, Bev?"

She smiled back. "The fact that Andile has survived the first round of nano-probe infusions," she replied.

"I didn't know that was a concern," he said, suddenly worried.

"In most people, it wouldn't have been - but I realized that anyone who has an ability to heal as quickly as Andile does also probably has an equally quick immune response. To counter that possibility, rather than simply transfusing the probes to the lieutenant, I was careful to remove as much of your genetic material from the probes as I could. After I reprogrammed them, I washed them in a number of solvents to remove as many traces of your proteins as possible, then resuspended them in genetically neutral plasma - but because the probes have been in your body as long as they have, they had adapted themselves to being a part of your body - and try as I might, there was no way to remove every trace of your genetic markers from them," she replied.

"But it obviously worked," Picard countered.

"That it did - but, to be completely honest, it shouldn't have," Beverly admitted. "With her immune system, she should have had a reaction. I was ready for it - I had the appropriate medications on hand - but nothing happened."

"Why not?" he asked - and was rewarded with a large smile.

"That, Captain, is where this story gets interesting. When Andile didn't show an allergic reaction, I started doing some blood work. It seems that Andile's body didn't see the proteins on the Borg nano-probes as foreign - because they aren't," she explained. "It seems, my dear captain, that you and the lieutenant are related."

"I beg your pardon?" he answered, astounded.

"Distantly," Beverly conceded. "Quite distantly, I might add; the two of you had a common ancestor - or several, about thirty thousand years ago."

He gaped at her, then shook his head. "Thirty thousand - that's a thousand generations back! I thought all lineages came together after a certain numbers of generations," he replied.

Beverly smiled - rather mysteriously, Picard realized, but before he could press her about the look, she spoke. "You're talking about pedigree collapse - and you're right, it does happen. Take any two people from the same culture, and at a point about seven or so generations back, they will have at least two ancestors in common. The key is that they come from the same - or at least related cultures. Isolate a culture, and that pedigree collapse to outside cultures begins to elongate - to a point where the cultures did have an ancestor in common - and in the case of the lieutenant, that would have been about thirty thousand years ago," she said.

"Except for the fact that very few cultures on Earth have been isolated for that long of a period, Beverly," he reminded her. "Even the aborigines of Australia had some contact via sea trade with other early societies."

"And therein lays the crux of the issue: that Andile is human - but she is definitely not from Earth," Beverly replied solemnly.

"No - but that's not news, Doctor," he objected. "She said she was from a colony... Parash, I believe?" he said.

She nodded, agreeing with him - but still smiling. "Except none of us have ever heard of that colony. Have you?"

He paused, pursing his lips in thought, then shook his head. "No, but so many colonists left Earth before formal colonization procedures were developed - and a fair number developed when intended colonization plans didn't work out - we've seen that first hand with half a dozen colonies that we've found," he reminded her.

"Except they all knew they were colonists - and there is a historical record of their travel, whether that record is kept on Earth or only in their own society. Andile doesn't have any record of such an event on her world..." Beverly began, but Picard cut her off.

"Except she was only a few years old when her parents died," he replied. "And the people - and I use that term loosely," he added with barely suppressed anger, "the people who raised her exiled her from society - it's possible she never learned how her people got there!" he countered.

"Except she did," Beverly responded. "She learned the gods took her people to Parash - and returned to check on them..."

"Religious indoctrination," Picard replied.

"Or history," she argued. "Jean-Luc, if the prehistorical culture you live in is bodily picked up from its home planet, transported to another world, and the society that moved you comes back to check up on you every now and then, how would you - as a member of that primitive society - view it? As the gods taking you to a new place - and coming back to visit," she replied. "It may be religion - but it may be history as well.

"After all, we know that the Founders were responsible for seeding life throughout the galaxy - and that other races were responsible for spreading the Romulans and Vulcans on to a number of different worlds - why not Earth as well? Thirty thousand years ago, man had developed enough to have at least primitive culture, language skills, religion and other signs of sentience - if some founding culture had seen Earth, they may have thought us as likely candidates for transplantation as well," she reminded him.

"Except how do you explain an entire culture disappearing without any trace?" he objected.

"It was thirty thousand years ago, Jean-Luc," she replied. "And as you just pointed out, we weren't able to accurately keep track of our colonization efforts as recently as a century ago. Who would know if an entire society suddenly vanished? And even if they did, who would record it?" she added - with another grin.

He studied her, suspecting she knew more than she was telling - then sighed, shook his head and gave in. "All right, Doctor, tell me what you know - or what you think you know," he added.

"Actually, there are several incidences of cultures that suddenly disappeared - where we knew the people were there - then they disappeared without a trace," she said. "And one, my dear captain, was in your own back yard," she added with a smile.

He looked at her, confused - then felt his jaw drop. "The cave paintings at Lascaux," he said breathlessly.

She nodded. "The artists were there and active for generations - then suddenly, they disappeared. Why? No one knows. A plague, maybe, or perhaps they moved due to a change in climate or environment, or they were killed in a war... or perhaps they were moved, en masse, to another planet," she said.

"All possible - as is the possibility that the lieutenant's people went there in a colony ship - and their history was lost to them - it does happen, Beverly," he countered.

"I agree - it happens. But not this time. It's the genetics, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "Andile has some of the same genes you do..."

He nodded, appreciating that she was conceding the point.

"... but she doesn't have enough of them," she continued.

He shook his head. "I don't understand."

"There's a degree of genetic material that's the same in all Earth humans," Beverly explained. "We've interbred, been exposed to the same diseases, same radiation, same pollutants - so we have genes that developed in common and that we shared over the centuries. As cultures develop and intermixed, there was a sharing of genetic material - so that by our century, there is a degree of consanguinity between all Earth humans - and a lesser degree between humans who were born and raised off Earth. The further back that separation occurs, the greater the disparity.

"Andile's genetic disparity is so great that I can't find any modern common genes," she said flatly. "Antique genes, yes - but those are the ones she shares - that we all share - with Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal and other pre-homo sapiens DNA... Which means her people were on Earth then - but not later. My best guess - and the evidence I can find support the idea that Andile's people left Earth about thirty thousand years ago. And unless you're suggesting that Cro-Magnon had space travel..." she continued with a smiled.

Picard shook his head slowly, stunned. "Unbelievable," he murmured, then turned back to his dinner, gathering up another forkful of his salad.

"No," Beverly countered, "we haven't gotten to unbelievable yet - but we're getting there."

"What do you mean?" he said puzzled.

"I mean: Her genetic material makes her related to humans about thirty thousand years back - but there are also genes I've never seen in a human - anywhere. Genes that aren't natural in design. Genes that were constructed," she added, looking at him knowingly. "Someone was manipulating Andile's race genetically. Why? I don't know. Maybe to create a race as immunologically advanced as she is. Maybe for some other reason entirely - maybe just out of some perverse sense of humor. But Andile's version of history may be accurate - the gods did come back - to see how the experiment was progressing.

"But that's not all," she added. "Even if we accept that Andile's people were taken off Earth all those years ago, the question is: How did she get back here? And - and this is my favorite question - how long did it take her to do it?"

Picard gave her a skeptical look. "I presume you already have answers to those questions, Doctor," he murmured.

"I have one - at least one important one. You know what antibodies are, don't you?" she asked rhetorically.

"Of course," he replied. "Part of the body's defense system against bacteria, germs, parasites, viruses..."

She nodded. "And you understand that with each exposure to a foreign antigen, the body develops a new and different antibody."

He nodded.

"And the longer you live - and the more infections you're exposed to, the more antibodies you develop..." she asked.

"I may not be a doctor, Doctor," he interrupted, "but I do remember my basic human physiology."

Beverly smiled. "Then you also remember that during the course of a normal life, a human develops several hundred antibodies."

"What is your point, Beverly?" he asked, gathering a forkful of the salad.

"Andile has over ten thousand antibodies," she replied.

The fork stopped halfway to his open mouth, then stopped and was slowly lowered to the plate.

For a moment, Picard said nothing, contemplating the information, then shook his head. "You said her immune system was more sensitive..."

"Which means she makes cells faster - not that she makes different types of them. One antibody per antigen, so to speak - because only one antibody works on each antigen."

"Exposure, them," he tried again. "After all, she has traveled extensively..."

"But not to any posts with unusual epidemiologic histories," she countered. "I've checked," she added. "Oh, perhaps a flu strain here or a hepatitis virus there - but nothing that could account for this type of white cell diversity."

"Then her age..." he began.

"You're getting warmer," she said with a smile. "but her posted age wouldn't explain it either. Think about this, Jean-Luc; you're about twenty years older than I am; you have about ten percent more antibodies than I do. Andile's supposed to be about thirty years older than you - so she should have, at most, about fifteen percent more," she said. "Instead, she has twenty thousand percent more... Or more," she added. "There were any number of amorphous leukocytes that I couldn't conclusively identify as antibodies," she added.

He studied her for a time, then raised his brow. "Meaning what, exactly, Doctor? That she's not fully human?"

Beverly grinned. "Not at all, Jean-Luc. What I'm trying to say is that I think she's a bit older than Starfleet records indicate."

Picard's forehead raised at the pronouncement, then lowered in relief. Is that all? he asked himself, impressed by Beverly's research - but, he admitted, underwhelmed by her conclusion. "Then how old do you think she is, Doctor?" he asked.

"Based on her antibody count - and a number of other factors - my guess is about two hundred," she said.

He gaped at her. "Two hundred years? But that's impossible! A human lifespan..."

"Can easily reach a hundred and fifty - and two hundred, while rare, is not unheard of. But she's not two hundred years, Jean-Luc - you don't develop that type of antibody profile in two hundred years."

Picard gave her a confused look. "But you said..."

"I said two hundred," she reminded him. "But not years, Jean-Luc. Two hundred... centuries. As far as I can determine, Lt. Andile is about twenty thousand years old."


	77. Chapter 77

**Chapter 77**

He stared at her for a moment, completely dumbfounded - then shook his head as he broke into a rueful grin. "One day, Beverly," he cautioned, "your sense of humor is going to get you into trouble."

But there was no smile of triumph on her face, no sign of her gloating that she had succeeded in teasing him once again.

Instead, she shook her head, saying, "I'm not joking, Jean-Luc - though that may be an overestimation. I suspect she may be closer to ten thousand than twenty thousand, based on her antibody development - but the crystallization of the calcium matrix in her bones that would indicate a somewhat greater age. More significantly, there's is no evidence of the normal sutures in her skull, only areas of healing where it was fractured by the Cardassians," she added.

Seeing his blank look, she smiled. "The bones of the skull are loosely connected at birth, so they can move and adjust as we develop. By maturity the connections - the sutures - have begun to calcify and heal over - but even in humans of great age - one hundred and fifty to two hundred years, the sutures are visible. I can't find any for Lt. Andile. None. Not even vestigial traces."

"I thought you said her skull had been damaged by the Cardassians?" he reminded her.

"I did, and it was - but even so, there should have been some trace of the original sutures on some of the fragments. But there were none - anywhere. No, Jean-Luc; either she was born with an adult-size skull intact - or she's had time for the sutures to heal - and remodel."

Beverly sighed. "All in all, Jean-Luc, everything I've found seems to indicate that the lieutenant's people were originally from Earth, taken away some thirty thousand years ago - and she was born about ten thousand years after that. How long she stayed on her planet, I don't know - and how long it's taken for her to travel back here - I don't know either. Maybe if we knew where she came from - where this Parash is - then we could get a better idea about her real age..."

"But she won't talk about her people," he said quietly.

"No," she agreed. "Oh, passing remark her and there - something about the ships her parents sailed - and the night skies... but the lieutenant is not the most forth-coming person I've ever met. Even Deanna couldn't coax it out of her," she added, "but I suspect it's going to be a hell of a tale - if we ever learn it."

"Then Deanna talked with her?" he said, brows raised in surprise. Admittedly, she had spoken to him of her past - but unwillingly and unhappily, and, he reminded himself, in great part only because of his rank. That Deanna had been able to get the recalcitrant woman to open up spoke volumes for the counselor's abilities, he thought... but the disappointed expression on Beverly's face made him realize that wasn't the case.

"Only a little," she sighed. "I would have expected a little more; the changes in body chemistry brought on by the apheresis and dialysis sometimes affect people, causing them to speak more freely..."

"To lose control, you mean," he amended.

"I prefer to think of it as decreasing inhibitions," Beverly countered with smile, then added seriously, "but even with the drugs and the procedure affecting her, Andile was still quite closed-mouth about things."

Beverly surveyed her almost empty plate - then set her fork down, her appetite suddenly gone, and looked back at Picard. "Jean-Luc, what happened at Wolf 359?" she asked solemnly.

He stared at her for a moment, astonished - and more than a little angry at the question.

Damn it! He swore to himself; Beverly _knew_ what happened there! They'd been over it time and again - and to bring it up now, out of the blue...

Except it wasn't out of the blue, he reminded himself suddenly. I was not the only person there; I was not the only survivor... or the only casualty.

He sighed, then set down his own fork, his appetite as absent as Beverly's. "She told you?"

Beverly shook her head. "No. As I've said, Andile is not the most forthcoming of people. But we were talking about the nanoprobe infusion - and she said something odd. I don't think she meant to say it - with all the drugs and the biochemical changes, she may not even have been aware she was talking about it."

"About what?" he pressed gently.

"She said... She said you would save her now, but you wouldn't save her then," Beverly said slowly - then raised her eyes to his worriedly. "What did she mean?" she asked softly.

He hesitated for a moment, reaching for his wine, sipping at it - then set it down with a slow and painful sigh.

"Not her," he said quietly. "_Them_. I wouldn't save _them_."

"I don't understand."

There was a long silence as Picard stared at the tabletop, his eyes locked on his hand - but not seeing it, seeing nothing - but what he had seen then.

"No battle is ever as clear cut as it seems from the outside, Beverly. Even at Wolf 359, the Borg did not win as easily or as quickly as you might believe. There were acts of heroism that saved lives... and acts of cowardice, of betrayal, that killed people. Good people."

"Jean-Luc..." Beverly began, reaching for his hand, seeing the old pain building in his soul once again.

To her relief, he accepted the gentle touch, nodding at the gentle caress she bestowed upon him. "I know," he replied absently. "I know it was Locutus, the Borg, who caused those deaths... using my knowledge, yes, and keeping me from changing what happened. But even so, there were lives that I might have been able to save..."

He fell silent.

Tightening her grasp on his hand, she tugged at it gently, leading him up from the table and over to the couch, easing his body, if not his soul, into its comforting depths.

For a long moment, the two sat there, silent, hands locked together, his eyes staring into nothing, hers locked upon him - and then he gave a long, final sigh, and turned to her once again.

"I've read the records of Wolf 359 - and I've read the lieutenant's personnel file. Like thousands of others, she had been reassigned from her usual duty station in order to mount a greater force at Wolf 359 - in the lieutenant's case, to the Excalibur.

"To no benefit," he continued solemnly. "A hundred or a thousand more, the Federation had no defense against the Borg. We... _they_ destroyed those ships, killed the people... I stood there watching them, doing nothing - unable to do anything!" he seethed in frustration. "I couldn't even protest," he added, his voice dropping back to a dull numbness - then shook his head and turned to look at her. "The helplessness, Beverly, that was the hardest part. A part of me was screaming, trying to fight them - but I could do nothing! Nothing! I just stood there, watching, dying as I felt the collective steal away all the secrets of the Federation that were stored in my mind - and using them again them - against me!"

"Jean-Luc," Beverly soothed, grasping his hand tighter. "Jean-Luc!"

She reached up, turning his head to face hers - then sighed as the memory faded from his eyes.

He stared at her for a moment, then let out a long exhalation, squeezed her hand thankfully - then released it.

"The Lieutenant," he continued, his tone firmer - but more distant - now, "had been assigned to the Excalibur," he repeated. "According to her report, the Borg ship made as short of work with that ship as it did with the others... but as with the others, we did not need total destruction to know the ships were immobilized and useless. There were hundreds still alive on the ships - but they posed no threat. We... the Borg ignored them. The damage to the ships, the radiation in the area... they were dead, Beverly, even while they were still alive."

She shook her head, confused. "I don't understand."

"They didn't have to die," he said quietly. "Had the Borg assimilated them, most of them would have survived. The Borg nanoprobes - the same ones that you're giving to the lieutenant - would have reversed the damage done by the injuries and the radiation. Thousands would have survived," he added softly.

"As Borg," she reminded him, shaking her head disapprovingly.

He nodded. "I know," he said.

"She couldn't have wanted that for them," Beverly protested.

"The lieutenant's report indicated that she believed she could have retrieved them," he replied, then looked at her with pain-filled eyes. "You retrieved me," he argued softly.

"You were one man," she reminded him, "and it took almost everything we had to get you back."

"But you did," he reminded her. "And the lieutenant believed she could have retrieved the others as well. And..." He hesitated painfully. "And there was a part of me that, even then, believed that they could be rescued as well. Beverly, I would never wish that hell on anyone - and yet I knew, even then that while there was life, there was hope. Even assimilated, they would be alive; maybe I could fight the _possession_ that held me, find a way to free myself, to free them..." he argued, as if trying to convince himself as well as her - then let out the tense breath that he held. "... But it was impractical, a waste of Borg resources to assimilate the survivors. The Borg had adequate drones for the assimilation of Earth; we needed no more. And we left. We left - and left them to die," he said, his voice dropping to an anguished whisper.

"The Lieutenant, however, did not abandon them as easily," he continued soberly. "According to her report, the command crew had been killed; she assumed command, evacuated the survivors to the saucer section, and separated the ship, blew the engine's warp core - and used the saucer the 'surf' the shock wave out of the radiation zone. Starfleet records indicate she managed to retrieve hundreds of survivors from other ships as they were doing so; most of those who survived did so because of her.

"She was promoted to lieutenant commander for her actions," he added a

moment later.

"Lieutenant commander?" Beverly replied, surprised. "But her current rank..."

"Is lieutenant," Picard agreed. "She managed to get herself demoted back to lieutenant a few months later," he added. "But it's strange," he mused to himself.

"What's strange?"

It took Picard a second to realize his last words had been aloud. Smiling, he shook his head, about to dismiss the observation - then reconsidered. "It's strange that she didn't keep the position. At that time, Starfleet needed every capable officer it had - and yet she removed herself from serving in a position at which she was capable - and uniquely suited. And not for the first time. Apparently..." He stopped, then smiled.

"Apparently, the lieutenant was in a position to serve as the first liaison between the Klingons and the Federation - and she turned that down - and from what I'm told, did so in a rather spectacular manner. For someone who insists she only has Starfleet's best interests at heart, that's two times when she chose not to fulfill those best interests. Strange," he murmured again.

"Maybe not. Maybe she's simply more aware of her limitations than Starfleet is," Beverly argued.

He considered that possibility - then smiled.

"Speaking of limitations," he said, "have you reached yours?" he said, looking back at the dinner table. "Or can I tempt you with dessert? An after-dinner drink, perhaps?"

Beverly smiled back, squeezed his hand, then shook her head. "Another night, if you don't mind," she replied, rising from the couch. "I've been up since four this morning - and I want to run a second dialysis procedure and start Biji's second infusion before I get some badly needed sleep. The sooner Biji regains some function in her liver and kidneys, the sooner I can let her go... I thought she was going to cry when I told her she had to stay in Sickbay tonight," she added sadly. "I think she was more upset by that news than by the realization of how sick she was. She's scared Jean-Luc - and it hasn't helped that Data hasn't come to see her," she added angrily. "For a man - or an android - who supposedly is in love, he certainly doesn't act like it!"

"He said she wouldn't like it," Picard interrupted, as he stood. "He said that she would want him to continue his work."

Beverly rolled her eyes in frustration. "The next time I see Data, I'm going to tell him that what a woman says and what she means aren't always the same thing."

"Indeed?" Picard smiled. "Then what you say, Doctor, and what you mean aren't always the same?" he asked.

The remark was made in jest - but as it hit home, he could see a growing solemnity in Beverly's eyes.

She stared at him for a moment, then drew a breath as if to say something - then let it out, starting to turn for the door...

... only to feel the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

"Bev?" he asked softly. "What's wrong?"

She turned, smiling - but he could see the smile was more than little forced. "It's nothing."

"It's something," he objected.

She pushed the smile a little further - then shrugged, as if to chase off both the thought - and the hand.

Neither left, however. Indeed, the hand tightened - then came down her arm to rest on her hand, warmer and stronger than she cared to remember it.

For a long time, she stared at the hand, then looked up at him. "Sometimes, Jean-Luc, I don't say what I mean - but what I have to say. Or what I think I have to say," she amended.

He studied her, then slowly drew her hand up, bringing it close to his lips - and bringing her body closer to his. "You said you wanted me to be happy with Anij..."

"No," she reminded him. "I didn't say that. I said... I said I wanted you to be happy."

But not with Anij, he realized, understanding at last that Beverly had seen what he had not: that as much as he cared for Anij, there was an irresolvable difference between the two of them, one that no amount of determination - or hope - could overcome.

Beverly had seen that truth, Picard thought; she'd seen the inevitable failure of the relationship - but had known equally well that it was a truth he would have to learn - painfully and unhappily - for himself.

He stared at her, stunned at his own obtuseness - and at the dedication and loyalty of his friend.

No, he realized suddenly, looking into her eyes - and seeing what he had seen there years before - and had wanted to see for decades. Not dedication; not loyalty - or rather both - but something more as well. Much more; all that he had ever wanted...

"Beverly, when you said 'no'...," he began, a surge of hope, long-suppressed, building once again.

She smiled - sadly - at him, knowing at once that he was talking about that night, so many years before - and his hopeful question - and her response.

"I didn't say 'no'," she corrected him again. "I said that maybe we should both be afraid, Jean-Luc. Afraid of losing each other, of losing what we have, afraid of losing our secure little worlds, afraid of being hurt - again. But I never said no," she reminded him.

"But you didn't say yes, either," he reminded her.

"Maybe... Maybe I didn't think either one of us was ready for 'yes'... then," she added softly.

"And now?"

"And now," she sighed, "we're on a mission of critical importance, with the fate of the Federation riding on it - and I have a patient who is critically ill - and who needs me - awake, alert and focused on her," she reminded him.

Which was different from any other day in what respect? he asked himself - then realized how accurate the thought was.

He smiled at her. "Or maybe you're still afraid?" he suggested.

She hesitated - then nodded. "Maybe I am."

He nodded, understanding far too well. "And maybe I am as well. Maybe that's why I keep finding relationships that can't work," he admitted, slowly seeing the truth for himself, "and tell myself that it wasn't meant to be - because..."

"Because you're afraid?" she asked, gently coaxing him.

"Yes," he answered.

"Of what?"

"Of too many things," he said. "Of failing. Of finding out that... perhaps I can't truly care for anyone. Of finding out... no one can truly care for me."

"That you're not worthy... of being loved?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "You know that's not true. You know..."

She let her voice trail off - but refused to lower her eyes from his.

For a long time, neither spoke, then...

"I know," he said

Then, to her surprise - and his - he raised her hand slightly, using it to tilt up her head - and kissed her - softly, sweetly, tenderly - then pulled away... reluctantly.

"Maybe," he said at last, "it's time we both faced our fears."

She stared at him for a moment. "Perhaps it is."

"Then... I'll see you at breakfast?" he said, gently lowering her hand.

"Breakfast," she agreed softly, then turned, and walked to the door - then turned and smiled at him coyly. "Maybe I'll have a better answer for you tomorrow," she added.

"Better than 'yes'?" he asked, confused.

"Better - about my mysterious patient," she teased, then sailed through the door.

He stared after her for a moment - then smiled and began to clear the table.


	78. Chapter 78

**Chapter 78**

Beverly gave an exhausted sigh as she sank into the chair behind her desk, then lowered her head into her hands, letting them carry the weight that was beginning to be more than her shoulders could bear. Drawing a tired breath, she let herself relax for a moment, enjoying the softness of the chair on her aching legs and back - then let it out in a sigh.

I need to get up, she reminded herself. I have work to do, patients - well, patient, she amended - to see, reports to write, but...

But she didn't want to move. Moving would require energy - and she simply didn't have any to spare. And in any case, she thought, it was quite comfortable just sitting here, in the dark and quiet of her office... And while duty might call, she reminded herself wearily, but it would call equally well after a moment's rest; after just a brief nap.

_Call_.

God, I forgot to call! she realized.

She sat up abruptly, ignoring her muscles' protests of fatigue and her stomach's complaint of too many cups of coffee, and pressed the communicator button on her desk's keyboard.

"Crusher to Picard," she said urgently.

There was a moment's pause, then a sleep-heavy voice responded, "Picard here."

Beverly froze - then looked at the chronometer on her desk, and realized it was not yet five in the morning. "I'm sorry, Jean-Luc," she said, embarrassed. "Did I wake you?"

"No," he replied. "I had to get up to answer a call," he informed her humorlessly.

She smiled, refusing to take his grave tone personally. "I am sorry."

"So you said," he answered. For a moment there was silence, and Beverly imagined she could see him yawning, rising from the bed and pouring himself a glass of water.

And, indeed, when he spoke a moment later, his voice was clearer, his tone a little less sleepy. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"You can accept my apology," she said. "I can't make breakfast."

There was a second hesitation - then the video monitor on her screen flickered to life. "Second thoughts?" he asked softly, a worried expression on his face.

Beverly smiled back, once again enchanted by his rare moments of casual familiarity with her. So used to seeing him dressed in his uniform, crisp and trim as he was in it, that seeing him as he appeared now, his gray hair, what there was of it, sleep-tousled, his face just a bit rumpled and in need of a shave, and his old blue-and-white striped bathrobe half-open, revealing an abundant share of gray hair on his still well-muscled chest was a pleasant glimpse at that other, usually well-hidden side of his being.

"No," she assured him.

"Then...?" he pressed.

She hesitated, then gave a vague shrug. "Nothing really. I just got tied up with Biji last night..."

"Is she all right?" he interrupted, concerned.

"Beej?" she said, surprised by the level of his concern. "Yes. Oh, she had a few rough spells during the night..."

"Nightmares," Picard replied.

Beverly stared at him, surprised by his insight into the woman - then remembered that he, too, had suffered nightmares after his encounters with the Borg and the Cardassians. "Pretty bad ones, too," she sighed, "and I'm afraid being in Sickbay may have made them worse," she added. "I don't understand that," she admitted. "I mean, I understand when people don't like Sickbay - but to be so absolutely terrified of the place - of doctors in general..." she sighed, letting her voice trail off sadly.

Picard stared at her emptily - then spoke softly. "They didn't realize she was conscious," he said, his voice strangely empty. "They didn't realize she knew what they were doing..."

"Who didn't?" she asked, confused.

"The doctors at Starfleet Medical," he answered hollowly.

Beverly stared at him, bewildered - then her eyes widened in horrified realization. "You mean she was aware of what was going on?!" she said, appalled.

He stared at her for a moment longer - then shook his head abruptly and drew himself back to the present. "I believe so. She seemed to have overheard and understood much of what was happening around her, because she remembers details that weren't discussed openly - but that her physicians and nurses might have discussed in front of an unconscious - and seemingly unaware - patient."

"But if she was aware of them..." Beverly whispered - then looked at him plaintively. "If she was aware enough to have heard them, to remember, without them realizing - then she may have been more aware at other times... Oh, God, Jean-Luc, she may have been conscious during her surgeries!" she said, horrified.

"Wouldn't they have anaesthetized her, though?" he asked, startled at the idea.

"Yes - but her liver, while damaged, was still functioning at far more efficient levels than ours do; she was probably clearing the drugs as quickly as they gave them to her," she replied, sickened by the idea. "In her condition, she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't communicate - they would have thought she was unconscious - but she might have been awake the entire time, aware - and feeling... Oh, dear God!" she whispered once again. "No wonder she hates Sickbay... Whatever the Cardassians did to her, we were no better!"

Picard nodded slowly, understanding the doctor's horror - and understand Andile's as well.

As a prisoner of the Borg, his reactions to the implants and surgeries they had performed on him had been suppressed - but nothing had been done to suppress the terrible pain of the surgical tools cutting through his body, the fear of being unable to control what they were doing to him, or the humiliation of being nothing more than a piece of meat on that cold surgical table... All he could do - all any of their victims could do - was endure.

As Andile must have endured, he added. But having been subjected to the brutality of surgery, even in the guise of helping her survive, being treated, operated on, medicated and manipulated, time and again, without any consideration being given to her wants, her needs - being handled as something as inert and unfeeling as a piece of meat - and by her own people! Picard thought, was far worse than what the Borg had done to their victims.

Beverly was right, he thought; it was no wonder she hated Sickbay!

And yet, he thought...

"She doesn't hate Sickbay," he informed her quietly. "She doesn't hate the doctors. She terrified of it - yes - but she doesn't feel any animosity toward doctors in general - or her doctors at Starfleet Medical in specific - any more than she hates or blames the Cardassians," he announced quietly.

Beverly stared at him, astounded - then shook her head. "You seem fairly certain about that Jean-Luc," she said quietly. "Did you and Andile talk about more than you told me?" she asked.

Chagrined, he shook his head. "No. It's just... I think I understand her - or a part of her. She doesn't blame anyone... Except herself," he added.

"I don't understand that either," Beverly muttered. "I know she's had some hard times - but circumstances forced her hand. She's really not to blame; not for everything," she added softly, then sighed. "I had hoped that having her talk with Deanna might have helped her..."

"You can't repair years of damage in a single night, Doctor," Picard reminded her gently.

"Perhaps not," she agreed, then smiled, "but I've come a damned sight close to doing just that. Nightmares aside, she's actually doing quite well. She tolerated the second procedure quite well - then slept through the infusion. And her lab values are holding steady so far," she added with a relieved smile. "She's not cured - and this may just be a temporary pause in her declining state of health..." Her voice trailed off.

"Then what is troubling you?" he asked.

Beverly gave him a puzzled look, surprised by his perspicacity - then shook her head. "Am I that transparent?" she asked.

"Let's just say I know you well enough to know the difference in your expression between when you're worried by a person - or just by a puzzle," he replied. "Puzzles have solutions - people don't."

"At least not simple solutions," she agreed, then nodded, conceding his point. "You're right; I'm having a problem with Greg Matthews."

"Want to talk about it?" he asked.

"No. You'll read about it - that is, you'll read my side of it - in my report..."

Picard's eyes widened. A report? he thought. That was unusual for Beverly, resorting to writing a report on a fellow crewmember - let alone a member of her own staff.

"... as I'm sure you'll read about his in his report..." she continued.

His eyes widened a fraction further. As a rule, crewmembers - especially brand new crewmembers - did not write reports - and certainly not about superior officers.

"Bev, if it ended in both of you writing reports, then I think I had better know," he informed her.

She sighed, then shook her head. "I caught him reading her file."

He gave her a confused look. "Isn't he supposed to?"

"As doctor on call, he's supposed to be familiar with her case file - but her personnel file is restricted; he had no business reading it!" she argued.

"Agreed," Picard answered, simply. "Did he give you a reason?"

Beverly let out a slow breath - and Picard realized this was the crux of her problem. "He said that as DOC for the night, he had an obligation to understand the etiology of his patient's illness, so that he would be able to respond appropriately."

Picard hesitated. "Beverly..." he began cautiously.

"I know! He was right!" she agreed, frustratedly. "A good doctor should know his patient's history... but to break Security protocols to get to her file..."

"You would have done it," he reminded her.

"_I_," she said emphatically, "am the ship's CMO. I have an obligation to permit nothing to interfere with my patient's care! Greg Matthews is not - and his obligation to the Lieutenant was to watch over her - and notify me at once if her condition changed - not to prepare himself to take over my case!" she snapped.

He raised a brow. Professional jealousy? he asked himself - then dismissed the idea instantly. Beverly's main concern was - and has always been - the needs of her patients... of any patient, he amended. Receiving credit for what she had done had never been her concern.

Beverly, however, seemed not to be aware of his digression, and had continued to air her frustrations. "... and the hell of it is, Jean-Luc, is that he was right!" she fretted. "Professionally and ethically he was right - and yet I know - I know! - what he did was wrong! Militarily, it was absolutely wrong," she continued, "and by Starfleet regs it was completely wrong - but that's not why it's got me upset," she added. "Why it's really got me so upset is... is that I can't I can't tell you why I'm so upset!" she snapped.

"Can't? - or won't?" he asked.

"Can't," she insisted, "because I don't understand it for myself."

"Would a cup of coffee help?" he asked.

For a moment, temptation ran through her blue eyes - then she shook her head, forcing a tired smile. "I'd love to, Jean-Luc - but I've been up for the last..." She glanced at the chronometer, "twenty-six hours. Even with a cup of coffee, I'm afraid I couldn't hold up my end of a conversation. I'm not even sure I could hold up my head," she added wearily.

_You could rest it on my shoulder_, he began to reply - then stopped himself. "All right," he relented.

"Dinner?" she countered.

He shook his head. "The delegates' reception," he reminded her. "We're receiving the Romulan delegate this afternoon, and the party is scheduled for this evening."

"Damn," she murmured. "I'd forgotten."

"You could always beg off," he offered. "You do have a patient, after all," he added with a smile.

"Now, perhaps - but not by then," she informed him.

He raised a brow in question.

"I'm going to keep her here for the next few hours, until I'm sure she's stable - but being in Sickbay is almost as hard on her as her injuries have been. She's needs to be... home. Not here. With Data," she added. "She can come back for her treatments and check-ups - but in between, there's no reason she can't stay in her - their - quarters," she said with a grin. "For that matter, there's no reason she can't return to work - on a limited basis - today," she added.

Picard nodded, appreciating the woman's grasp of the engineer's psychological needs - and his own desire to tap into the woman's font of knowledge about the newly re-engineered ship.

"I think she would appreciate that as much as leaving Sickbay, Doctor," Picard agreed, then hastily added, "not that there's anything wrong with Sickbay."

She smiled back. "I'm not offended; after what Andile's probably been through, I'm not surprised she can't tolerate the place." She shook her head and gave a sigh. "I just wish I could help her with what she went through - but even Deanna was barely able to coax out more than a few words about what happened and almost nothing about how she feels."

"Not everyone is comfortable in revealing themselves to others, Beverly," he reminded her.

"That, my dear captain, is the understatement of the year. I don't know which one of you is the worse!" she laughed. "You're both terrible patients - and I don't think either of you makes life an easier for Deanna than you do for me! It's a shame you're not a Counselor; you know why you won't talk - which means you'd probably understand why she won't, either. In fact," she added, growing more serious, "the more I think about it, the more I think it's a good idea - you talking with her. I have a sneaking suspicion that once you two got to know each other, you'd both open up - and neither of you would stop talking."

He gave a caustic laugh. "Fortunately, though, I am not a Counselor."

"Fortunate for who?" she replied, growing seriously.

"For me," he replied sharply. "You know I don't believe in interfering in the personal lives of my crew..."

"I'm not talking about interfering, Jean-Luc," she countered. "I'm talking about... listening. Talking. You know, it might do each of you a world of good to be able to open up to someone who's been through what you both have been through..."

She fell silent at his glare, knowing that her remark - which had not been made in jest - was not being well-received.

But what type of remark, other than one murmured in sleep from a shared bed would be one he would want to hear at this hour? she asked herself with a smile.

"All right," she gave in, "We can talk about a career change for you some other time. I want to go check on Beej, then, as soon as Alyssa comes in, I'm going to bed."

He raised a brow in curiosity.

"Dr. Ogawa won't be in until oh-eight hundred, Beverly. Can't Dr. Matthews handle your one patient until then?" he asked.

"I don't want him near her," she replied sharply.

He looked at her, surprised by the sharp tone of voice.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" he pressed.

"Yes, I do want to talk about it," she admitted, "but I will not leave Biji alone with him. Please don't ask me to explain," she added. "I wrote it up in my report... but the truth of it is simply that I don't feel comfortable with him treating her," she insisted.

"I thought you said he came highly rated," Picard replied.

"He did - which makes it all the harder to explain why I'm so uncomfortable with having him treat her," she admitted, perplexed by the inconsistency.

Or maybe it wasn't hard to explain, Picard thought to himself.

"You don't trust him," Picard said quietly.

She stared at him - then gave a nod. "No, I don't. He violated her confidentiality - in the name of medicine. I don't think he'd hesitate to violate her in others ways - to force treatment on her against her will - in the name of medicine. And I won't leave her here with him, alone, until I can trust him," she insisted.

"But you will trust Data to care for her?" Picard pressed.

"He loves her," she answered - as if that were answer enough.

And perhaps it was, Picard reminded himself.

"But I'm not going to leave her until I know until she's well enough to go with him," Beverly continued, "or until someone I know I can trust comes on duty."

"Or until you collapse," he countered.

Beverly smiled wearily. "It's been twenty-six hours without sleep; what's another three?" she asked. "Again, my apologies for missing breakfast - and for waking you so early. I'll see you at...?" she prompted

"My quarters, seventeen forty-five," he replied. Fifteen minutes ahead of the reception - enough time for a short talk, a brief aperitif - and to get his collar properly fastened, he thought - and found, to his surprise, that he was quite looking forward to the time.

"I'll set my alarm," she added, forcing back a yawn, then touched the switch on her comm panel to break the connection.

Beverly gave a tired sigh, then reached for Andile's file and started to enter the latest lab values in the chart.

They still hadn't changed, she thought, either for the better or the worse. Uncertain if that was a good sign, she began to contemplate the idea of another organ scan. It would mean another few hours in the Sickbay for Andile, she thought - but it could indicate whether the nano-probes had begun to do their work... And if they had? she asked herself.

If they had, there was nothing she could do to speed them on their way - any more than she could hurry them into beginning their work, she added.

In other words, she reminded herself, the organ scan would accomplish one thing - to ease her curiosity - while doing nothing for her patient - except to prolong her stay in the place that already was cause of enough nightmares for her. She considered the idea a moment longer, weighing the possible benefits the scan would yield against the terrible emotional pain it would cause the woman - and made her decision.

It could wait, she decided - and I can wait as well, she added, settling her head into her hands, exhausted.

But not so exhausted that she missed the flash of uniform as it passed her office door.

Instantly furious, she swore under her breath. I told him not to go near her room! she seethed silently, pulling herself from her chair abruptly and hurrying after the intruder, ready to read him the riot act, once and for all...

And stopped.

Data stood outside the darkened alcove where Andile's secluded bed lay, studying not the monitors or read outs, but watching the woman from a distance, studying each slow inhalation and exhalation, his face a mask of exquisite pain and worry.

"You can go in, Data," Beverly said softly.

"Andile would not appreciate my presence. She believes that our primary focus should be on our responsibilities to the ship," he countered. "She says..."

"Data," Beverly interrupted, "sometimes what people say isn't what they mean. And sometimes what they say is what they mean - but not what they want. Or," she added softly, "what they think they should get. Or what they deserve."

He turned to her, confused. "You believe... that I should be with her?" he asked.

"She's in pain, and she's scared - and she's alone," Beverly reminded him. "And she thinks she deserves that." She looked at him. "Do you believe she deserves that?" she asked.

Data looked at the physician - then back at the sleeping woman. "No," he said softly.

"Then where do you think you should be?" Beverly pressed.

The android hesitated. "She will be angry," he argued.

Beverly shook her head. "Maybe; later - after she wakes up and sees you are there, and the pain goes and the fear leaves and the loneliness fades... maybe then she'll be angry. But she'll have to remember she's angry. However, she'll never forget that you were there when she needed you. So once again, Data, where do you think you should be?" she repeated.

Data stared at her for a moment - then stepped into the room, lowered himself onto the chair beside the head of Andile's bed, and reached for her hand.

From another patient, Beverly might have expected a sigh of release, a gentle easing into a deeper sleep - but there was no obvious change in Andile's condition. Disappointed, she watched the two for a moment - then stepped back into her office and settled down into her chair.

Flipping on the remote monitor, she turned her attention to reviewing Greg Matthews' Sickbay status report - another task at which he was both eminently capable and diligent - and one where his fascination with detail wouldn't threaten her patients. And the report was, she admitted, an excellent report, covering even the most minute of Sickbay details in near-excruciating detail, taking her eyes away from the report only to glance at Andile's monitor every now and then.

Scrolling to the next page a few minutes later, she glanced at the monitor - and felt her heart jump. Andile's blood pressure, which had been horrifyingly low, was climbing, and her pulse, which had been so weak as to be nearly undetectable, was almost normal.

In another patient, she would have found the change gratifying - but in Andile, it too much, too fast. Something in the infusion or the procedure must have gone horrifyingly wrong, she thought as she jumped to her feet once again, rounded the corner...

And stopped.

The bed was no longer occupied by a single occupant. Instead, two forms lay there: Andile's: tiny, frail and broken in body and spirit - and Data's: strong, sure - and utterly unbreakable - except by the sleeping body he held, enfolded lovingly in his arms.

Beverly smiled, understanding - even if the android did not - and approving.

And how could she feel any other way?

For even from across the room, Beverly could see the tension that had stiffened Andile's body, even in sleep, had gone; for once, for the first time that Beverly could remember since meeting her, she was at completely at ease. After all, she thought to herself, there was no need for tension now. For ensconced in his arms and cradled against Data's body, she was in the one place that she must have known, consciously or unconsciously, that she was utterly - and completely - safe: in her lover's arms.

Safe from Cardassians, safe from Starfleet Admirals, safe from courts of inquiry, and safe from prying and prodding Sickbay doctors, she added.

Including me, Beverly conceded, sighing softly.

Hearing the delicate sound, Data looked toward the door - and immediately began to rise from the bed.

"No," Beverly said softly. "Don't get up. She's sleeping more soundly than she has all day - and probably better than she has in weeks - or months. Alyssa will be in, in a little while - but you're welcome to stay as long as you like," she said. "Having you with her is probably the best medicine she could receive." She smiled at him gently. "You're a good man, Data," she added quietly.

"I am simply attempting to be adequate to the levels that she deserves, Doctor," he answered quietly.

Beverly smiled back. "Wiser words, no human male has ever said. Can I get you anything before I go?"

Data studied the somnolent form, then looked at Beverly. "I believe," he began quietly, "I believe I have everything I need," he replied.

Maybe you both do, Beverly realized as she studied the two - then reached out, patted Data's shoulder, and murmured, "Then I'm going to bed," she said, and with a tired yawn, turned, and left the Sickbay.


	79. Chapter 79

**Chapter 79**

Sitting at his desk, the darkened monitor before him, Jean-Luc Picard studied the empty screen, disappointed - and secretly relieved.

It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to have the conversation he had planned with Beverly: he did - but after more than thirty years of friendship, he was, he admitted, more than a little reluctant to change the status quo.

Or perhaps not change it, he reminded himself; they had agreed only to consider what a relationship might mean to each of them - as if they both hadn't done so, time and again, in the privacy of their minds. There was, he added grimly, every chance that she would say no.

Or _he_ might, he admitted; what they were contemplating had its terrifying aspects as well as its appealing ones.

But what transpired in the privacy of one's thoughts and in the daylight of an open conversation were far different - and what had seemed like a good idea, late at night, when they were both tired and sated and worried and, most importantly, together - didn't seem to have the same allure in the solitude of the new day.

How reality dims our golden dreams, Picard sighed as he rose from the chair, heading for the shower.

Reality - and fear, he added, admitting the idea of a relationship, of a - dare he say it - or even think it? - _permanent_ relationship was more than a little daunting.

Facing the Romulans, I can handle, he thought, turning on the shower.

Being assimilated - I can handle, he added as he stripped off his pajamas.

Waking up for the rest of my life with Beverly in my bed? He raised a brow at the thought.

Not that it was an unpleasant thought - the obvious reasons aside - but after seventy years of solitude, the idea of sharing his quarters... no, he reminded himself firmly, of sharing his life with her - with anyone! - was hard to accept.

He stepped into the shower.

Of course, he added as the water began to cascade over his body, she hadn't accepted the idea - and to progress from a potential romantic relationship directly into the idea of sharing his quarters - of marriage, he reminded himself sternly, was jumping the gun to an unconscionably degree.

After all, Beverly hadn't even acknowledged that she wanted this relationship. And maybe she wouldn't - or would choose against it.

She had lost Jack, he reminded himself quietly. And she had lost Odan. And she had lost Wesley, he continued, knowing that hurt had been the deepest of them all - losing him not to the certainty of death, but losing him - and not knowing.

As she had not known if Jean-Luc would return from the Borg, or Celtis Three, or any of the other dangers which they faced every day.

A relationship - a life - filled with such uncertainty, such risk... Even in the best of times, there would always be a strain on them, as each of them lived with the silent knowledge that one day there might be an away mission from which they might not return.

Just as there was now, he reminded himself, turning off the shower.

There was always the risk that one of them might die - and yet we tolerate that risk. We learn to live with it.

By sheltering ourselves in our protective cocoons of isolation, he added, toweling himself off. By refusing to admit others in deeply enough where their loss can strike deeply into our hearts.

He turned to the mirror, reaching for his razor. We live smaller lives because of what we choose to do, he realized as he cleared his face of the night's growth of beard, and we try to make up for that by enriching our lives in other ways.

We read more, study more, find more hobbies, more activities... but as individuals, we isolate ourselves from each other, he admitted, running a hand over his now clean-shaven face.

Not entirely true, he added as he stepped out of the bathroom, crossing the room to his closet; we make friendships with one another - deep and meaningful friendships - but always with that knowledge, that possibility, that fear, that one day, the friendship will end - because we will. How much more deeply would those friendships be if we knew that our imminent deaths weren't always a real possibility?

Or does the threat of death, of losing our lives on some unknown planet or in some hideous mishap, make that friendship deeper and more meaningful - because we know how very fragile, how very precarious our existence truly is? he wondered as he took out an immaculately pressed uniform.

And because we know that we will need to rely upon one another all the more when the time came - as it invariably would - indeed, as it had - for one of their members to be lost.

Was that it? he wondered as he began to dress. Is that why our friendships are so deep - and our romances so shallow? Because we're scared to take ourselves away from the safety that our group provides - and risk our emotional selves on caring for - on loving - only one person? he wondered.

And yet, how much do we lose in playing it safe? he asked. Friendship must dare greatly - or it is not friendship. How much more, then, must love risk?

And yet...

And yet Data, the youngest of them all in emotional age, was doing just that, he reminded himself. Risking himself, risking the greatest hurt a being could have, by allowing himself that deepest and most meaningful of all human emotions - love.

Love without boundaries, love without hesitations or limitations.

Then again, Data didn't know better, Picard reminded himself; he had never loved and lost, had never suffered the mind- and soul-numbing ache of losing someone he cared for; he didn't know how bad it could be.

But he was coming close, Picard thought soberly. If Andile dies...

But Beverly did say she was doing better - or at least, she was no worse today, he insisted to himself.

At least, not physically. Emotionally, however...

He returned to his desk, tabbed the computer, and brought up Andile's file, hoping to find some glimmer of an idea, some hint as to how Deanna could help her - but there was nothing there. Nothing more than the cold facts and figures of a long life spent in Starfleet.

A long life in Starfleet, he thought - but a far longer one outside.

A far, far longer one, outside.

An idea flickered to light. He sat back, thinking - then glanced at the desk chronometer. Five forty-five. Too early for the task he had in mind.

The bridge then, he sighed. It was still two hours before he was due there - but somehow, he expected Deanna wouldn't mind the early relief.

He smiled - sadly. After all, she and Will seemed to have made the jump from isolated friendship to... well, something more, he thought, refusing to allow himself to speculate on the specifics of their relationship - and yet even that bond was being strained of late, he thought sadly. Maybe a few more hours together would help...

He rose from his chair, stepped to his door -

- and stepped back in surprise.

"Beverly!" he said.

Looking equally startled at the unexpectedly opening door, she said nothing for a moment - then smiled. "I was just about to ring..."

"I was just going up to the bridge..."

She stopped, then stepped back. "Then don't let me keep you," she said.

"You're not," he insisted.

The two stood there for a minute, staring at each other, the situation growing more awkward by the moment.

Then Beverly managed, "I don't suppose that offer for a cup of coffee is still good?"

He stared at her for a moment longer - then realizing she had something, jolted himself loose. Something about coffee, his brain reminded him.

"Oh! Of course! Come in!" he insisted, taking her hand and pulling her across the threshold. "Coffee?" he asked - then reddened, realizing, at last, what she had just said.

She ignored his discomfiture and smiled gratefully. "That would be lovely," she agreed.

He hurried to the replicator, taking the few seconds it needed to replicate the coffee to regain his equilibrium, then turned, bringing the two mugs back to the couch where she had seated herself.

"Can I get you something else? Croissant?" he offered.

"No thanks - I'd probably nod off in the middle of it," she replied, then sipped at the not brew. "In fact, I probably shouldn't have this; I had three cups trying to stay awake last night. Now I'll probably stay awake - right up until the time of the reception," she added with a smile.

"No," he countered. "I offered you a legitimate excuse to avoid the party - and you declined it by virtue of healing your patient," he reminded her. "No second chances."

Beverly sighed, her smiled fading into a frown. "I haven't healed her, Jean-Luc. You don't heal that amount of damage - not in one day. But... she is better," she added.

"Well enough that you could leave her alone?" he asked. "Or was Dr. Ogawa early today?"

"Neither," Beverly replied.

He frowned worriedly. "But I thought you said you didn't trust Dr. Matthews with her..."

"And I don't!" she insisted emphatically. "But..." she continued, a soft, sweet smile coming to her lips, "I don't think I have to worry about anyone interfering with Biji's rest - at least not for a while."

He raised a brow as he took a seat beside her on the couch. "Indeed?"

She nodded, easing herself back into the couch's depths. "Indeed. Data showed up just after I called you - and when I went to check on Beej, I found him with her. Lying in bed with her," she added softly. "Holding her, his arms around her, protecting her." A soft sweet smile grew on her face as she closed her eyes - the turned rabid as she opened them again. "Greg Matthews doesn't stand a chance," she announced.

"And she seemed to know it," she added. "Every vital sign had returned to a normal range - and I think, for the first time since she came to Sickbay, she was asleep. Completely and totally asleep." She gave a soft laugh. "You know, I think Data did more for her recovery in five minutes than I did in a whole day."

"You saved her life," Picard reminded her quietly.

"But he's saving her soul," she reminded him. "And perhaps helping him find his own in the process," she added.

"You really believe that?" he asked, not mockingly, but in genuine curiosity. "That finding love is that important for Data? That without that discovery, he won't have a soul?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said. "Data has a soul just as you and I do - but without love - without experiencing every human emotion, good and bad - he's never going to be complete, any more than Andile is," she said.

"Not all species feel emotions as we do," Picard pointed out. "Does that mean they're not complete? Or that they don't have souls?"

"I'm too tired to argue philosophy, Jean-Luc," Beverly replied with a yawn, "but all species need to be measured in their own cultural context. Whatever it takes an individual to experience the complete range of emotional norms that typify his own culture would be necessary for them to be complete - be it the stoicism of Vulcans - or the melodramatic over-emotional displays of the Klingons. Data chose humanity as his norm; for him to become human, he needs to experience everything we have to offer, including... no, especially love. Without that, he's never going to be complete," she said firmly.

And will I never be complete because I have never felt the depths of emotion he has? Picard asked himself. Or because I've never been married, as you were to Jack? Does that make me less? Am I incomplete? he wondered.

Wondered - but didn't ask aloud. He didn't dare; in part because he knew it would embarrass her - so much of what she was saying was brought on by her own fatigue - and in part, because he didn't want to know if she really felt that way.

Ignorance, after all, he thought solemnly, was bliss.

Cowardly, yes - but bliss.

And maybe I'm not complete, he admitted as he rose to get her a fresh cup of coffee. Maybe I never will be as long as I live the way I do - apart and alone.

But it is the life I chose...

... or the one I chose - once.

But that was a life ago, he thought to himself as he took the fresh mugs of steaming coffee from the replicator - and the decisions and thoughts of a man, newly assigned to a captain's chair, and with a universe to prove himself to were not the decisions of that same man, fifty years later.

I am alone... but I'm not longer so sure that's what I want.

Resolved, determined to bring the matter into the open, he returned to the couch, set the mugs on the low table - then stopped, stared - and smiled wearily.

But not today, he realized, studying the woman curled up in the corner of his couch, her eyes closed, her breath slow and steady, already deep in the embrace of what she needed most: not a lover's arms, as her patient had, but the embrace of sleep.

Gently, he pulled her boots off, stretched her long legs out on the couch, then covered her with a blanket - and, to his surprise, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Computer, lights at ten percent," he said quietly, then picked up the mugs, placed them back in the replicator - and left the room, heading once again for the bridge.


	80. Chapter 80

**Chapter 80**

Deanna slid out of her uniform, then eased her way between the rumpled sheets, curling her body against the sleeping form that already occupied the bed.

Will stirred, then turned, still asleep, to face her, his arms reaching out, embracing her, drawing her close to him - then opened one eye in surprise. "I thought you had the night watch," he murmured softly. "That - or I'm late," he added with an unhappy growl.

Deanna didn't react to the complaint. Will's seeming dissatisfaction with the rigors of his position were more pretense than sincere, she knew. He was disappointed, she knew - but in himself, not in his job.

Though why she still didn't know.

But this was not the time for a discussion of Will's personal problems, she resolved; here and now she was his lover, not his counselor. Her hand reached to his broad chest, caressing it, then shook her head.

"You're not late. The captain came on duty early," she explained.

Will raised a brow. "Why?"

"He didn't say," she admitted. "I sensed he had something on his mind..."

"The saboteur?" Will interrupted, instantly concerned.

"No," Deanna answered immediately, then hesitated, thinking back, reviewing the captain's behavior and emotional presence as he had come on the bridge. "It was more... like a project. As if he wanted to study something, investigate something," she added. "And he probably did - as soon as I gave the report, he headed into his ready room."

Will nodded, then threw back the covers. "Maybe I should go up..."

"Will," Deanna interjected, reaching for his hand, pulling him back toward her, "If he had needed you, he would have called you..."

She stopped in mid-sentence, feeling the surge of pain in her lover, feeling a wail of silent grief. "Will? What is it? What's wrong?"

But rather than answer, Will pulled away, turning, sitting on the edge of the bed - and running his fingers through his hair in misery and frustration. "Yes, he would have called me - if he needed me. But he doesn't. No one does," he added grimly.

"Will, what are talking about?" Deanna asked, worried and confused, pushing herself up from the bed, crawling across it to kneel beside him.

"I'm talking about me!" he snapped angrily. "I'm not needed."

Stunned by the remark - and completely bewildered as to its source, she shook her head. "Will, that's not true! Captain Picard..."

"I know - the captain needs me," he replied. "That wasn't what I meant," he said, his personal loyalty and respect for the man as strong as ever.

"Then...?"

He sighed, then raised his head and turned to look at her. "Deanna... I've been taken off the Captain's list," he said.

The Captain's list? She repeated to herself, trying to think of which list the captain kept... then suddenly understood. Stunned, she collapsed beside him. "But... why? Are you sure?"

"Why?" he echoed sharply, unable to keep the pain from his voice, even to his lover. "Because I've turned down one too many posts," he explained, adding, "And am I sure? Yes. I had the word from Admiral Czymszczak himself," he explained.

For a moment, the two were silent - then Will gave a bitter laugh. "You know, there was a time I thought I would be the youngest captain in Starfleet. Instead, I'm never going to be one at all, young, old or anywhere in between."

"And that's what's been tearing you apart?" she asked.

"Wouldn't it tear you apart?" he asked angrily. "Knowing there was something you wanted desperately - and then learning you would never - NEVER - get it?" he cried out. "Wouldn't that tear you apart?"

"Yes," she agreed, "if I believed I never would get it," she added solemnly. "But... Starfleet is still desperately short of qualified captains, Will," she reminded him. "I can't believe they'd overlook you - just because you wanted to continue to serve with Captain Picard. It doesn't make any sense!" She thought for a moment. "Unless... Maybe there's something else, something that the Admiral didn't tell you some reason... What did the captain say when you told him?" she pressed. "Did he have any other explanation?" she asked, puzzled.

Will shook his head. "No... because I haven't told him," he admitted.

"Will!" she exclaimed. "You have to tell him! Maybe he could find out what happened - maybe he could help you..."

"No!" he retorted instantly - then forced himself to calm. "No. Deanna, I can't tell him. God, I can't tell anyone. I didn't even want to tell you!" he admitted.

_Imzadi_, she answered silently, stricken by his seeming lack of faith in her.

_How could I tell you?_ he thought back. _How could I tell you I... failed. Failed you, our future, our life together_? he asked her miserably.

With dawning comprehension, Deanna began to understand. Aching for her lover, she raised herself to her knees, draping an arm over his shoulders, and turning his face to meet hers.

"You haven't failed me, beloved. You never have - and you never will," she assured him. "One of the truths of Starfleet is that our futures are never completely our own. If you were removed from the captain's list - then there were reasons beyond your service record. You've always been an exemplary officer..."

"Not always," he pointed out. "I've ruffled a few feathers."

"More than a few," she agreed, smiling. "As has the captain," she reminded him. "And he's had to pay the price at times."

Like now, they both thought simultaneously, knowing full well how much of the past few years of the ship's mission had been curtailed because of Picard's actions on the Ba'ku homeworld.

"But what he did..." Will began to argue.

"... he did because he was trying to consider the greater good - of Starfleet, the Federation - and of the people involved. As have you," she reminded him gently. "How can you think you've failed me - when I know you haven't failed them?" she asked.

He studied her intently, his eyes pouring into hers - then reached up, gently caressing the angle of her jaw, then pulling her toward him, their lips meeting in a kiss.

But only a small one; Will pulled back, his hand still on her chin - and smiled. "Have I told you how much I love you?" he asked.

"Not today," she answered with a grin - then pulled him back down to the bed.

A long time later, he smiled at her again, gracing her with the first truly relaxed smile she had seen cross his face since the mission began.

"I still want my own ship," he said softly.

"You'll have one," she assured him with a certainty that had no basis in the cold face of reality - but with no trace of doubt. He _would_ have a ship - somewhere, and on someday - though perhaps not the Starfleet vessel he had once dreamt of, she admitted.

Seeing her thoughts, he nodded, slowly at first, then with growing vigor.

I always thought in terms of Starfleet for my future - and in the limitations that future applied, he realized in a flash. But if I'm not Starfleet, then those limitations were gone as well. For the first time in weeks, Will felt a surge of hope. It wasn't the way he envisioned his future - but the future was, he thought what we make it.

"We'll have to arrange to meet on our leaves," he added, thinking out one of the many possibilities that suddenly seemed to appear before his mind's eye.

"Why? Why can't we just meet here?" she replied, touching the bed with a smile.

He stared at her, perplexed - then stunned by her meaning. "You'd leave Starfleet?" he whispered.

"I love Starfleet," she replied. "I love my career. I love the people with whom I work. But... they're not you, Will. None of them, in part or whole, are as important to me as you are. Of course I'd leave... if you'll have me," she added softly.

Stunned, he gaped at her - then shook his head. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?" he asked again.

Deanna smiled, glanced at the chronometer at their bed stand, and replied, "Yes - but not often enough. But you have forty-three minutes left. That's enough time - to make a start," she added with a wicked grin.

He grinned back.


	81. Chapter 81

**Chapter 81**

He touched the door chime somewhat hesitantly, as though he wasn't sure it was the right thing to so.

No, he corrected himself; it was the right thing to do; it was just a question of whether she was the right person to ask. There were, after all, issues of propriety: did one ask a visiting foreign dignitary to discuss one of the basest problems her society faced?

Or did one let a fellow officer suffer? he reminded himself.

There was no simple answer, Picard thought - or rather, there was - "no" - but it was not an answer he was ready to settle for.

So my options are to risk offending a delegate, and chance an interplanetary incident - or watch one of my crew suffer.

In theory, the answer was simple - but theory and practice were not the same in real life, he knew - and standing here, in front of Tar Zumell's door, his metaphoric hat in hand, was even more difficult than he had thought it would be.

Nonetheless...

He drew a deep breath, placed his most diplomatic expression on his face, and bowed his head as the door slid back.

"Captain!" came the age-softened voice of the Cardassian teacher, seemingly pleased by his early morning appearance.

"Good morning, Ambassador," he answered politely.

"Is this not early for you?" she asked. "I did not know starship captains wakened at this early hour. Or is it more that you have not yet been to sleep?" she asked with a disarming smile.

He gave her a quizzical look.

She smiled back. "While I was not granted much time to roam the ship that brought me here, I learned quickly that starship captains in the Cardassian Empire do not have rank in title only. Rather, they work as hard as any other - if only by worrying about those who serve them. I think, seeing you here this morning, that the Federation's captains are little different."

He smiled back. "There are obligations and perquisites to every position – but for the most part, I cannot complain," he replied.

"If you did, you would not be a captain," she agreed, then stepped back, gesturing for him to enter the quarters. "But perhaps a captain could find time to share a cup of tea with an old woman?" she added.

"If I'm not intruding..."

"You are," she countered - then gestured at the mounds of books that now covered every available desk, table and chair. "My 'friends' however, have the inestimable gift of being able to wait for my convenience - forever, if need be - or as close to forever as paper and glue permit," she added.

Picard glanced over the books, reaching for one - then glancing back at the ambassador. "Boorstein's 'The Discoverers'?" he asked, surprised.

"I had thinked... thought," she tried again, "to know more of your people by studying how you discover, how you learn... only to learn that your people are as diverse as my own. Each culture is as separate as an island - and to understand one does not help to understand the others. And yet, even though I cannot learned what I want know... want _to_ know," she tried again, growing frustrated at the difficult language, "I find myself unable to put down the books. They are all pieces of you... and perhaps, when I have read enough, I will understand.

"But not in time for this conference," she added disappointedly.

"Then again, you have discovered that no one answer will resolve the many ways we perceive the problems," he reminded her, "and therefore, no simple answers will suffice. That, in and of itself, is a remarkable achievement."

"And I think," she added, settling into one of the few free chairs, "that simple answers are what you want - but neither can you find them," she said sagely.

He gave her a surprised look, taken aback by her perceptivity.

She smiled. "Starship captains, early risers that you all may be, do not come calling on guests at this hour - unless we have somethings you want. Why do you not make us into tea, then ask me what you want?" she said.

A few moments later, he returned to the table carrying a china tea service perched delicately on a tray, and began the formal ritual of pouring out.

"This is a tea we call Earl Grey. It is one of my favorites; I hope you will enjoy it," he said, as he placed the porcelain cup on its saucer before filling the cup with the citrus scented brew.

Tar Zumell watched appreciatively, then accepted the delicate cup with a nod of her head. "Good tea," she agreed after the first sip, the added, "not unlike some of the teas of my home province. I believe you would enjoy them. Now," she said, setting the cup and saucer down, "let us discuss why you are here. You want something from me."

Picard took a sip, stalling for time as he prepared his speech, then set the cup down on the table and began.

"I need information, Tar, about a group of people - children - on your planet," he began.

She smiled. "Of course - but what can I tell you that you cannot obtain from your computers. Enemies we have been - but since the war, we have begun to open our libraries to you and your people - as you have begun to open them to us," she replied.

"I could not find any references to these people in our databases," Picard countered. "They are called the Chiemma."

Zumell's smile, bright and alive a moment before, faded instantly, a dark cloud covering her usually bright expression. "Chiemma? I have never heard of them," she insisted. "You must have made an error. I cannot help you," she added, beginning to rise from her chair.

"Ambassador," he started, instantly apologetic, "I did not meant to offend you..."

"You did not," she interrupted tersely.

"Indeed," he continued, "of all the races I have had the opportunity to come to know, the Cardassians had impressed me as being the most loyal, the most dedicated, to the care and upbringing of their children," he began as tactfully as he could.

"We love our children," she agreed. "They are our future, our light, our hope... In their hands, the fates of our people will one day rest; we owe them everything - starting with our love," she said passionately.

I know," he replied softly, shaking his head. "Which is why I cannot understand how you and your people could abandon an entire generation..."

"We did not abandon them!" she snarled back, cutting him short with her outraged cry. "They do not exist! They can't! If they existed..." She suddenly fell silent, looking at him in horror at what she had almost said.

But Picard didn't need to hear the words to understand. He nodded, then completed the sentence for the ambassador. "If they did exist, then you - and all the Cardassians - would be responsible for having deserted the very thing you claim to love.

"And as a people, you couldn't bear that."

She nodded slowly. "We love our children..."

"Then why can't you go to them, bring them back into your lives?" he asked wonderingly. "The Obsidian Order is gone..."

"The name is gone, the government that supported them is gone - but the fear is not," she said softly. "You do not understand, Captain; you were not there. You did not seem them drag your neighbors into the streets and beat them to death; you did not see them take your husband out into the night..." Her voice trailed off.

For a moment, a painful silence fell between the two, then Picard spoke quietly. "I'm sorry, Tar. I didn't know..."

"No reason you should have. He was one of thousands taken by the Obsidian Order - just for voicing his opinion. He would never have acted against the government... but they came one night and took him... they would have taken us all, including my children, and left my children to the streets as they had with so many others - but many of my students had become members of the Council, and others had their children in my classes... I was able to save my daughter and her family - but we never saw my husband again," she said softly.

"I am sorry, Tar," Picard repeated, stunned that someone as highly connected as the ambassador was no more able to protect herself and her family from the outrages of the Cardassian secret police than any other citizen was able to do. "But you were able to protect your children, Tar; who is going to protect the children of all the others who had no one to speak for them?" he asked.

She turned away. "It is too late," she said softly.

"It's never too late," he countered.

"It is... for us," she insisted. "The loss to our society was vast - almost an entire generation gone - but we have adjusted ourselves, our society to adapting to that loss."

"Then... they're all dead?" he managed, stunned.

Zumell shook her head. "I don't know."

"You don't know?!" he replied, aghast. "Almost an entire generation separated from their families, from their culture, their society - and you don't know if they are alive or dead?" he said tersely, carefully checking his outrage at the abandonment of the children. "Don't you care?!"

"Of course I care!" she replied angrily. "But there is nothing I can do! To admit they are alive now, to seek them out, to try and bring them back - to even admit they exist! - is to confess what we did! To admit our guilt - and our shame - in not having the courage to support them then! We cannot do that! As a people, we cannot bring ourselves to admit that we abandoned the very thing we love most. We are shamed - but we will suffer the loss as we must."

"You will suffer? What about the children you abandoned? You expect them to continue to suffer - because you're embarrassed?" he asked, stunned.

"You don't understand!" she insisted. "You are not Cardassian!"

"You're right - I'm not - and I don't understand. The Obsidian Order committed a crime against you and against your children - a crime that, I suspect, was one of the reason your people rebelled - and brought down the Obsidian Order. You took them out of power - but you've done nothing to repair the damage they've done!" he reminded her.

"We can't!" Zumell protested.

"No," he argued. "You _won't_. It's not the same thing, Tar," he said quietly, his outrage fading.

He watched the woman for a moment, then stepped toward the door. "Thank you for your help, Tar. I'll find the information I need somewhere else..."

"There is nowhere else," she said with an empty finality that chilled Picard to the bone.

She was right, he realized, a shiver running up his spine. There was nowhere else to look - or rather, he could look forever - but he would never find a trace of the children. Try as he might, he would never find a record of the pogrom that had doomed a generation to exile and death; their very existence, their very being had been completely dismissed. No one would ever know they had been born, or lived... or died.

Almost no one, he added, looking at the wizened teacher, the grief and shame in her eyes almost palpable - and knowing that pain was echoed in another set of eyes aboard his ship.

And echoed in his heart, he added silently.

And in Beverly's.

It was a secret - but one that refused to be kept, slowly moving from one person to the next haunting each of them with the horror of what had been done.

And what had not.

"Why?"

The soft voice of the teacher cut through his thoughts.

He turned to her. "I beg your pardon, Tar?"

"Why? Why do you wish to know... about the children?"

Picard shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid I am not at liberty to discuss the matter..." he began.

"It is the little one, is it not?" she interrupted.

Picard's eye widened a fraction, then returned to their steely gaze. "My apologies, Tar, but I can not divulge the reasons...

"She was scared of me - for a reason," Zumell continued, ignoring him. "It does not take a starship captain to understand the two are related. I wish... I wish I could help her."

You can, he replied silently - but you won't - anymore than you would help your own children. He shook his head, wondering how he could have hoped for help for Andile when the Cardassians wouldn't even help their own.

There was an awkward silence between the two - then Picard rose to his feet, knowing there was nothing more that he could do - here. But I will find a way, he resolved. I will not abandon my crewmembers...

"You shame me, Captain," she started softly.

"Tar, that was not my intention," he began to reply.

"Was it not?" she countered with a wan smile, then grew serious. "You remind me that what we are fighting for now does not relieve us of our obligations to face what happened - then. Yes, we defeated an unjust government, because we would not tolerate their behavior - but how are we different than they?" she asked quietly. "It is not enough to simply claim that we wish for change; now we must act on our intentions... even if it means confronting our shame. I will start... with your crewman. Send her to me," she repeated softly.

Picard nodded thankfully - for Andile's sake - and for that of the lost children of Cardassia.

"But..." she began, then hesitated.

He looked at her, a brow raised in question. "Yes?"

"I would make a request of you - and the little one, as well,"

"I cannot speak for the lieutenant, Tar," he reminded her.

"Then a request of you - as her captain. May she stay with me for the day?" she asked.

It was Picard's turn to hesitate. "She does have duties," he began.

"And it would be difficult for her," Zumell added with a reluctant sigh.

Picard was about to agree with Zumell - then stopped, seeing the need in the Cardassian woman's eyes. "May I ask why you would like her to stay?" he asked. "Do you have that much information about the Chiemma?" he asked.

"No," she said soberly. "No one does. But..." She looked at him, a hint of embarrassment on her face. "As much as I am enjoying this journey... I miss having someone with whom I may speak - in Cardassian," she admitted. "Your language is still very difficult..."

"You speak it very well," Picard assured her.

"Would you tell me if I did not?" Zumell asked.

Diplomatically, Picard deigned not to answer.

She smiled back, understanding his silence all too well. "In that case, may I ask her to accompany to the reception this evening? As translator? In case my language fails me?" she pressed.

Picard hesitated; Andile had suffered terribly at the hands of the Cardassians; to place her on duty with a member of the species who abused her so...

... would be no different than his own interactions with Zumell, he reminded himself firmly. He nodded. "She will be there," he agreed.

"Then bring her to me," she said, "And we will begin to remember the forgotten ones."


	82. Chapter 82

**Chapter 82**

Alyssa Ogawa passed the scanner over Andile's back then gently pressed the tissue over the area of her kidneys, probing the flesh gently, watching her patient for any sign of discomfort.

"There's _no_ pain?" Alyssa asked, unable to hide the surprise from her voice as Andile failed to react. "None at all?"

Andile, sitting on the edge of the bed, her back curved forward, her head pressed into her chest as Alyssa had directed her to do, said nothing, only giving a brief shake of her head.

Data gave Andile a curious look, but said only, "Should there be discomfort, Dr. Ogawa?"

"The work that the nano-probes have completed is allowing the kidneys to process more fluids than they have in quite a long time," she explained to both of them. "There's undoubtedly some distension of the tissue - and considering how much scar tissue has not yet been cleared, I would expect that distension to cause some... discomfort," she hedged, glancing at Andile again. Actually, Alyssa thought to herself, it should hurt like hell. The fact that it wasn't could mean the nano-probes had already done their job - or Andile's kidneys were so damaged the fluid had leaked back into the surrounding tissue.

Glancing at the readings on the monitor, she knew neither was the case - which meant Andile was suppressing the pain she was undoubtedly experiencing.

Andile glanced back at the petite physician, then yielded a faint sigh. "It is a little... tender," she conceded after a moment.

That answer seemed to satisfy the doctor, even though she knew it was only a half-truth. "Well, if it gets too _tender_," she said, reaching for a hypo, "I want you to use this - then come back here so I can put a neural block on the area." She tucked the hypo into a small bag, already half-filled with a number of temporary remedies that the engineer might need.

Andile glanced at the bag - then smiled at Alyssa. "Aren't you overdoing it a little? I'm going to be three minutes away, Doctor," she reminded the woman. "I think I can handle anything - for three minutes."

"The idea is you shouldn't _try_ to handle anything," Alyssa objected sternly. "Pain is part of the healing process - but too much pain can slow recovery, physically - and emotionally. Pain-killers aren't a crutch, Biji; using them isn't a sign a weakness," she lectured the engineer.

Andile smiled knowingly. "I never thought they were."

"But you're not going to use them," Alyssa sighed, giving up on the recalcitrant woman.

"I will - if the pain gets bad enough," Andile admitted.

That seemed to allay Alyssa concerns; satisfied - or at least mollified - she gave a final glance at the read-outs, then stepped around the bed so she could face Andile directly.

"Well, everything seems to be holding steady, Biji - and according to Dr. Crusher's notes, that means you can return to duty - limited duty," she added firmly, glaring at Andile, then turning to Data. "Four hours - then she's to return here for an evaluation," she instructed the android, knowing he would see to Andile's absolute compliance with the order.

Something Andile was not about to do, she realized - at least, not easily. "Four hours?!" the engineer protested.

"Four hours - then you come back," Alyssa repeated. "If your blood work-ups are still holding - then we'll see about another four," she said.

"But I can't get anything done in four hours!" Andile protested.

"You'll get more done than you will if I have to confine you to Sickbay for another day," Alyssa replied. "And don't think I wouldn't," she quickly continued. "Dr. Crusher's orders specified that you either accept the terms - or stay here."

"The Lieutenant will return for her check-up in four hours, Doctor," Data said solemnly.

"Good," Alyssa answered. "You're a good friend, Beej - but you're a terrible patient. I'm going to be happy to have you out of here," she said with a smile.

"Not as happy as I'm going to be," Andile countered.

"Then let's both stay happy," Alyssa agreed. "Four hours - or I'll send Security after you, sedate you and put you in restraints until the nano-probes have finished their job," she said, all trace of humor gone from her words now.

"She will be back, Doctor," Data promised.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Commander." She turned, reached for the pile of clothes that had been resting on the bedside table and handed them to Andile. "You can get dressed now, Biji; I'm going to log you back onto the duty roster... but just remember, I can take you off just as easily."

Andile frowned at the warning - then reached for the clothes, accepting them - and Alyssa's rules.

She waited for a moment, watching as Alyssa left the private room, then slid from the bed and began to slip off the short shift that female patients were given for their stay in Sickbay.

"Ginger?" Data asked as he watched her undress. "You lied. Why?"

"Lied?" she replied innocently.

"Prevaricated. Told a falsehood. Fibbed. Perjured yourself. You were economical with the truth," he clarified.

Andile smiled innocently. "I know what 'lied' means, dear - but what makes you think I was lying? And when - and to whom - and about what?" she insisted.

"To Dr. Ogawa - just now," he countered. "About your level of discomfort during the examination," he replied. "You were experiencing pain - and yet you informed Dr. Ogawa that you were not."

Andile looked up from her efforts to step into her uniform. "I told her it was tender - and it was. What else was I supposed to say?"

Data considered Andile's words for a moment. "I am cognizant, Ginger, that your application of words is often at variance with standard usage..."

"How so?" she interrupted, working the skin tight legs of the uniform up her own.

"You stated that our love-making was nice..."

"Wasn't it?" she asked with a smile.

He hesitated; reading human literature and studying the psychology of the two human genders had taught him that there was such a thing as a 'loaded' question - one in which any answer would have started a cascade of events that would culminate in an argument - and coming from any other human female, Andile's reply would have qualified as such.

But Andile was not any other human female, he reminded himself; she was, by both the literal definition and common usage of the word, unique.

And, he added with a surge of unexpected emotion, Andile would not do such a thing to him; she knew that his emotions were new - and that, in his innocence, he would choose truth over the safety of prevarication - even such a prevarication as a 'little white lie'.

She was, he realized, teasing him.

"There are three hundred and twelve adjectives in Federation Standard that could adequately be used to describe my emotions concerning our sexual encounters," he countered. "The word 'nice' is among those words. As is 'exquisite'," he added.

Andile blushed, then turned her attention to pulling her uniform up the rest of her body - then grimaced. "Pah! I need a shower!" she muttered.

"Dr. Ogawa stated that you received a bath while you were sleeping," he informed her. "Your body odor is no more - or less - noticeable than on any other work day. You are attempting to change the topic," Data responded. "I wish to know why you did not tell Dr. Ogawa that you were in pain."

"Who said I was?" she argued.

"I do. Your pupils dilated one point two one percent at Dr. Ogawa's touch - and there was a one point three millimeter increase in the diameter of your face at the tempromandibular joint... You were clenching your teeth," he explained.

"Only you, Data," she said with a grin, "would have noticed that... but yes, I was... I _am_... a little sore. Okay," she added at his skeptical look, "a lot sore. But you can't tell Alyssa," she begged.

"I do not intend to do so," he agreed. "But why do you not tell her?" he asked. "Dr. Ogawa is correct: there is no shame in admitting you are in pain - and there is no reason that you should not use the available analgesics to alleviate that pain. They will not interfere with your work..."

"I know - because they don't work on me," she said quietly.

He stared at her, taken aback by her answer. "I do not understand."

"Pain-killers, analgesics, neural blocks, spinal blocks... I had them all after my... accident," she said, half-waiting for Data to correct her, wondering how much he had guessed - and how much the captain had told him.

But when he said nothing to the contrary, she went on. "No matter what they gave me, it wouldn't take. Oh, they would for a few minutes - then they stopped - and I was aware," she added.

"Then you were conscious during your surgeries?" he asked.

There was no horror in his tone; on a purely intellectual level, he could understand the physical and psychological implications of what had happened - but Data had never known true pain, never known true sleep - and he knew that he could never know what she had experienced. But by all he did know and could understand, it was a horror that she should not have had to endure.

And yet she had, he realized as she slowly nodded her head. "They didn't know; I couldn't talk, I couldn't blink... I didn't have any hands to gesture with..." she added slowly and painfully. "They weren't trying to be cruel; they gave me the drugs I should have had - but they had no way of knowing they didn't work. And so they went ahead and did what they had to do - and I... endured."

She whispered the word, trying hard not to shudder as the memories came flooding over her - then gave herself one hard, decisive shake, and looked back at Data. "There's nothing they can do for the pain, Data - so why put myself - and them - through the hours of trying different drugs and therapies when none of them work? I can suppress the pain..."

"Given time," he reminded her.

"...given time," she agreed. "But it does work - and once I get back to work, it's easy to put it out of my head."

Data cocked his head to the side, reviewing her words.

He had heard them before; humans who complained of minor pain when there was nothing else to distract them from their own discomfort - but who could easily ignore significant injure or illness when their jobs required them to do so. It fit with the human axiom of 'mind over matter', he reminded himself - and therefore, if he wished to help alleviate his lover's discomfort, it would be best done by facilitating her return to her work.

"In that case, I will notify Geordi that we are returning to Engineering - unless you would prefer to bathe first?" he asked solicitously.

She smiled, chagrined. "You're sure I don't stink?" she asked.

"You smell... nice," he countered.

Andile's smile turned to a grin. "You're teasing me," she said.

"Successfully?" he asked anxiously.

"Very successfully," she replied.

He smiled proudly at his achievement. "I shall return momentarily," he assured her, then stepped from the room.

Still smiling, she stared at the doorway from which he had just left – then gave a sigh and reached for her boots that were lying on the floor beside the bed. As she reached over, however, she suddenly felt herself pitching forward as a wave of dizziness came over her and her sense of equilibrium failed.

Too fast, she chided herself even as her world swam. A day in bed without getting up - and complete change of her blood - was going to have an effect - even on me, she reminded herself as she fell toward the floor.

Before she could land, however, two strong hands grabbed her, then slowly eased her back up, and guided her to the chair beside the bed.

Her vision blackened for the moment, she grabbed the sides of the chair, stabilizing herself against the solid reality of the chair - then nodded. "Thank you, dearest; I guess I shouldn't have done that quite so quickly," she said as the wave of dizziness passed and her vision began to return. "Then again, maybe it's just your presence that's makes me so light-headed," she added with a wicked grin.

"Indeed."

The voice, deep, rich and accented, was not the one she had expected. Groaning in mortification, she lowered her head to her hands. "By the gods..." she whispered.

"Lieutenant?" Picard asked, instantly concerned, crouching down beside her. "All you all right?"

"I'm fine... Captain," she managed.

Damn! she swore silently. I should have known Data wouldn't come back that fast - and even if he did, he hadn't put on cologne in those intervening seconds, she added, catching the faintest touch of a distinctly male scent.

But the two thoughts came moments too late, she realized; the idea that her savior might not have been Data didn't occur to her - until she had planted her foot firmly in her mouth.

"Can I get you something?" her rescuer asked quietly.

"A blanket," she answered, then added, "so I can crawl under it and hide in embarrassment. Captain, I'm so sorry - I thought you were Data..." she started, finally raising her head enough to look at him - and feeling the blood return to her face in a rush of shame.

"Obviously. But the fault is mine - not yours. I should have knocked," Picard countered.

"It's your ship," she reminded him.

"But your room," he replied.

"Not any longer," Andile answered. "Dr. Ogawa said I can leave - at least for a while. Data was just getting our assignments..."

"Which I must override," Picard interrupted. "I have another task for you before you return to your other duties."

Andile looked at him, instantly alarmed by the tone of his voice. There was something he didn't want to say, something he was hiding from her - but he was her captain, she reminded herself - and, more importantly, he had shown faith in her when no one else could have. She owed him - whatever he had in mind.

"Of course, Captain," she said, rising to her feet.

"I would like you to meet with Tar Zumell," he said.

Andile gave a soft, almost inaudible, gasp of horror. "The... _Cardassian_?" she whispered.

Picard nodded soberly. "Yes."

Andile blanched, recoiling in shock only to stumble against the chair that had supported her moments before - and was about to support her again as Picard once more grabbed hold of the woman and eased her into the seat.

"Sir," she whispered weakly, "I can't. Surely there's someone else on board..."

"Not for this task," he replied. "I've arranged for Tar Zumell to meet with you at oh ten hundred hours - to discuss the Chiemma," he explained softly.

_The Chiemma_? Andile gasped to herself, then felt another wave of unwanted memories washing over her, the second in less than ten minutes - and, as before, she refused to let them overcome her. Shaking her head resolutely, she pushed back the thoughts then looked up at the captain.

"But... why? The Cardassians don't even accept that the Chiemma exist! Why would she want to talk to me - about _them_?" she asked.

"She doesn't," Picard conceded. "But _I_ would like you to talk to her."

Thoroughly confused, Andile stared at him and shook her head.

Picard looked around the room, then, spying a second chair, drew it close. "Lieutenant, when we spoke the other day, you told me something of your history with your people - and of your role in their religion."

"My religion," she interjected softly.

He stared, surprised at the intensity in her words, even after a gap of.. what? Twenty thousand years? Twenty centuries since she had been a member of that faith? he asked himself.

But faith was a matter of the heart, he reminded himself - which made this encounter all the more necessary.

"Your religion," he agreed. "Your responsibility was to hear the sins of the dying - and to grant them absolution so they could..." He paused, searching for the word she had used.

"Ascend," she offered instantly.

He raised a brow, curious if the instant response had been telepathy - or simply the rote completion of a sentence.

If she heard his silent question, however, she said nothing - which, he reminded himself, did nothing to answer his first question.

Dismissing the reverie, he continued. "For your people to ascend, they had to relieve themselves of the burden of sin - and your fulfilled that role for them. They spoke, you listened..."

"And remembered. I hold their sins so they can rise," she said quietly.

"But you didn't hear the child's sins," he reminded her. "You didn't hear Varel's ... confession. You didn't absolve her of her sins - and she couldn't rise," he said softly.

Andile protested angrily, "She was a child! She couldn't have had any sins!"

"When a child died among your people, did you hear their sins?" he asked gently.

She stared at him, furious. "She was mute! She couldn't have confessed - even if she could have understood the nature of sin!"

"And so you didn't bother? You condemned her - because she couldn't speak?" he asked.

She was fast - but Picard was faster; he grabbed her hand as the open palm flew toward his face, locking it in place in mid-air - then slowly forcing it down, feeling her muscles trembling as she fought against him - and finding himself more than a little surprised at the amount of effort it took to control her arm as he guided it down - then felt her arm suddenly relax as her rage gave in to grief.

"I didn't have time... even if she could have understood - or could have spoken. If I had, they might have realized what I was going to do..." she managed, the guilt welling up in her once again, as it had so many times before.

Picard nodded, understanding her pain all too well - but knowing - or hoping - he could do something to ease her way. "You couldn't. I understand. And even if you had had time, the child couldn't speak.

"But the ambassador can - and while she may know nothing about the child - Varel - in particular, she does know about the children of Cardassia in general. I had thought that if you were to speak with her, she might be able to put enough information together that you could place Varel's life in perspective - to hear her life, if not her sins. I didn't know if that would be enough..."

"Enough?" Andile asked, puzzled.

"Enough - so she could ascend," he explained.

Andile looked at him for a long time - then slowly leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.

Picard drew a deep breath, preparing himself for the histrionics that were to come - but there were no sobs, no gasps for air, no cries of pain and grief – or relief. Her shoulders didn't shudder, her back didn't quiver... She wasn't crying, he thought, relieved for an instant... then remembered.

Andile don't cry; tears were for humans - and andile weren't human.

I am sorry, he thought, aching for the woman more deeply than he thought he could - then gently reached out, laying his hand on her shoulder, as if to lend her his strength - as though he somehow had more than she did, he added wryly.

"I know there is little that I can do for you, Lieutenant. What you have been through will require more time and help than I can provide... but as I was thinking about what we had discussed, I realized that your role among your people was to help them find closure in their lives - and in your own. You weren't able to provide that for the child then - but perhaps now, in this little way, it might help you both. I wish there was something more I could do - for both of you," he added gently.

At long last, she looked up, drew a breath - and nodded. "Thank you," she said.

He shook his head ruefully. "Don't thank me yet. There was a price involved in getting the ambassador to speak about the Chiemma, Lieutenant; she would like you to accompany her to the reception - as her translator."

"Reception?" Andile repeated, curious.

"For the ambassadors. We receive the Romulan ambassador this evening - and in keeping with Starfleet protocol, there will be a reception in Ten Forward. Tar Zumell would like you to escort her," he repeated.

"But... doesn't she have a Universal Translator?" she asked.

"She does," Picard conceded, "but she feels it doesn't grasp the subtleties of the languages - hence her desire for a personal interpreter."

Unnecessarily, he added to himself; while Zumell's grasp of the language was far from perfect, it was a damned sight better than many others - including some who were born and raised in the Federation - had managed. Either the woman was somewhat unsure of herself - unlikely from someone who had been asked to represent an entire race, he added - or she wanted some reason to keep Andile close.

That made sense, he thought; he had asked the woman to reveal one of the deepest darkest secrets her people had - without explaining why. Of course, there would be only one reason - that Andile had been to the planet, and had met those unfortunate children - and of course, Zumell would have to be curious about the woman who had somehow found herself in that place and at that time.

What easier way of learning more about her than by keeping her close - even at the cost of her own privacy - and possible Andile's nerves, he added.

But a woman who could face down an entire planet of Cardassians was not about to be scared off by a single one - let alone by an elderly teacher, he reminded himself.

Andile, however, seemed far less confident of her abilities - and his expectations - than he was.

"But..." Terrified, a thousand additional excuses flew through her mind. "I don't have a dress uniform!" she finally protested.

He raised a brow. "Then I suggest you obtain one, Lieutenant," he said sternly. "I do not make requests of visiting dignitaries often, and never lightly - and I never renege on the obligations that result. You will be there - in full dress uniform," he said sternly.

Andile stared at him, her mind reeling with emotions - then gave a sigh. "Yes, sir."

He nodded, then turned to leave.

"Captain?" she called out to him.

He turned.

"Thank you... for Varel," she said.

Picard stepped back toward the engineer. "I didn't do this for her, Lieutenant. I did not know her. I do know you, however - and I do not like to see one of my crew suffer. Not when I can help.

"But I also know you can't accept help for yourself - not yet," he continued quietly. "So for her - and for you, when you can accept the help - you are welcome." He fell silent, hesitating for a moment, then spoke again. "And Lieutenant?"

She raised a brow at him. "Sir?"

"Afterwards, you may find yourself in need of talking with someone..."

She shook her head. "Thank you, Captain - but even though Dr. Crusher assures me the Counselor's security rating is sufficient, I ..."

"I wasn't suggesting you speak with Counselor Troi," he interrupted.

She gave him a puzzled glance. "I don't understand."

He hesitated, uncomfortable with what he was about to suggest. "I meant... you could speak with me," he replied awkwardly.

She stared at him. "You?! But you hate talking about personal matters!" she blurted out - then immediately reddened as his expression turned black with badly suppressed anger.

"How the devil did you know that?" he began - then stopped in mid-seethe and studied her, curiosity replacing fury.

"Was that telepathy?" he asked. "Or body language? Or is my reputation that widely known?" he added, realizing the latter stood as good a chance of being the cause as the former ones.

Andile blushed. "A little of all - but mostly body language," she admitted.

"But a little telepathy?" he pressed.

She nodded. "Passive, though; I wasn't looking; you were projecting."

"Indeed?" he replied, surprised. "I thought I concealed my thoughts well."

"You did - you do; your shields are pretty good," she agreed.

Picard raised a brow at the remark, then let it slide. "But you're better?"

She smiled. "I... was a pretty strong 'path, sir - once," she admitted. "It's been a while, though."

He considered for a moment. "How strong?" he asked, curious once again.

Andile hesitated. "Strong enough to keep anyone from every realizing that I was one," she reminded him.

He stared at her for a moment, then gave a small nod, conceding the point. "But given your dedication to the Federation – and knowing how valuable your skills were, why didn't you ever let anyone know?" he asked. "Why hide them? This isn't your world – your skills would have been appreciated here..."

"Appreciated – if I used them as Starfleet would have wanted me to use them. But Starfleet tends to make assumptions about telepaths - that we should be counselors, diplomats, first contact specialists," she reminded him. "I'm not one of those kinds of people sir; I like my engines and my ships - but I don't think Starfleet would have appreciated a telepathic engineer. Not if they thought I would be more valuable elsewhere," she added.

"So you hid your abilities from Starfleet?" he pressed.

"No exactly," she admitted. "I knew what I'd be facing if I let them know what I was - but if I scored too low, they might suspect I was fudging the test. So I made sure I scored exactly at the statistical norm," she agreed, giving him a knowing smile.

"So you wouldn't be moved away from engineering," he replied, understanding.

"And... there were other reasons," she admitted.

He studied her, waiting.

Andile sighed, knowing she was going to have to confess this, her last - and greatest - shame. "It's hard," she conceded. "Not to pick up what people are thinking - that's easy, especially when they project their feelings and thoughts - but it's hard to project thoughts - at least, it's hard, these days. When I used to do it a lot, it was easier... but the less I did it, the harder it got," she admitted. "These days, I'm limited to hearing what others project, rather than sharing my own thoughts. Even then, it's rough to actively search out someone else. And besides," she added a little anxiously, as if she knew what he was about to ask, "it's rude to go sneaking through my shipmates' minds."

He considered the remark, then nodded. "I'm glad to hear you say so, Lieutenant. I've always wondered what stops a telepath from finding out what others think," he admitted.

She smiled back. "If you must know - it's not usually morals or ethics. Rather, it's... well, boredom," she conceded. "It's like reading pornography; after a while, it's all pretty much the same. There's nothing out there that someone else hasn't already thought of," she added.

Picard reddened, then harrumphed, cleared his throat and nodded. "Yes... well... umm... The ambassador will be expecting you at oh ten hundred hours - and I'll be expecting you at the reception at eighteen hundred hours," he added gruffly, then turned on his heel and left the small room.

She was still staring after him, half-smiling at his discomfiture, half-stunned by his offer, when Data re-entered the room. "Geordi is waiting for us," the android said - then realized she wasn't paying attention to him. "Ginger?"

She turned to him, dazed, then shook herself back into the present. "Pardon?"

"Geordi. He is waiting for us in main Engineering," Data repeated.

"Yes... Of course," she said distractedly - then drew herself together and turned to face him. "Do you think he can wait a few more minutes? I... have to get some new clothes," she said with a smile.


	83. Chapter 83

**Chapter 83**

Andile stood before the door, waiting, uncertain - then raised her hand and knocked at the door.

For a moment, nothing happened - then the doors slid open, and an elderly Cardassian stood before her.

For several minutes, the two stared at one another - then, with infinite slowness and patience, Tar Zumell reached out, her hand open.

Andile closed her eyes, feeling every ounce of courage she had flee, feeling her stomach know once more in an ever increasing constriction - then, even more slowly than Zumell had done, reached out to take the proffered hand.

Zumell smiled at the cool touch, then tightened her hand, ever so slightly, and smiled.

"Come, little one. We have much to discuss," she said, then drew Andile into the room.

From the other end of the corridor, from behind the grillwork that hid the entrance to the Jeffries tube, Picard watched the women enter the room - then he turned, and made his way to the bridge.


	84. Chapter 84

**Chapter 84**

"The Klingons all over again?" Riker said lightly as the captain made his way out of his ready room, taking his seat at the center of the room and reviewing the readouts for himself. They were, as Will had informed him, at the correct rendezvous coordinates - and at the right time - but there was no sign of the Romulan ship that was supposed to meet them.

However, he thought to himself, he didn't think it was an issue of two Klingons trying to outwit their confederates.

"More likely pure Romulan suspicion," Picard said aloud.

Will nodded, agreeing. "Probably sitting right in front of us, waiting," he concurred.

"Waiting for what?" Ensign DeVries asked, turning from her position at the helm to look at the two men.

"For... another ship, for us to raise our shields - for any sign that we're not what we're supposed to be - or what they expect us to be," Will informed her.

"But... I thought they needed this treaty as badly as we do," the young woman protested.

"They do," Data volunteered from where he stood at the Science console, flanked by Geordi and Andile. "The Dominion War has had a deleterious effect on the economy, not unlike the effect of World War III on Earth, or the effect of the destruction of the Klingon moon, Praxus. Their isolationism and continued insistence on expanding their territories without having adequate infrastructure in place to support such an expansion has left them both militarily and financially vulnerable. If they are to continue as a viable society, they must re-organize themselves and their position with the other races in this vicinity - and the first step to do so would be to come to terms with the Federation and the Cardassians through this meeting," he said.

Will smiled to himself; Data made it sound so simple - but negotiating anything with Cardassians and Romulans was never a simple matter.

As DeVries seemed to know. "Then why don't they show themselves?" she pressed.

"Because need has never been as important as form to the Romulans," Picard informed her. "They'll continue to remain cloaked until they're comfortable with the situation - and if that means we're late to the meeting, so be it."

"We could always leave," Will suggested, only half joking.

"Don't tempt me, Number One," Picard muttered, then raised his voice slightly. "Unfortunately, the Romulans have an advantage over us. If we opt to leave the area, then they can claim they were left out of the meeting - and question our sincerity in attempting to resolve our problems. The last thing the Federation needs at this time is to have any doubts brought up about whether we made a sincere effort to resolve out problems that caused the break-up of the Council. No, we'll wait here - for as long as we have to," he sighed.

For a long moment, there was an unhappy silence on the bridge, then Ensign DeVries gave a disgusted sigh and turned back to her console.

Picard studied the screen for a moment longer - then was almost startled out of his skin by a soft voice at his side.

"Actually, we don't have to, sir," Andile said quietly, having made her way from the Science station to his side unnoticed. "Wait, that is," she added.

"As I said, Lieutenant," he repeated, surprised that she hadn't been paying attention earlier, "We don't have the luxury of leaving..."

"I wasn't suggesting we leave, sir," she said softly.

He gave Andile a curious - and interested - look. "Indeed?"

She smiled. "If we were to move the ship right up to where they are waiting, then hail them, they might reconsider their silence,"

"That might work," Will conceded, "providing, of course, that we knew precisely where they were,"

"I know where they are," Andile said. "Or rather, I can tell you where they are - if they're here," she added.

Will raised a brow in astonishment. "How?

"Scan the lower bandwidths of the EM range for intermittent, irregular tachyon emissions," she suggested.

"I've got them!" DeVries gasped a moment later, astounded by her own success.

"Tachyon emissions can be produced by any number of naturally occurring events," Worf grumbled.

"Which this is," Andile agreed. "As you know, the Romulans use singularities to power their engines - and they are naturally occurring - which makes their presence in the bandwidth expected and explainable - and hence nothing for a starship to consider," she said.

"Then how do we know it is a Romulan ship - and not a singularity?" Worf asked suspiciously.

"You don't - except that a real singularity has an event horizon, either pulling matter in - and emitting X-rays in return - or moving toward other masses - meaning the center of the tachyon emissions changes. Has either happened?" she asked DeVries.

The young woman's ran her hands over the console - then shook her head. "The emissions are continuing in the same location - and without any X-rays being produced," she announced - then turned back to Picard expectantly.

"Come to a heading of..." He looked at the armrest, "oh seven three point four, mark seven four. Full stop when you reach a point one thousand meters..." he began, then stopped and looked down.

Andile's hand was on his arm.

He looked at her.

"It's a different ship configuration than the old D'dredar class," she said, so softly that only he could hear her. "The engine room - and hence the singularity - is approximately three hundred meters behind and fifty meters below the main bridge. Adjust for that - and you'll be staring them in the face," she advised him.

He stared at her surprised - then the astonishment faded to anger - and suspicion.

How did you know this?

She stared at him, stunned by the question, the anger and the doubt - and by the fact that the question was unspoken. For a moment, she gaped at him, then, as Picard watched, the engineer slowly closed her eyes, the lines on her face deepening as she concentrated.

He wasn't sure what he had expected: perhaps nothing, he admitted, wondering - even suspecting - that her avowals of telepathy were an exaggeration - if not an outright lie - or perhaps a swell of emotion, such as Deanna had produced on occasion - or even a series of thoughts, formed into coherent sentences and patterns, much as Deanna's mother would have produced.

He might have even expected this: the image of a Romulan male seated before him, his face deeply lined with worry, his hair prematurely grey as he sat... before him, Picard realized, astounded at the realization.

He was there, with this man... this engineer, he realized instantly, smelling the rancid smoke in the over-crowded bar, tasting the watered-down drink in his hand - and understanding... no, _knowing_ the man's fears, his worries, his concerns...

The budgets were too tight this year; there wasn't enough funding to produce the larger stable singularities they had made in the past - and they were reduced to using natural ones - with all their flaws and problems. The singularities were too small, too unstable... the ships had to be made smaller to compensate... but even so, they produced erratic power variations, sending tachyon bursts into the surrounding area... they wouldn't hurt the crews - but if someone knew what to look for, their presence would be as evident as if they had never been cloaked... but they couldn't tell the high command. Failure - of any kind and for any reason - was unacceptable... and he had a family to protect, to fend for... children, a wife... He reached for the bottle before him...

... and the image - and the sensations - faded.

As did the woman standing before Picard.

What few traces of color she had had moments before had been washed away; paling rapidly, her eyes rolling up in her head, she began to slump forward.

Picard jumped forward, grabbing her under the arms to keep her from hitting the deck as he called out, "Data!"

Somewhere, somehow, Andile heard that call; she knew the name, she knew it meant something more to her than just another being... but try as she might, she couldn't remember... anything. Anything, that is, except what it was like to feel sick, dizzy, weary beyond belief... and a dull sense of pressure under her arms.

Then the pressure faded... someone was picking her up, carrying her, then setting her down someplace soft, quiet voices speaking worriedly, but incomprehensibly, in the background... and then feeling something cold and damp being place across her forehead.

She gasped, the fibers of the cloth biting into her skin, stabbing at her overly-sensitive flesh, weakly raising a hand to try to remove the offending cloth... and felt her hand gently - but firmly - pushed back.

"Lie still," Picard said softly. "Dr. Ogawa's on her way."

Dr. Ogawa? It took her a moment to recognize the name, then, "No!. I..." she began, trying to push herself up as she opened her eyes - then shut them as she fell back.

The room was swirling about her, dancing madly - and taking her stomach with it. She groaned miserably, then felt the damp cloth being removed.

She gave a soft cry, trying to protest. It stung - but it was cool and damp - and she was burning up, her mouth suddenly bone dry, her skin aflame. Weakly, she reached out for the cloth, wondering where it had gone, what had happened to it - then felt someone take her hand, pressing it back to her chest - then felt the bed - couch? she wondered, still somewhat befuddled about her whereabouts - shift slightly as someone sat down beside her.

"I'm sorry," Picard said, placing a fresh compress against her head.

"Sorry?" she managed.

"You told me that projecting your thoughts was difficult for you - but I didn't imagine it would do this," he explained.

She nodded - then decided not to repeat the movement as a new wave of nausea came over her.

"I'm really sorry," he repeated, watching her ashen face turn grey.

" 'S'all right," she managed, then swallowed hard as she forced her stomach past the nausea, pushed herself up on one elbow - then fell back with a groan.

"Lieutenant?" he said worriedly.

She shook her head. Gods, first I pass out on the bridge - now I'm lying on the couch in the captain's ready room, she thought in abject humiliation.

"Lieutenant?" Picard repeated. "Are you all right?"

Andile shook her head. "It's nothing... It's just..."

"You're embarrassed?" he answered, a small smile crossing his lips.

She stared at him, astounded - then gave a short nod.

He nodded back. "Don't be. You're not the first crewman who's ended up in here - and you won't be the last. But I try not to offer my ready room couch as a way station on the journey to Sickbay too often," he added.

"I'll try to watch myself," she replied - then looked up at him. "Sir? Why did you 'path the message?" she asked. "You could have just asked me. It would have been easier - certainly faster."

"It wasn't deliberate," he said.

"No?" she replied. "It felt deliberate. It felt... angry, suspicious... testing," she said.

He considered for a moment - then nodded. "Perhaps it was, Lieutenant - but it was not my intention to have this happen," he added. "But you knew something about the Romulan ships - something you shouldn't have known - and I needed to understand."

"You could have just asked," she repeated.

He smiled. "Could I? You were whispering - for a reason."

"My penchant for melodrama," she said, feeling the room lessen in its movements. Feeling the nausea fading as well, she started to sit up - only to feel a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down again.

"I'm all right, Captain," she said quietly, reaching up to remove the damp cloth from her forehead, only to feel him still her hand once again.

"We'll let Dr. Ogawa decide that," he said firmly - but he did remove the cloth from her forehead.

Andile nodded wearily, feeling the weight of all her years dropping on her shoulders, then met his gaze. "I whispered - because didn't want to embarrass you," she finally replied. "Not on your ship; not on your bridge."

"Not necessary, Lieutenant," he said, more sternly than he had intended. "When a member of my crew has information I should know, they needn't worry about bruising my ego. Not when the good of the ship or the crew are at stake.

"Yes, sir," she replied softly.

Instantly repentant at his harsh tone, he smiled as placatingly at her as he could, hoping she couldn't see his own embarrassment - or his discomfort. "So," he continued, deftly changing the topic, "how did you know about the Romulan ships?" he asked.

"I showed you, Captain; I did what andile are supposed to do. I listened," she replied.

"I gathered as much; your images were... astounding - but who was that?" he asked.

"A... friend. An engineer at the Romulan equivalent of Utopia Planitia. He was bitching... complaining," she corrected herself, "about cutbacks in the financial support of the military since the end of the war - and about the fact that the cutbacks have caused them immense problems with their ships. They can't obtain the stable singularities they could manufacture before - so they've had to resort to smaller, less stable ones," she explained.

"The irregular tachyon emissions," Picard murmured, the images and feelings beginning to make sense now.

Andile nodded - slowly. "The irregularities have meant they've had to build smaller ships as well because they can't get a power supply regular enough for the old cruisers they used to make. But the smaller the ship, the less powerful it is - and the weaker the engine shielding - meaning the fluctuations are easier to detect."

"Smaller ships," Picard murmured. "That explains the three hundred meters," he said, understanding. "But the vertical ascension?" he added, curious.

She smiled. "Just for effect, sir. I thought it might be more effective if we went nose-to-nose with them - especially when they're cloaked."

He nodded, appreciating the impact it would have on the Romulan vessel. "And the engineer volunteered all this information to you," he said skeptically.

"In a manner of speaking, sir," she replied. "We're both engineers, sir; engineers believe we are all related - and that we have a tie to one another as deep as the ties we have to our home worlds. We share information."

He nodded - but not approvingly. "I see."

"And I fed him a bottle of Scotch," she added after a moment's pause.

That earned a smile. "Just see to it that you don't offer that much information when he feeds you a bottle of Scotch," Picard informed her.

"Can't. Can't drink any more," she replied with a disappointed sigh. "Can't do much of anything these days," she added. "I used to be able to drink any human - and most Klingons - under the table. These days, one sip - and I pay for it," she sighed - then looked up at him, a twinkle of merriment in her eyes. "It's hell getting old, Captain."

"It's better than the alternative," he opined with a smile - only to see hers fade.

"No, it isn't," she said softly, emptily, then looked up at him. "After a time, it isn't," she repeated. "I... I was waiting - aching - for death, Captain," she said wearily.

Was? he asked her silently. "And now?" he said aloud.

But she didn't answer; rather, for a long time she said nothing, thinking - then slid her hands beneath her hips and pushed herself upright before Picard could stop her. Meeting his gaze, she explained, "Grant an old lady a little dignity, sir; let Dr. Ogawa see me sitting up," she said softly.

"Only if you promise not to pass out again," he said sternly.

"I didn't pass out," she argued. "I just got... light-headed."

"Then promise you won't get light-headed again," he replied.

"Only if you promise not to 'path me again," she countered. "At least, not until I'm ready," she added.

"I won't," Picard answered. "And I assure you, it wasn't intentional."

"It usually isn't - but strong thoughts, especially in close proximity..."

His eyes lit up. "Then proximity _does_ affect telepathy!" he exclaimed. "I've always wondered..."

"It does - and it doesn't," she replied. "If you're 'pathing someone you've never met, then you need to be in contact; physical contact is best, but line of sight certainly. That's why andile had to go to the homes of the dying - we couldn't hear them in the cities when we were in the deserts. But once you've touched someone, it gets easier to find them again. The connection, once made, is never really broken - you just have to focus on it. That's why Counselor Troi can hear you when you're on an away mission..."

He gave her a troubled look. "How do you know she can?" he asked.

To his astonishment, she suddenly blushed, the flush of color lighting her face. "Err... Umm... Well, to be honest, sir... I checked your personnel file. There were several incidences when the record showed that the Counselor heard your emotions when away missions went bad..." she started to explain - but Picard wasn't listening.

"_You_ checked _my_ personnel file?" he repeated, dumb-founded.

Andile's red face blazed crimson. "When I was building this ship," she admitted. "The rumor was it was going to go to you - and I wanted to make sure you deserved her," she said.

His eyes widened in complete astonishment. "You wanted to make sure _I_ deserved..." He stopped, then raised a brow. "The last time I checked, Lieutenant, that decision was up to the Admiralty - not to the engineer."

"Yes, sir - but the final sign-off on the ship is mine - and if I didn't want you to get her... well, she'd still be in dock," she replied.

He studied her for a moment, uncertain if she was pulling his leg or not - but there was no sign of levity in her face, only complete earnestness.

Finally, he managed, "Well, I'm glad I measured up to your standards."

"As am I, sir. She's a good ship - my finest achievement. She deserved to have the best," she said sincerely.

He raised a brow again, then smiled, still not sure if he believed her - but knowing her praise was not intended to flatter him.

Strangely gratified, he nodded, then changed the topic. "So telepathy is related to distance - and familiarity," he murmured.

"Yes, sir," Andile agreed. "Having heard you, I'd have an easier time finding you than anyone else on the ship," she said.

"Fascinating," Picard replied.

"But I'd appreciate it if you didn't try - at least, not for a while. I was starting to get used to not feeling sick," she added with a weak smile.

He opened his mouth to apologize again, but before he could speak their conversation was interrupted by the chiming of the door.

"Come," Picard said, his eyes locked on the diminutive engineer - then turned as the doors _whushed_ open.

Alyssa Ogawa entered, immediately followed by Data, and they both hurried, worriedly, to Andile's side.

"How is she, Doctor?" Picard asked as Alyssa brought out her scanner and began to study the readout.

"Vitals are stabilizing, pressure is low - but acceptable..." She studied them again, then looked at the captain. "Considering her condition, sir, she's in good shape - but I'd like her to come back to Sickbay. Passing out like that..."

"I didn't pass out," she protested.

"But I thought..." Alyssa said, confused.

"The Lieutenant collapsed while on the bridge," Data interjected.

"I didn't collapse," Andile protested indignantly..

"She just got a little light-headed," Picard concurred.

Alyssa looked from engineer to captain to her tri-corder, then nodded. "Even getting light-headed could be a sign your chemistry is changing - either for the good or the bad. Any muscle pain? Aches? Fatigue?" she pressed the engineer.

"No. I'm fine - really!" Andile insisted. "I just overdid it a little..."

She had, Picard realized, instantly contrite. There had been no real necessity for her to meet with the Cardassian today; he could have put it off for a few days...

But a few days from now, the ambassadors would be at the conference, their focus on the negotiations - and even today, Tar Zumell should have been focusing on her people's needs, rather than on those of his crewman, he reminded himself.

Still, he added, looking at the too-pale engineer, exhausting as it may have been, it was the first step in what was, he feared, going to be a long, long road to recovery.

But it was the first step, he reminded himself.

"Even so, Biji, getting light-headed may be a sign that the toxins are beginning to build again. I want to run some labs, maybe do another session of apheresis and dialysis..."

"But I have to attend the reception!" Andile protested.

Startled, Alyssa looked to Picard, who nodded. "The Cardassian ambassador has requested the Lieutenant serve as translator tonight... with your consent," he added.

"Then I'll definitely want to run those labs before I consider permitting it," Alyssa said firmly. "Data," she said turning to the android, "would you carry the lieutenant..."

"No! Please!" Andile exclaimed desperately - then drew a breath. "I'll go with you, Alyssa," she said, "but I'll be damned if I'll let anyone - even Data - _carry_ me off the bridge! Not while I can walk! Please!" she begged Picard.

It would be humiliating, Picard conceded - but no more so than watching her collapse on his bridge once again.

He glanced at Alyssa, who looked at the scanner in her hand. "Her vitals are low - but they're stable. Nonetheless..."

"I won't pass out," she insisted.

"And we won't let her collapse," Picard added, then looked at Data and nodded.

Placing one hand under Andile's elbow, he waited for Data to do the same on the other side, then, as one, they helped the protesting woman to her feet, then slowly guided her to the door.

"Please..." she protested, only to be countermanded by Picard's terse, "You'll let us walk you to the lift this way - or I'll have Data carry you, Lieutenant," he announced. "The choice is yours."

She opened her mouth to argue, then gave it up with a sigh. "Where's a personal transporter when you need one?" she asked herself - then drew herself to her full height and looked from one man to the other. "I'm going to Sickbay, gentlemen," she announced with every iota of dignity she could muster. "If the two of you would care to accompany me..."

The two loosed their grips slightly but kept themselves at the ready, discreetly keeping themselves in position to catch her if she began to fall, then stepped toward the doors, Alyssa following a few steps behind.

Ignoring the stares of the other bridge crew, they slowly made their way to the lift, then Picard surreptitiously released Andile's arm and stepped back, watching as the three entered it and the doors shut.

Turning, he looked back at his crew, who were watching in rapt fascination - and cleared his throat noisily.

The spell broken, they turned back to their jobs.

"Three hundred meters, Captain?" Will asked.

"And fifty meters vertically," he reminded them.

Ensign DeVries plotted the path, then announced, "The course is laid in, sir."

"Let's take her in - on thrusters," he added. "Continuous sensor sweeps - just in case she moves..." He thought for a moment, then turned to his Chief Engineer, "Geordi, will the Romulans detect anything unusual in our sweeps?" he added.

"Not if we start running full spectrum sweeps, sir," Geordi replied. "Trying to hide the frequency we found them on?"

"It's possible they're not aware of the leaks," the captain replied, remembering the Romulan engineer's concerns. "If they don't know how we found them, then let's keep that secret for ourselves," Picard agreed.

"It'll drive them crazy trying to figure out how we knew where they were," Will offered with a grin.

"We're at the designated coordinates, sir," DeVries announced.

"If it works," Picard added, then signaled, "All stop. Hail the Romulans, Mr. Worf. Let them know we know they're here."

Worf's fingers danced on the console, but for several seconds he said nothing. Then...

"Romulan ship decloaking - dead ahead!" he added in amazement.

But probably not as amazed as the Romulans, Will thought; glancing at DeVries console, he realized they were parked less than one hundred meters off the smaller vessel - and directly in line with the bridge viewscreen. He grinned widely, wishing he could see the faces of the startled Romulans - and wishing that Andile could be present to see the result of her handiwork.

Even Worf would have to begin to believe in her, he thought to himself - then shook his head. No; it would simply vindicate the Klingon's belief that she was conspiring with someone - probably the Romulans.

"I'm receiving a hail from the Romulan ship, Captain... They apologize for their delayed appearance... Apparently their cloaking device is malfunctioning," he added.

Picard nodded; it was a lie, and everyone knew it - but to apologize? He wondered to himself.

"Saving face," he said aloud.

"Not typical Romulan behavior," Will agreed.

"Which would indicate they need this meeting as badly as the rest of us do," Picard concurred. "I hope that's a good sign," he added, glancing at Will.

Riker nodded, then rose from his chair. "Then I suppose we shouldn't keep our guests waiting, sir," he agreed.

"Mr. Worf, give the coordinates for transporter room three to the Romulans; Cmdr. Riker and I will meet the ambassador there."

"My Security team will be waiting," Worf growled in agreement.

Picard nodded, then looked across the bridge, drew a deep breath - and gave a sigh.

And so it begins, he thought.


	85. Chapter 85

**Chapter 85**

"Are you certain?" Data asked as he and Andile stood before the closed door to Zumell's quarters, the worry etching a line on his previous uncreased face.

The two stood alone in the deserted corridor, Data having dismissed the Security officer, his presence unnecessary for the balance of the evening - and leaving the two without a witness as the spoke together quietly.

"Dearest, it's one thing that you don't trust me," she said in complete seriousness. "After all, even though we are lovers, we have only known each other a few months - and so I understand the fact that you can't have complete faith in me. But," she added, "you have known Alyssa Ogawa for years - and for you not to trust her - or her medical opinion - after all this time - well what does that say about your faith in your fellow crewmates?"

Data opened his mouth to protest and explain - then saw the glint of humor in her eyes. She was, he realized, teasing him.

Nonetheless...

"You have prevaricated in the past," he reminded her.

"I've may have stretched the truth," and I may have omitted a few - all right, quite a few - details about my life, she thought silently, "but I've never outright lied to you," she said. "And you heard Alyssa. She said my labs were fine... all right, she said that they were acceptable," she admitted. "But she did say I could go to the reception..."

"Providing you did not tax yourself, and that you consumed a sufficient quantity of nutrients and adequate fluids and retired as soon as you felt any fatigue..."

"And you saw that I had a bowl of soup and a glass of water - and if I get tired, well, I'll have you right there to see I get home to bed, safe and sound," she said, reaching up to pat his face gently - and a bit condescendingly.

The android, however, was not placated. "One bowl of soup is not sufficient nutrition for one day," he reminded her.

"Dearest, I haven't eaten much of anything for months - and one bowl of soup is all I can handle," she countered. "But I'll try to get something at the reception, if I can - and if I can't, I'll grab something when I get back home," she said.

He studied her, giving her a skeptical look. "You must promise me that you will do so, Ginger; I will be on duty on the bridge after twenty-one hundred hours and therefore will not be able to verify your compliance."

"You could rig the computer to inform you what I order," she suggested.

He gave her a disappointed look. "I would rather that you tell me you will do so without my forcing your cooperation. I would rather trust you to keep your promise, Ginger, than ensure your conformity through coercion."

She stared into his golden eyes, her own aching with the moistness that was building in them, then reached up and caressed his face once again. "Oh, my dearest... I can't promise I will eat," she admitted. "The thought of eating is still so nauseating... but I'll try."

Data considered, studying her face - then nodded, then raised his hand to caress the angle of her jaw in return, tenderly stroking the delicate skin that stretched across the bones - and feeling her shiver in delight as his touch. "That," he said, "will be acceptable."

He leaned forward to kiss her - then suddenly pulled back as the door began to open.

"Ambassador Zumell!" Andile gasped - and received a tolerant - and understanding smile in return.

"Child," she replied, then turned to Data, surprised by the presence of a second person. "And you are...?"

"Ambassador... Tar," Andile corrected herself, "may I introduce Lieutenant Commander Data, the ship's second officer. Commander Data, this is Tar Zumell, the Cardassian representative to the conference."

Data nodded politely. "Good evening, Ambassador. The captain has requested that I escort you to the reception..."

Zumell gave him a puzzled look, then glanced at Andile. "But I thought the little one..."

"I'm only a lieutenant, Tar - and only here as your translator," Andile explained. "Ambassadors get senior officers to escort them to official functions," she added.

"Then I am honored," Zumell said, giving a half bow to the android. "But I am also not quite prepared," she added. "I was hoping the little one... Andile... might assist me," she added. "The clasp on my robe," she explained.

She stepped back, allowing the two to enter, then gesturing for Andile to follow her into the bedroom alcove.

Andile turned to flash Data a warning look - then realized she needn't have bothered. He was, she thought with a smile, a gentleman, through and through; a gentleman didn't attempt to help a lady dress - unless asked to.

Although he was damned good at helping get one undressed, she thought with an excited shiver - and a pang of regret at the thought that he would be on duty after the reception.

But there was always the morning, she added with a soft smile.

"Child?" Zumell called softly, breaking Andile free of her pleasant reverie.

"Yes, ma'am," Andile replied, following Zumell to the dressing table.

"My apologies, little one," the older woman replied as she took a seat before the vanity mirror, her robe gaping open at the back of her neck. "You are not here as my dresser. But age has affectioned..."

"Affected," Andile corrected automatically.

"Affected my bones, and I can no longer fasten the closure myself," Zumell said, raising her hand to show the engineer.

The joints were gnarled, twisted from arthritis...

_A scream filled the room, a shriek of pain as the device tightened around her fingers, the ancient bone creaking as it was torn loose from the joint - then cracking as the bones shattered._

_She screamed again, then fell forward, the pain overwhelming her, carrying her into oblivion - then jerking her back into hell as her tormentor grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, and smiling... smiling!... into her face._

_ He pulled back, forcing her to look ahead - and to see the body of one of her students before her, hanging from the wall, broken bones protruding from ruined flesh... and the chest still rising and falling slowly._

_ "The feet this time," the tormentor said, directing the torture of the hanging body. "Save the face. We don't want to lose their confessions because we broke their jaws... prematurely."_

_ He looked down into her eyes. "I can stop at any time. I can stop the pain. All you need to do is confess... and it stops. For both of you."_

_ She shook her head. "I have nothing to confess," she managed._

_ He shrugged. "We shall see. The thumb, next," he said, reaching for the device..._

Andile gasped; staggered by what she had seen - felt! - she fell to her knees before the woman, burying her head in the robe's long skirts. "Oh, Tar," she whispered, "forgive me!"

Zumell stared at her, stunned by the engineer's reaction. "Forgive you? For what, child?'

"I didn't know. I didn't know!" she cried plaintively.

"Know?"

"Tar... your hands..." Andile gasped.

Zumell stared at her hands - then realized what the woman had seen - with her eyes... and, she realized with a dawning clarity, with her mind.

She could see! Zumell thought to herself, beginning to understand the young woman's troubled state. She could see - but one so young... she could not understand.

Gently, she reached down, stroking the woman's long black hair, whispering, "There was nothing for you to know."

"But..."

But here I am, thinking I was the only one tortured at the hands of these people - and here she is, suffering - but never complaining. Stricken by her own shallowness, and self-pity, she hung her head in disgrace and misery. "I'm so sorry... so ashamed..." Andile whispered.

"Do not apologize, child," Zumell replied, equally softly, continuing her gentle strokes of Andile's tresses, coaxing her to lay her head on the thick skirts that covered her lap, trying to ease her grief as she would for any aching child, "and do not feel ashamed. We all suffer - and all in our own way. There is nothing ignoble or wrong in this - but sometimes, little one, it helps to know that we are not always alone in our pain," she said softly.

Zumell continued to stroke Andile's hair for a few minutes, thinking - and beginning to understand.

She didn't understand her gift, Zumell thought; it plagued her, worried her, brought her images and visions she did not understand... was that how she knew so much of the Chiemma? Zumell wondered. And if they had been brought into her thoughts, how many other visions must she carry in her young mind; how many other pictures, places and people must she see - and yet not be able to understand.

How that must terrify her, she thought - and yet, she held in that terror, held in her pain, trying to put the pieces of her mind together without solace or comfort - and without release, she added, waiting - hoping! - for the child to release her pain at last.

But there would be no tears, she sadly realized at last. This one didn't cry, didn't grieve... she bore her pain... alone.

That wasn't healthy, she thought... at least, not for Cardassians. Perhaps humans were different, she added... or perhaps they simply didn't know how beneficial such a release could be.

Ah, we have so much to learn from one another, she thought with a smile - and so much we can teach one another.

Feeling herself and her enthusiasm for her new responsibilities - _all_ of them, she added, with a final stroke to Andile's hair - refreshed, she reached under Andile's chin, tilting it up to stare into the dark brown eyes. "We will talk more - later, child," she said softly. "Now, the reception - and your officer - await us.

"I don't want him to worry about you," she added softly.

Andile gaped at the Cardassian, her eyes filled with surprise - then shook her head in feigned innocence. "I don't know what you mean, Tar," she replied.

"Ah. Then he was not about to kiss you when I opened the door?" Zumell said.

Andile blazed red, but said nothing.

Zumell smiled knowingly. "He is a good man?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. A fine one," Andile replied.

"I'm glad," Zumell replied. "My husband... he, too was a fine man. I miss him."

There was an emptiness in the woman's voice that struck at Andile's soul; rising, she came to stand behind the Cardassian, made the connection on the robe, then held out her hand to the woman, helping her to rise.

"Perhaps, Ma'am, you could tell me about him," she said softly.

Zumell stood and studied Andile - then nodded. "I would like that, child."

"As would I," Andile agreed.

Data stared at the two as they emerged from the bedroom, each obviously sad - and yet both smiling, Zumell holding tightly to Andile's arm - and Andile not shying away from the intimate contact.

He did not understand - but, he reminded himself, he did not need to. It was enough that she did - and, he added, that she was smiling.

Feeling a surge of unfamiliar relief, he offered his arm to the elderly Cardassian. "Ambassador?" he said.

With a reassuring pat, she dropped Andile's arm and took the android's, allowing Andile to fall back several steps as befit her role in Cardassian etiquette - and in the evening's events.

And, Zumell added as she glanced back, confirming the distance between them, assuring the two a moment of privacy.

"You...are not like the others," she said, curious, touching his arm, feeling the difference between its firmness and that of the other humans she had met - then looking up at him, studying the strange color of his skin and eyes. Humans had many variations in all these things, she reminded herself - but none like this. "Are you not human?"

"No, Ambassador. I am not human. Or any other species. I am an artificial lifeform - an android," he explained.

"Ah!" she said, understanding at last - then shook her head in amazement. "Such a strange world your Federation is - and so amazing! We do not have such beings on my world," she replied.

"There are very few of us in existence," Data agreed. "I am the only android serving in Starfleet."

"Ah," Zumell repeated - then glanced back at Andile again. "But if you are artificially made, are you... alive?"

"There has never been a determination of what life is, Ambassador. If life is defined by something that consumes and grows, then I am not, as I consume nothing nor do I grow. But if life is defined by a moment of beginning and of ending, and by development through various stages between those points, then yes, I am alive."

"But you're not a living being," she said. "You're not made of flesh."

"No, Ambassador; in that sense, I am not a living being."

Zumell pondered this thought for a time - then glanced back at the engineer following them. "Then how can you father her children?" she asked.

It was rare that any question could take the android by surprise - but judging from Data's reaction, Zumell had managed just such a feat.

"Our... relationship has not progressed to the point where that question has been raised, Ambassador," he replied after a long hesitation. "Lt. Andile has never expressed a desire to raise a family."

"But she will," Zumell assured him. "She is young - and she will want children... and she should have them," she added firmly. "A child would take her mind away from what troubles her so. It would being her great joy - and peace of mind," she decided. "Starting a new life has a way of reminding us why we are here."

Data stared at her, then shook his head. "It would not be possible for me to function in that manner, Ambassador," he said at last.

Zumell nodded understandingly. "A great sadness - though I suppose in that you are like many others. Not all couples who should have children can have them."

"It is one of the unpleasant realities of human physiology," Data concurred.

Zumell nodded, falling silent as he guided her toward the lift, glancing back at the woman behind them as he did so - and was greeted by a warm smile from the petite engineer.

A smile that turned to a worried frown when it wasn't returned.

Then again, Andile thought, it wasn't really the place for the two of them to be exchanged affectionate smiles, she reminded herself; after all, haven't I been the one to constantly remind him - to remind the both of us - that there was a time and a place for romance - and it was not while we were on duty.

And, she added with a smile, there would be time enough for smiles - and sighs and moans and cries of delight and pleasure - when he got off duty in the morning.

Content for the moment, she followed the two, smiling - and realizing, with a start, that she was happy.

Happy! She thought to herself amazed. How many years has it been since I was happy? Have I ever been happy? she wondered - at least, have I ever been happy about something that wasn't related to an engine or a ship design?

Happy? a furious voice roared in her head. How dare you be happy? How dare an andile be happy?! it screamed at her.

Fuck off and die, Andile replied to the voice, unwilling to let its venom poison her joy. She was andile... once. Now it was only her name.

But her joy was short-lived; walking into Ten Forward a few minutes later, reality came crashing down as the cold stillness of the room reminded her of the terrifying future that might await them all - if the conference could not resolve the issues that were tearing apart these races.

"A drink, Tar?" she offered as they made their way into the room, its temperature warm - but the atmosphere frigid.

"Yes, please," Zumell answered. "Something... appropriate," she added.

Meaning non-intoxicating, Andile understood. "And you, Commander?" she asked Data.

He looked at her, perplexed. "You are aware I do not consume beverages, Lieutenant," he replied.

"Yes, sir," she said aloud, then dropped her voice so low that only he could hear it. "But you might fit in more comfortably if you were to hold one, even if you don't drink it. Social cosmetics," she explained.

His eyes widened fractionally at the idea, then said, "However, I think I would like... whatever the ambassador is having," he said.

Andile smiled, gave a half bow to acknowledge the order, then hurried away.

Data watched her for a moment, then turned to Zumell and began to speak.

On the other side of the room, Andile smiled at the bartender, Kami Petreson. "Two _bash-tri_," she ordered, remembering the Cardassians general fondness for tea - and Zumell's fondness for fruit. The coarse tea steeped in fruit juice should cover both bases, she decided - and the sparkling water that was traditionally added to it should give it a festive punch.

If only someone could do as much for this bash.

Not that there was anything wrong - at least not on the surface; a few of the other officers were nibbling on the appetizers, most were sipping drinks - but aside from Data and Zumell, who were talking earnestly, no one seemed to be talking. Rather, they all stood in awkward silence, unsure, unhappy, and uncomfortable.

Of course, she added, the music wasn't helping; yes, it was appropriately neutral... but so was everything here.

Damn Starfleet, she thought silently; so afraid of offending any one race, that they offend all of us. Safe music, safe drinks, safe decorations, safe foods, she added, glancing at the buffet table... all safe.

But life wasn't safe, she reminded herself; she knew that, Zumell knew that - hell, everyone here knew it - or they wouldn't be here.

As they might well not be here - if the conference failed.

Andile smiled at the bartender as she handed over the drinks. "Thanks, Kami. You always make the best drinks. I wish you could do as much for the music," she added with a sigh.

The bartender nodded. "I know what you mean, Biji. Oh, I like chamber music," she stressed, "but in its place."

"You mean, at a funeral," Andile said knowingly.

Kami chuckled. "Well, some pieces - like this one - are a little dull... but there are a few good pieces, like Handel's Royal Fireworks..."

"Vivaldi's Four Seasons," Andile opined.

"Charvon's Te Tami," Kami returned.

Andile gave her a carefully calculated puzzled look. "I don't know it," she said innocently. "Is it in the computer files?"

"Of course."

"Why not program it next - when this one's over?" she asked.

Kami's dark green face faded slightly as she frowned at the idea. "It's not on the play list..."

"Kami," Andile countered, "look around. No one's paying attention to the music; no one's going to notice - and if they do, I'll take the blame. I'd like to hear it."

The bartender considered the idea for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure. Why not? At least I'll have something worth listening to while I'm standing here," she agreed - then frowned again. "Are you okay, Beej? You look a little pale," she said.

Andile's eyes widened fractionally at the observation - then she smiled, shaking her head. "I'm fine - just bored," she explained.

Reassured, Kami nodded, then turned to her next customer.

Andile stared hard at her for a moment, then smiled as Kami apologized, turned to the computer, touched the music program, then drew the drink for the waiting woman.

Loosing a relieved sigh, Andile picked up the drinks and returned to Zumell and Data. "Tar," she said, proffering one of the beverages. "Commander," she continued, handing Data his.

"Thank you, child," Zumell said, then studied Andile worriedly. "Child, you look unwell," she said. "Perhaps you should sit..."

Andile shook her head, smiling. "It must be the lighting in here, ma'am," she replied. "The bartender said the same thing - but I feel fine."

Data took a moment to study her as well, but before he could comment, Andile stepped close to him. "Is there something you could do about the lighting, sir? It is awfully bright," she added. "It's like an interrogation room in here - not a reception hall."

Data considered, instantly recalling the various lighting configurations that had been used at previous banquets, then nodded. "Your observation may be accurate. I will attempt to rectify the situation," he said, handing his drink back to her, then bowing toward Zumell. "If you will excuse me, Ambassador," he said.

Zumell nodded, watched Data as he left - then took Andile by the arm. "When I was your age, little one, I would have taken the opportunity to follow my young man to a secluded corner," she teased lightly.

Andile reddened appropriately, then shook her head. "He is a Starfleet Commander, ma'am - and I'm a lieutenant. We both have our obligations to our duty to consider first."

Zumell smiled. "You are too young to place duty ahead of fun, child - but I admire your dedication. I shall attempt to be as dedicated. Is that not the Federation ambassador?" she asked, gesturing across the room.

"I believe so, ma'am - though I haven't met him yet. May I introduce you?" she added.

Zumell nodded, slid her arm into Andile's, then let the engineer escort her toward the tall human, who was holding court before a number of young - and exclusively female - ensigns.

I don't have to be a telepath to know what he's thinking about, she thought, then added, for now.

Guiding Zumell through the crowd of giggling ensigns, she stopped before Tillerman, gave a half bow, then said, "Ambassador Tillerman? May I present the Cardassian ambassador, Tar Zumell? Tar Zumell, this is the Federation's representative to the peace conference, Mr. Jay Tillerman," she announced, then bowed again and stepped back through the crowd, losing herself in the gathering.

You're on your own, Tar, she apologized. I have work to do.


	86. Chapter 86

**Chapter 86**

"You didn't!" Beverly growled. "Without checking with me first?"

"As a general rule, Doctor," he replied as he attempted to fix his collar, "I don't check with the ship's CMO before issuing orders about the crew's assignments." His fingers slipped, causing the fastener to miss - as it usually did.

Despite her anger, Beverly stepped between the man and mirror, and took the stubborn collar in hand.

It wasn't a difficult fastener to connect, nor was the collar too small or his neck too large as they had once teased one another. Rather is had simply become a game between the two of them - a game that allowed them to be close to one another, to touch each other in a semblance of domestic intimacy - without having to admit to the thought that neither wished it were a game.

But that was a truth that neither was ready to fully accept, and even less ready to admit to themselves or the other - and so the game continued.

She slid the two sides of the connector together easily - then gently patted the collar into place, her fingers lingering on his shoulders a moment longer than was necessary - then stepped back, giving the uniform - and the man - and approving nod.

But not, she added a second later, approving what he had done.

"Crew assignments - no. But Biji is my patient as well as your crewmember - and in her condition..."

"According to Dr. Ogawa, her condition at her second check-up this afternoon was within the standards you established," he interrupted, confirming Beverly's appraisal of his appearance in the mirror - then turning to look at her. "She approved the lieutenant's presence at the reception - providing she didn't tax herself. And," he added before she could ask, "I have Data with her to make sure she does just that," he assured her.

"But assigning her to work with the Cardassian ambassador?!" she protested. "Jean-Luc, what they did to her..."

"Was not the fault of the ambassador," he replied, then looked at the physician. "But Tar Zumell is willing to take the responsibility for what her people did. More importantly, she is trying to help make amends for that - by helping the lieutenant deal with what happened to her - despite a cultural taboo on the subject. I admit it's only a small step - but sometimes, the small steps are the hardest - especially when you have to look them in the face," he said gently.

"It's hard for Andile as well," Beverly reminded him.

"As I am aware," he replied, then reached for her hand. "I would not have forced her to do this, Beverly. Not if it was going to cause her more pain. But she was willing to try to put some closure on the events of two years ago, despite the discomfort it's going to cause her - and as long as she's willing, I'm going to try and help her work through this."

Beverly opened her mouth to object - then closed it again. Finally, she managed, "Still, she is my patient; you should have asked me..."

"You were asleep," he reminded her gently, glancing at the still rumpled couch where she had spent the day, waking only at his return.

Beverly reddened slightly at the memory; waking to find him smiling down at her, one of her dress uniforms folded over one arm - and the offer to use his shower to prepare for the reception on his lips.

She had accepted both, even though time hadn't been pressing - though exactly why, she wasn't entirely certain.

No, she reminded herself, she knew why she had accepted; she wanted to be with him - to share this moment of intimacy with him, to play at being together - even though they weren't. It was cheap, she thought miserably - cheap and easy - and beneath them both.

And they were both willing to settle for that, she added.

"You're right, of course," she sighed. "I'm just... worried about her," she admitted. "Yesterday, she was dying, today, she's off to a reception..."

"As a translator, only," he reminded her. "It's considered light-duty, Doctor - and since the ship's CMO will be in attendance," he added with a smile, "I thought she could safely take the risk. If you think she's over-doing it..."

"I can send her back to Sickbay - and don't think I won't," she cautioned him firmly.

"I have no doubts," he smiled back, then turned from his place before the bedroom mirror, guiding the doctor back into the main room, and gestured toward the decanter that stood on the coffee table, questioning her with his eyes.

"Lovely," she agreed, then looked at him curiously. "I take it that I slept through the Romulan ambassador's arrival?"

"And his assistant's," Picard added.

"Assistant?" she repeated, confused. "I thought it that the delegates were to come to the conference alone!"

"According to Romulan custom, Tiron - that's the ambassador's name - is alone," Picard replied. "His... companion - I'm told the correct term is disciple," he added, "is not considered to be present. He's cloaked, head to toe, not permitted to reveal himself - and forbidden from involving himself in any activities that the ambassador engages in. We're supposed to ignore him, to behave as if he's not here -"

"Then why...?" Beverly started.

"Ambassador Tiron wasn't exactly forthcoming, but from what we were able to pull out of the Romulan database, this is the traditional manner of training political assistants - one year serving as a silent witness, learning and observing. I gather it's so common - and so traditional - that no one on Romulus seemed to even give the matter a second thought about him accompanying the ambassador," he explained.

"Be that as it may," he continued as he filled the two small glasses with the liqueur, "I doubt any of the others will permit him to observe the negotiations themselves; there's tradition - and then there is reality. And the reality is that this conference is more important than one tradition... at least," he added worriedly, "it is to us."

"A good point, Jean-Luc," she agreed as she sipped the sweet liqueur. "In view of Ambassador... Tiron?" she asked.

He nodded.

"In view of Ambassador Tiron bringing an assistant with him, perhaps, the Romulans aren't sincere about the conference as a whole. After all, if they were, why didn't they de-cloak as soon as we arrived?" she asked.

He shook his head, not knowing the answer. "As Deanna would remind us, Bev, how can we really understand why any race does as it does? We weren't brought up in that culture - at best, we can only understand their point of view - from our point of view. Maybe being too willing, even in the face of necessity, is a sign of weakness," he supposed. "Maybe they had just arrived moment before we did," he added. "Maybe... maybe they aren't any more certain about the future than we are," he added.

"The Federation's future?" she asked, setting down her empty glass. "Or ours?" she added, stepping close to him.

He stared into her blue eyes. "Ours?" he asked softly.

"You haven't called me 'Bev' in a long time," she reminded him.

"And?"

"I forgot how much I like it," she told him. "From you," she added softly.

He studied her face, taking in every beautiful line - and sighed. "You pick the damnedest times to start these talks," he said softly. "We have to leave for the reception in two minutes."

"Which is probably why I started this," she admitted.

He raised a brow.

"It's safer. We can play the game without any chance of having to actually go through with what we're saying - or thinking. It's safer because we know nothing can come of it... and that's what we both want," she said quietly.

"Do we?"

"Yes," she said, raising her hand to tenderly caress the sharp angle of his jaw - and watching his eyes close at the delicate thrill it sent through him. "I think, Jean-Luc, that you fell in love with Anij - because you knew, deep inside, that you would never be happy with the restrictions a life with her would require. You would never be truly happy there - and so you knew you could safely fall in love with her - because, in the end, it wouldn't work."

"I planned this - so I could fail?" he asked.

"No," she said quietly, "you didn't plan it - but you let it happen, knowing that, in the end, it wouldn't work: because of what you do, because of how you were raised - but it wouldn't fail for the reason you fear the most: that you weren't worthy of being loved."

"Bev..." he began to protest softly.

"I'm no different," she said, cutting him off before he could make his protestations. "I start these conversations when I do - so that we'll never be able to carry them through. I'm scared - because we both might say things...

"That we didn't mean?" he asked softly.

"No. Because we might say what we do mean - and that scares me," she said sadly. "So we play our games with other people and with each other - because it's safe, and we can pretend we have a real life - without any of the risks."

He studied her for a minute, then drew her hand away from his face - and kissed her palm. "You weren't always willing to play it safe, Bev. You married Jack," he said.

She looked at her palm, still feeling the touch of his lips on her skin - then met his hazel eyes with her pain-filled ones. "I married Jack," she admitted, "because that was how I played it safe."

"But... you loved him," Jean-Luc protested, startled by her admission.

Beverly shook her head slowly. "I loved him, yes - but I loved him knowing he was not going to be there all the time. I loved him knowing that Starfleet, his ship, his crew and his missions would always come first. I loved him - knowing that there was always the chance that he might not come back.

She took a deep breath. "I've always lost the people I cared for, Jean-Luc. I... couldn't bear to feel that way again, not with Jack, not with anyone. Yes, I loved him - as much as I dared. But not as much as I could. I couldn't risk that," she said softly.

"It wasn't fair to him - and I've never really forgiven myself for that. He deserved better," she said, trying to hold back the tears and the guilt that were welling up in her eyes - and in her soul.

He reached out, then wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close to him. "I don't think he felt that way, Beverly - and I don't think you did either... then. You wouldn't have married him if you really thought you didn't love him completely," he told her, "and I know you did. I saw the way you looked at him on your wedding day."

And I have spent every day since then wishing that someday you would look at me that way, he added silently.

"And before you give yourself up as being incapable of loving someone completely, all I can say is... Wesley," he said, smiling at her.

She pulled back, looking up at him. "That's different," she protested, wiping at her eyes.

"No, it's not," he objected. "You would never have had a child if you didn't believe you were capable of loving him completely and utterly; you would never have brought a child into the world if you weren't certain you could be that type of parent. Even now, when he's a young adult, fully capable of living on his own, you still worry over him. No, Beverly... Bev," he amended softly, "you have proven yourself infinitely capable of loving whosoever you choose to love - when you decide it's worth the risk. And I know this too: when you do decide, he will be the most fortunate man alive."

He stared into her eyes, utterly certain of what he had told her, then leaned forward, kissed her forehead - and crooked his arm toward her.

"The ambassadors await us," he said, feeling the comforting and familiar weight of her arm on his - then looked at her. "One of these days, however, I'm going to surprise the hell out of you - and decide that the ambassadors - or whoever or whatever is on our agenda - can wait. And then, my dear Dr. Crusher, we're going to finally have this conversation. All of it," he added.

For a moment, she was stunned - then a smile broke across her delicate features. It was, she knew, as he did, that it was an empty threat; they were both creatures of habit - and the greatest of those habits was duty.

And that was, after all, how it had to be: duty first - duty above all. It was their mantra - and their protection. From each other - and from the world.

Content for the moment in their insecurity, she draped her other arm over his as well, the walk to the reception made in the close and comfortable silence that marked their life together.

But as the lift reached deck ten, they pulled apart, the closeness gone as they reassumed their professional demeanors, becoming once again Captain and CMO - and both steeling themselves against the icy chill of the reception that awaited them.

A Romulan, a Cardassian, and an ex-Starfleet ambassador - all about to fight for the survival of their peoples - and none willing to give up a thing in the pursuit of that goal. What better gathering could Starfleet have selected for an evening of socialization with one another - they very people they were here to fight against? Picard asked himself.

Patting Beverly's arm, he straightened, adjusted his dress jacket, and prepared to step off the lift into the stony silence of deck ten.

What he wasn't prepared for was the wave of sound that greeted him: the muted cacophony of four dozen voices talking at the same time, the music playing in the background - not too softly - and the gentle clatter of dozens of drinks being consumed as various members of his crew strolled about Ten Forward, chatting with amiably with one another - and with the various ambassadors.

"What the hell...?" he muttered under his breath, then glanced at Beverly, who appeared to be equally stunned by the apparent success of the soiree.

"I haven't a clue," she said, drawing a deep breath - then looked up at him, startled. "_Pamash_!" she exclaimed, grinning at him in delight. "Jean-Luc, you didn't tell me _pamash_ was on the menu!" She squeezed his arm affectionately. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you?" she said - then dropped his arm, in search of the source of the heady scent of herb-flavored pastries she adored - and instantly getting tangled in a crowd of others, chatting contentedly.

A surprise indeed, he agreed silently, watching her cross the room, especially as I didn't order them.

Or the music, or the lowered lights... and where the devil had all these flowering plants come from? he wondered, staring at the deep red blossoms that covered the plants that artfully graced the formerly empty spaces of the room.

Not that they looked bad... In fact the entire room looked better, more accommodating, more comfortable than it usually did at one of these affairs, he conceded - but it wasn't by his order - and it most certainly was not in accordance with Starfleet's protocol for receptions of this nature.

Which didn't make it wrong, he admitted as he watched the room's occupants milling about comfortably, feeling a sense of ease come over him. If this gathering was a success, then perhaps the conference would be - and if the conference was, then maybe the Federation Council would be able to get its troubles in order - and maybe...

He shook his head sharply, shaking off the unexpected - and unwarranted - sense of confidence. The conference was a long way off - with countless problems to resolve first - not the least of which was the issue of the saboteur on board.

And yet...

And yet, he couldn't shake the undercurrent of hope that filled the room - and him.

A sense of hope he hadn't felt since he left the Ba'ku homeworld, with its metaphasic radiation with its dramatic effect on his body's chemistry, and the resultant effects on his emotions.

Those emotions, he had come to realize in the weeks that had followed both of his visits, had not been entirely his - and the intensity with which he had felt them had definitely not been his either.

Not that he was a passionless man; far from it. He felt, deeply and intensely - but there was a time and a place for such passion, and this place and this time - Ten Forward on his own ship and at the dawn of a mission so fraught with peril for the future of everything he held dear - was definitely not the place for those feelings.

Which meant, he realized with a dawning awareness, they were not his feelings.

Or rather, he added with a growing sense of alarm, they were his - but brought out more intensely than he would ever have allowed them to be in such a place.

Someone - or something - was manipulating him, altering his emotions - but so subtly, so carefully, that, under most circumstances, he doubted he would have noticed.

Except, he added grimly, there were no circumstances under which he would have expected an ambassadorial reception to have be enjoyable.

Forcing back the gently pervading feeling of hope, he searched the room with his eyes, looking for someone or something out of place, something that didn't fit... A device, he wondered? The Ferengi had used a globe-like device to manipulate years before - but that had been large - and the headaches that had accompanied the illusions were anything but subtle.

But that had been years ago, he reminded himself; the technology could have been improved - but try as he might, he could detect no trace of an impending headache in himself - nor, judging from the apparent good spirits of those around him, in any of the other party-goers.

Something in the air, then? Some chemical introduced into the ventilation system? There was, after all, a saboteur aboard. Of that they had no doubts... but why would a saboteur want them to believe they would succeed? To lull them into a false sense of security?

That made no sense either, Picard thought; the good will in the room seemed to be one of sincere desire to succeed - and when it faded - if it faded - the good will would likely remain.

No, whoever was doing this was doing so out of benevolence rather than malevolence; benevolence, he added with a growing degree of anger, but ignorance as well.

If any of the delegates realized they were being manipulated, he thought worriedly...

The thought fled from his mind as a soft commotion took its place; glancing to one side, he saw a small crowd gathering by the seats against one wall - then watched as Beverly pushed her way through.

He followed her - then stared down at the focus of the pool of people.

Andile lay on the floor, her face paled to the point of colorlessness, her lips blue as she gasped desperately, sweat beading on her forehead, Data kneeling beside her, holding one hand while Beverly pulled out her medical scanner and began passing it over the supine form.

Picard looked up as he realized the confidence he had felt earlier was fading quickly from those gathered around the woman. Tenuous as the feelings of good will had been, it would take little to change them to one of worry and apprehension - and something as simple as one of the crew falling ill could turn this near success into an instant failure.

And while he may not have been responsible for the former, he reminded himself, he was not going to be responsible for the latter.

"Step back, Lieutenant," he quietly ordered the person standing closest to him. "Give Dr. Crusher some room. Ensign," he added to another, gesturing for her to step back as well, then gently pushed a third away, turning him back toward the rest of the room. "Please," he added quietly, "return to what you were doing, and let Dr. Crusher attend to the lieutenant."

On cue, Beverly took a hypo from her medkit adjusted it, then pressed it against Andile's neck - and watched as the woman's eyes fluttered open.

There was a soft sigh of relief amongst the gathered, then, reassured, they began to step back, leaving Beverly to her job - and returning themselves to the evening's festivities.

He watched for a moment, satisfying himself that the ill woman was no longer the center of attention - then turned back to watch as Beverly and Data helped Andile up and into one of the chairs that lined the wall.

"Mea culpa," the pale woman was whispering. "I guess I didn't eat enough."

Beverly passed the scanner over her - then nodded. "Hypoglycemia," she agreed, then knelt before Andile, looking into her eyes. "You're going to have to be more careful, Lieutenant," she cautioned. "As the nano-probes began to restore function to your liver and kidneys, you're going to be able to derive more nutrients from the food you do eat - and that means you're going to feel as though you can do more. And you can - but the nano-probes are going to use more of that energy as well. That means..."

"More frequent meals," Andile nodded shakily. "Yes, ma'am."

"And more rest," she added. "As of now, you're off duty - and you will stay off duty until tomorrow morning. No reports, no notes - nothing! - until you've had eight hours of sleep," she insisted.

"Yes, ma'am," Andile agreed, the fatigue evident in her voice. "But it seems like that's all I've been doing the last few days - sleeping - and eating," she complained softly.

Beverly smiled. "It's only been one day, Lieutenant - but it will get better. In a few days, you'll learn to adjust your intake to equal your energy needs. But at least as the nano-probes appear to be working - and as they do, you'll be able to eat more complex and nutrient-dense foods. You won't feel like you're constantly eating. But for now, I think sleep's what you need the most."

Andile nodded, then looked up at Data. "Would you extend my regrets to Tar Zumell, Commander?" she asked.

"I will accompany to your room first," he countered.

"Commander..." Andile began to protest.

Picard stepped in. "Go ahead, Commander," he said firmly.

"Sir, the lieutenant should not be permitted to return to her quarters alone..."

"She won't, Commander," he informed the android. "I'll see that she gets there safely."

Data raised a brow at the comment - but said nothing. Rather, he inclined his head in acknowledgement of the order, then left.

"Are you sure, Jean-Luc?" Beverly said as she slid the scanner back into the med kit. "I can go with her..."

He smiled, shaking his head, hearing her professional concern fighting with her desire to stay at the party. "You're enjoying yourself, Doctor. I'll see to the lieutenant," he insisted.

The relief in her eyes was unmistakable - but still she gave Andile one last, maternal look. "I want you to eat something as soon as you reach your quarters - then straight to bed, Andile - or I'll have you confined to Sickbay..."

"Not necessary, ma'am," Andile insisted. "I've learned my lesson."

Not entirely convinced, she studied the woman a minute longer, then pushed herself to her feet and moved back toward the gathering, glancing back over her shoulder once - then turned her attention back to the party at large.

Andile watched the woman leave her - then gave a sigh, planted her hands on the chair and pushed herself up - only to feel a firm hand grab her upper arm as she did so, helping her the rest of the way to her feet.

"Thank you, sir," she said, smiling up at Picard, almost having forgotten the man was there, "but you don't have to..."

He glared at her, then bowed his head closer to her. "Quiet!" he hissed furiously. "We are leaving, now - and you will not say another word! Do you understand me, Lieutenant?"

Stunned by the pure rage in his voice, she looked up at him, then nodded meekly.

His hand still wrapped firmly - almost painfully tight - around her upper arm, he pulled her from the room, quickly but quietly guiding her out the room and down the corridor until they reached a lesser used passage.

Stopping abruptly, he whirled her around, pushing - almost shoving - her against the wall and glared at her furiously.

"Damn it! Who the hell do you think you are?!" he seethed at her.

She looked at him, shocked. "I don't understand..." she began to protest.

He silenced her with a glare. "I know what you did," he hissed.

Stunned, she stared at him - then tried again. "I don't know what you mean..." she managed before he cut her off.

"No," he said firmly. "Don't try it. Don't even try to deny it! I know what you did. You... manipulated us! You altered us, changed us, tried to make us feel something we didn't feel..."

"No," she objected quietly. "I didn't make you feel anything you didn't already feel. I didn't try to make anyone feel something that wasn't already a part of them. I just... tried to... reaffirm the positive emotions people already had," she said calmly.

"Damn it, Lieutenant, do you have any idea what could have happened if anyone had realized what you had done? You could have destroyed any chance this conference had of succeeding - even before it started. If any of the ambassadors knew that you - a member of Starfleet! - were manipulating them emotionally, this conference - and the Federation, the Cardassian governments and the Romulan Star Empire - could all be destroyed!" he roared.

"I wasn't trying to manipulate them!" Andile insisted, her ire rising to meet his. "I wasn't trying to destroy this conference. Gods, anything but that! I want it to succeed! I know what will happen if it doesn't; by the gods, I know that better than anyone here - and I'll do anything to prevent that from happening!"

"Including manipulating the emotions of everyone in the room?" he shouted back.

"I wasn't!" she protested. "Not really - but I would," her own rage suddenly growing, "if that's what it takes!"

"And what if that's not what it takes? What if that is what destroys this meeting? What if your manipulation..."

"Pushing," she interrupted.

He stopped, stared at her, then shook his head. "I beg your pardon?"

"Pushing. Telepaths call emotional manipulation 'pushing'," she insisted.

"I don't care what the devil you call it - it's wrong! What if one of the delegates had sensed your 'pushing'?" he railed.

"They wouldn't. No one can," she said firmly.

"I did," he countered.

Clearly taken aback, Andile stared at him, then stepped back, shaken. "No... You couldn't... I've done this before... no one knew..."

"I did," he hissed, "and God knows how many of the others were able to put it together as well!"

"But... Oh, gods... I just thought..."

"I know what you _thought_, Lieutenant. You thought you could affect the outcome of these meetings," he agreed. "For the positive - but it doesn't change the fact that the outcome of these conferences is not your responsibility! It is not up to you to see to it that they succeed!"

She glared at him. "Well, if I don't, who does?" she interrupted.

He stared, startled into silence, then said, "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, if I don't, then who does?" she echoed - then stared up at him, shaking her head. "You say it's not my responsibility to try to affect these meetings... but if it's not my responsibility - as a member of one of the societies whose future will be determined by its outcome, and as a member of Starfleet who is sworn to uphold those very precepts - then whose responsibility is it? Yours?"

"I have been trained in political negotiations," he reminded her.

"And so you will go out of your way to make the reception as neutral, as even, as balanced as possible?" she asked.

"As much as possible," he agreed.

"Even if that's not what they want?" she pressed.

He looked at her, puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Yes, you do. You know how worried your crew is - you know the ambassadors are equally worried. There is too much riding on this for them to feel at ease with their skills and abilities - they want - no, need - to believe there is a chance of succeeding. You could have done that - you could have made that reception unbalanced, uneven, unfair - by making it warm and welcoming and positive. Yes, it's unfair - unfair in the sense that it moves everyone toward a belief that we can succeed. Unfair, because it places the possibility of success ahead of the chance of failure. Unfair, because it reminds us all why we are here - which is because we all want to live. And we want our families and friends to live.

"That's all I did, all I gave them - a reaffirmation of the hope they already had within them. Nothing more - but nothing less. And truth be told, Captain, you should have been the one to do it," she added angrily.

He glared at her, furious. "And you, Lieutenant," he answered sharply, "had a responsibility to make your beliefs known to me. You did not, however, have the authority to make those changes - let alone to 'push' the crew and the ambassadors - into a feeling of emotional euphoria!" he railed.

He fell silent, staring at her, thinking - then said, "Oh-seven hundred hours. My ready room," he ordered her, then reached for her arm - more gently this time - and continued the trip to her... rather to Data's quarters - in silence.

Once there, he released her arm, watched as she slowly entered the room - then watched as the doors slid shut behind her.

He sighed - then turned and started back for Ten Forward and the reception.

Andile, too, stared at the doors for a time - then closed her eyes, refusing to give in to the pain, the fear, the growing nausea of grief.

I did what was right, she reminded herself achingly. I did what had to be done. No matter what it costs me... me post, my ship, my crew... Data...

She choked back the sob that threatened, then drew back her hand, slapping herself viciously, time and again, till the pain was all she knew - then choked that back as well.

Andile! She hissed at herself. Costs? she sneered. Andile don't pay costs! They do what is expected of them, what is required of them - and whatever the price, whatever the pain or the loss, they deserve nothing more. They are andile - they are nothing! They deserve nothing! You deserve nothing! You are andile! Filth! Garbage!

No! she screamed, pressing her hand to her ears, trying to stop the screaming voices. NO!

But the voices would not be silenced.

They sliced through her ears, tore through her mind, their cried growing louder and louder until even her screams wouldn't shut them out.

Then mercifully, there was no one left to listen as she sank to the floor, unconscious.


	87. Chapter 87

**Chapter 87**

Picard drew a deep breath as he stood before the massive doors that led into Ten Forward, steeling himself not for the quiet iciness of the reception that he had first anticipated, but rather for what he assumed would now be the vitriol-filled atmosphere of the gathering. Bereft of Andile's presence, he suspected the others would have come to the same realization that he had - that they had been manipulated - used! he amended furiously - and somehow - somehow! - he was going to have to explain what had happened.

What he was going to say, however, he wasn't sure. Certainly not the truth - that he had a telepath in his crew who was so strong that she could manipulate more than a hundred people without one - all right, he added, with _one_ person - realizing what had happened. That truth - accompanied by the fear that Starfleet had others, equally gifted in their employ - would cause almost as much damage as what Andile had done.

No, he decided, he would explain it - discreetly, tactfully - but without resorting to the complete truth.

How he was going to do that, however, he wasn't certain.

He drew another deep breath, steadied himself to enter the room - then was roughly shoved into the door as someone slammed past him, pushing the door open, gesturing for ghostly grey figure to enter - and then finally looking at his slightly stunned victim.

"Ah, Captain!" roared a _basso profundo_ a full octave lower than Picard's own rich baritone. "I had wondered what was keeping you!"

"Ambassador Tiron," Picard replied evenly, hastily straightening his uniform - then realized what the massive, grey-haired Romulan had said. "I beg your pardon? What was keeping me?" he repeated.

"We," Tiron gestured a meaty hand at the now-closing doors, indicating the robed figure that had preceded him, "arrived some time ago - but you were not here. I had feared," he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "that perhaps you Starfleet people had ambassadorial functions as stilted as we do. Everyone just stands around, not talking, not drinking... I've been on EVAs that were warmer than a standard Romulan ambassadorial reception," he admitted, then threw a vicious punch into Picard's shoulder, almost knocking the man to the ground - and gave a deep throated bellow of laughter. "I'm glad to see you Federationists haven't made that mistake! By the gods, we may have something to learn from you after all!"

Chortling, he pushed his way into the room, letting the doors close behind him - but not before Picard heard the deep voice roar out, "Now this - this is a real drink! Romulan ale!"

The doors shut as a cheer filled the room.

Picard closed his eyes, then shook his head. This was not, he thought grimly, what he had expected. Then again, he added, what he had expected was an unmitigated disaster - which this, if he could judge from the newest roar from the room, was not.

He was not, however, utterly convinced that this was any better.

Nonetheless, it was what he had - and he had better make the best of it.

Rubbing his mauled shoulder in a vain attempt to restore some feeling to it, he drew a deep breath, steeled himself - and stepped up to the door.

Despite the roar that greeted him - or rather, didn't greet him, but simply coincided with his entrance, the gathering lacked the rowdiness that he had feared. Yes, there was obvious evidence that the bartenders had been more than liberal with their pouring - and judging from the slightly brighter than usual expressions on many of the attendees' faces that the synthehol had been disdained in favor of the real thing - but there was no sign of over-indulgence in his crew - or in any of the ambassadors, he added, glancing a look at the Romulan and Cardassian delegates.

He didn't bother looking at Jay Tillerman; Jay could - and did - drink to excess - but he could hold his liquor better than any other man Picard had ever met. Of course, most people displayed their intolerance for alcohol through a display of bad judgment; Jay, on the other hand, was notorious for displaying bad judgment without even bothering to imbibe.

It still astounded him, he reminded himself as he continued to scan the crowd, that Jay had managed to earn this posting; it was so critical, so key to the survival of the Federation, that to risk it on a man like Jay Tillerman...

But the Federation had to have faith in him; there were too many other capable and qualified individuals for them not to have chosen the best available, he insisted to himself, almost desperately.

No one else in the room, however, seemed to be feeling the apprehension he was experiencing; surprised, he glanced around the room, wondering if Lt. Andile had disobeyed Beverly's orders and snuck back in - but even she wouldn't have the audacity to do that, he decided; no, whatever these people were experiencing, it was generated by their own good spirits, and not those induced by the telepath.

Relieved - doubly relieved, as now he wouldn't have to attempt to explain away the engineer's emotional exploitation of the delegates - he turned his attention to Tiron who was addressing a large gathering of others, the ubiquitous grey-robed shadow standing just behind him.

"And then the Praetor replied, 'Not in my sector, you won't!'"

There was a hearty laugh from the gathering, a cry of "Another one, Ambassador!" - and a brief shake of the giant Romulan's head. "Enough of my old stories," he insisted, then glanced at the bartender. "What happened to the music?!" he added with a roar, which was quickly lost in an enthusiastic cheer from the others.

As the music built once again, the huge Romulan stepped down from his position on the raised platform - and walked up to Picard once again.

"May I get you a drink, Ambassador?" Picard offered quickly, refusing to wince but stepping back before the man could throw another good-natured - but bone-crushing - punch.

To his surprise, however, Tiron shook his head, then lowered his voice. "Truth be told, I prefer the baj's bash-tri to an ale... Age takes its toll upon us all, does it not?" he added, giving Picard a knowing look.

Uncertain of what a baj or a bash-tri was - or why Tiron had decided they were of an age - even if they were - he nodded noncommittally. "Indeed, Ambassador."

"Speaking of the baj, where has she gone? We were having a delightful conversation on Romulan etymology... I wasn't aware that xeno-linguistics were so highly valued in your people, Captain," he added.

"All education is valued in the Federation," Picard replied neutrally.

"But for one so young to speak my language so well..." Tiron smiled - but there was, Picard thought, a trace of sadness in his eyes as well. "Then again, perhaps your people push your young ones too hard. You must let them be young, Captain - and not take their young lives away before they've had a chance to live them," he chided the man.

Bewildered by the Romulan's apparent meanderings, he replied, "I'm afraid I don't understand, Ambassador."

"To push someone so young into languages - and engineering - and make her a lieutenant! Pah! You have stolen her youth from her!" he complained.

The light began to dawn in Picard's mind. "Ambassador, by any chance are you referring to Lt. Andile?" he asked.

Tiron clapped his hands - the Romulan equivalent of snapping his fingers. "Yes! That was the name the baj gave. Andile," he said, setting the name to memory - then glaring at Picard. "You work her too hard. She is too little, too young..."

"Physical size is not a restriction in Starfleet, Ambassador," Picard interrupted. "And as for age... despite her appearance, the lieutenant is not a child; rather she is a well-trained - and quite capable - officer." A little too capable, he reminded himself.

"Pah! A child!" Tiron grumbled - then glanced at his empty glass. Shoving it at Picard, he informed him, "Another bash-tri," then turned, leaving the captain to secure the drink.

Picard found himself staring at the glass.

"They also serve who only stand and wait... on tables," Beverly said softly, a grin covering her face.

He glared back at her, unamused.

Realizing he wasn't in quite the same light-hearted mood that she - or any of the others - were in, she relented, taking the empty glass from his hand and starting for the bar. Within two steps, however, Picard had caught up to her.

"My apologies, Beverly," he told her.

"Accepted," she said, handing the glass to the Kami. "Two please - one for the ambassador and one for his apprentice," she said, then saw Picard's surprised expression. "From what I can gather," she explained, "his 'shadow' doesn't really exist - that is, when they're in public, he can't acknowledge her presence..."

"Her?" Picard interrupted, surprised.

"Tiron's protégé is a woman," Beverly informed him.

He gaped at her, having assumed the figure was, like most Romulan politicians, a male - then frowned. "How do you know?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "Everyone's taken pity on her since the ambassador apparently can't get her food or a drink - so she's had at least six of these," she explained, pointing to the tall glasses Kami was filling. "And human or Romulan, you drink six anythings, and you're going to have the same reaction," she informed him. "She had to go to the bathroom - and she entered the women's lav," she replied simply.

The simplicity of Beverly's answer stunned him; he would never have thought of paying attention to that little detail.

"I'm impressed," he admitted.

"You don't look impressed," she countered. "In fact, you look downright unhappy, Jean-Luc," she said, growing worried. "You shouldn't be - this reception's a roaring success. If this is any sign, the negotiations are bound to succeed..."

"But is this a sign?" he murmured.

"I beg your pardon?"

Picard smiled, not having intended to be overheard. "Nothing," he insisted. "It's just..."

"It's just you're a pessimist," she answered. "You see the worst possible side of everything."

He raised a brow in feigned indignancy. "I prefer to view it as pragmitism; I want to be ready for the worst possible outcomes - just in case they come to fruition."

"Pessimism," she insisted. "You see the glass half empty."

He smiled back. "Actually, I don't even have a glass," he pointed out.

Beverly grinned, delighting in seeing the smile that crackled his face with a myriad of fine lines; in another man it would have been a sign of the age that was slowly building - but in this man, it was completely charming - and, she added, so terribly attractive.

Damn, she thought to herself, feeling a rush of heat filling her, this is the last time I drink real alcohol at a reception! This is not the place to start having these feelings - and this is most certainly not the time! Not when he's still recovering from what happened with Anij, and Robert and René...

Nor had it been the right time after their last encounter with the Borg, or after Veridian III, or after their last meeting with Q... It was never the right time.

Except that night after they had returned from KesPrytt... and I said no.

He saw her face fall - but didn't understand the reason for her sudden change of mood. "Bev? What's wrong?"

She looked at him, then forced a fake smile onto her face - and forced an equally artificial laugh. "Nothing. Nothing. Just... a long day."

That brought a smile to his lips. "If I remember correctly, Doctor, you spent it sleeping - on my couch," he added.

She blushed. "Then maybe I should have stayed there. Receptions aren't my strong suit."

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself well enough when I came in," he reminded her, then took her hand. "Let me get you another drink..."

"I think I've probably had enough," she objected, "but don't let me stop you."

"I'm not really in the mood," he admitted.

"Then one of the Ambassador Tiron's favorites," she insisted and turned to Kami once again. "Two more bash-tri," she ordered, then handed one of the tall glasses filled with pastel-colored sparkling liquid to the captain, who studied it skeptically.

"Don't worry - it's perfectly safe. One of Andile's concocotions," she assured him.

"Why, then, am I not reassured?" he asked - but took a tentative sip nonetheless.

To his surprise, the drink was amazingly refreshing: vibrant with the tang of strongly brewed teas, the not-too-sweet fruit juice and the sparkling water. Pleasantly surprised by how well it quenched the thirst he hadn't been aware of, he quickly drained the glass - then looked to the bartender for another, only to find Beverly studying him, concerned.

"I take it then that you and the lieutenant had another run in?" she asked.

He nodded - but was not about to go in to the nature of the woman's transgression - not here, and, he admitted, perhaps not at all. Andile was not proud of her telepathic ability; indeed, while she wasn't above using it, it seemed a great source of shame for her. Whatever she had done, it did not merit revealing her shame - even if it was only her own eyes - to a fellow officer.

Why it shamed her, however, he still didn't fully understand. Or rather, he did understand - from what she had explained, he knew that andile were the lowest caste in the society in which she was raised - but if it shamed her as much as she seemed to indicate, why had she used it tonight? he wondered.

"I'd like to think I'm a good judge of character, Doctor - but I'll be the first to admit I don't understand why she does what she does," he confessed. "She has no respect for the chain of command!"

"Sounds like someone I know," the physician replied with a smile.

"I," he countered severely, "understand - and respect - the chain of command, Doctor."

"When it serves your purpose," she countered. "I suspect Andile does as well - when it serves her purpose."

"Yes, but I am the ship's captain - and she is a lieutenant in Engineering," he reminded her.

"Then maybe she shouldn't be a lieutenant in Engineering," Beverly replied, adding, "perhaps it really isn't a matter of being a good - or bad - judge of character, Jean-Luc. Perhaps it's something simpler. Don't you remember what Deanna said at the meeting the other day? That we can't understand what drives another person - or society or culture - if we don't understand what makes that culture function? If Andile is really as old as I think she is, she's got a lifetime - a hundred lifetimes, of culture driving her - and almost none of it understood by you, or me or any of us. We don't know her - how can we possible expect to understand how her mind functions?" she asked.

Picard studied the woman, then gave a slow nod of appreciation - both of the idea - and of the woman who had uttered it.

But before he could praise her idea - or praise her - he was roughly pushed aside once again.

Wincing at the renewed insult to his still aching shoulder, he found his assailant to be the same as before - the hulking mass of the overweight Romulan.

"Another bash-tri my dear!" he roared at Kami, then turned to Picard, obviously unhappy. "Captain! I cannot find her! I have searched this reception hall - and still I cannot find her!"

It took Picard a moment to realize who Tiron was referring to - and another moment to develop a response. "My apologies, Ambassador, but the lieutenant..."

"Surely you didn't send her on duty! She is a child, Picard! She needs her rest!"

"And that is where she is - and what she is doing," Picard agreed quickly.

Tiron nodded, instantly approving. "Good! She is too young to be working so late. You Federation people don't let your children be children - you make them adults too soon," he added - but it was obvious from his expression that he was disappointed in the woman's departure.

Understanding - but not about to let the evening end on that sad note, Beverly reached for his arm, and begin to guide him back across the room, speaking animatedly, trying to draw him back into the good spirits that continued to fill the space.

Issuing a silent prayer of thanks - and making a note to thank Beverly as well as soon as they were alone - Picard turned from the bar - only to be confronted by Data.

"Yes, Commander?" he said.

"It is twenty-three forty-eight, sir; I begin my watch as night duty officer in twelve minutes," he added.

Picard nodded, a question in his eyes. "Is there a problem, Data?'

"I was asked to serve as Ambassador Zumell's escort, sir. I had anticipate that Lt. Andile would fulfill those duties after I assumed my station, but in light of her illness..."

Picard smiled, understanding Data's unvoiced question.

"I'll have Commander Riker escort her for the balance of the evening," he agreed - though, he admitted to himself, he was more than a little surprised the elderly woman was still with them. He hadn't thought she was the type who stay a reception out to its bitter end, but rather to stay as long as decorum required - then make her departure quickly and discreetly. And yet there she was, quietly sitting in a corner, chatting with... Worf? He realized with a start. The Cardassian ambassador - and his Klingon Security officer?

This was a night of surprises - including the fact that the gathering was still going strongly, more than four hours after it had begun. If it lasted much longer, he thought, he was going to have to break the gathering up - something he could not recall ever having had to do before - or for that matter, he added with a silent smile, anything he could recall any starship captain having to do.

Come to think of it, he added, it wasn't something that was ever covered, in any of his officer's training at the Academy. Receptions simply didn't last this long.

But then, receptions were never enjoyable. Hell, they weren't meant to be enjoyable! They were meant to be endured!

No, he corrected himself, they were meant to serve as a way for different people of different backgrounds to get to know each other - not well, perhaps, but well enough so that their real purpose in coming together would have an easier time starting.

And if this gathering was a presage of the upcoming talks, well, then, perhaps they had a chance.

Damn her! he swore silently, damn her! There's no justification for what she did, he insisted to himself - but she throws a hell of a party.

"I'll take care of Ambassador Zumell," he repeated to the android - but to his surprise, Data didn't move. "Was there something else?"

Data hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir. I was curious... Is motherhood a common desire among human females?"

Picard pulled back, completely taken by surprise at the question. Unsure, he considered for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm not a female, Data; I wouldn't know. But..." He thought for a moment, remembering the children he had had - and hadn't, he reminded himself, and finding himself grieving for their deaths, even now, a thousand years after they were gone - if they had ever lived. Still... "I would think it is a fairly universal desire. I think there is a part in all of us - or at least most of us, including you - that wants to see a part of themselves continue on," he said with a bittersweet smile, remembering Data's daughter, Lal. "It is, in the simplest terms, a way for us to experience eternity - by sharing a part of ourselves with the future."

It was, Picard decided, a deeply philosophical question, one that they could - and knowing Data, probably would - debate for days to come... but to his surprise, the android remained strangely quiet, thinking - then gave a single nod. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "If I may be excused," he added abruptly.

Picard nodded, then watched, still puzzled, as Data left the room - only to find himself being approached by Will Riker. "Problems, Captain?" he asked, concerned.

Picard shook his head, "Just Data being philosophical. And practical," he quickly added, focusing on Will. "Would you see to it that Ambassador Zumell is escorted back to her quarters, Number One? Data was to attend to it, but this party seems to be lasting longer than anyone anticipated."

Will nodded. "That's a Starfleet first, Captain. A successful ambassadorial reception. Glad to have seen it before..."

A wave of laughter obscured Will's last words - and, considering that he was in the process of turning, Picard wasn't completely sure they had been intended for his ears anyway. And even if they had, they were jumbled; for a moment, he had thought Will had said something about leaving.

He shook his head. Will... leaving? Starfleet? Never! he thought to himself. The man was born to Starfleet - just as he was born to the captain's chair - when he decided to take it, he added. They were going to have to talk about that - and soon. Time was passing - and Will was no longer the young man he had once been. Not that his age would stop him from taking the center seat - indeed, the extra years as a first officer were going to assure his first crew that he knew what he was doing when he did take the chair he had earned.

But he had earned it - and if he didn't take an offer soon, he was going to miss the best years of his career, seconding to Picard. He liked Will - he liked him as a friend and as his first - but it was time, he reminded himself. Will needed to stretch his wings and fly on his own - and soon.

But there would be time to talk about that... soon. We'll talk soon, he silently told his first officer, watching as he crossed the room, heading toward where Zumell, was now animatedly chatting with Jay Tillerman... Tillerman? Talking with Zumell? Picard thought to himself, almost as astonished with her current partner as he had been by her last - then sighed to himself. Even after fifty years, Jay still managed to gather the most beautiful women to surround him.

Deanna stood before him, Sandra James beside her, then Tar Zumell… then Beverly.

Beverly?

Without realizing it, he found himself moving across the room to join them, his steps a little longer than usual - and his movements a little faster.

Not that he was jealous, of course. Jay wasn't Beverly's type - and even if he was, Beverly would never... would never what? he suddenly wondered. Go out with another man?

Of course she would - if she decided she was interested in someone. After all, he and Beverly had no commitments to one another, no obligations...but there had always been an unspoken agreement that they would remain something more than just friends...

An agreement they had both broken - and he more often than she.

Why, then did he assume she wouldn't break that agreement - if... no when... she found the right man?

Silently chastising himself for his presumptions about her - about their relationship, or their lack of one - he still felt a sudden wave of warmth wash over him as she turned at his approach, and smiled at him.

Reassured, he slowed as he approached the others, taking the last open position in the circle that was forming around Tillerman.

The tall human smiled. "Johnny! I was just tellin' your people about some of your adventures at the Academy!" he chortled.

Picard blanched - then smiled coolly. "Indeed," he replied unconcernedly. "Which ones? Not the incident with the flagpole?" he added smoothly.

Taken aback, flustered by Picard's indifference, he hesitated, then said, "Um, yes. The flagpole..."

"In retrospect," Picard interrupted, picking up the tale, "it's not nearly as interesting as it was then - but suffice it to say that if you complained about how restrictive the Academy is regarding the behavior of cadets during your years there, you may thank Ambassador Tillerman and myself," he explained evenly to the others gathered around Tillerman.

Taking his cue from the captain, Will added, "Not to insult your efforts, sir, but I thought my class was responsible for that. We did manage to violate more than a few regs."

"Not as many as we broke at the University on Betazed," Deanna insisted.

"I had cadavers sent to the annual faculty dinner," Beverly countered.

"As an entrée - or guests?" Will teased.

Tillerman's sails now completely deflated by Picard's crew's willingness to confess their youthful transgressions - and Picard's refusal to become embarrassed by his own - he swallowed back the last of the amber fluid in his glass, then nodded at the others. "Well, if y'all will excuse me, I think it's time I was heading back ta my quarters... if I can find them," he added with an apprehensive - and deliberately innocent - expression, directed at the blond-curled computer chief.

Sandra James drew in a sharp breath, full of concern. "I can show you the way, sir," she offered, breathless at the opportunity. "I wouldn't want you to get lost!"

Picard sighed disappointedly - but his crew's sexual preferences and predilections were none of his business. Still, he would have thought Sandra James would have had better taste; heaven knew that with her looks, she certainly had her choice of any number of men in the crew.

Wishing Jay - and Sandra - a quiet farewell, he turned his attention to the others, only to hear Zumell making her apologies as well... though somewhat more reluctantly than Jay.

"It is late - and I am not used to such hours - or such excitement," she conceded with a tired sigh, then smiled charmingly at Picard. "This was, Captain Picard, a truly delightful insight into your Federation. Would that we all could share as much at the conference," she agreed.

"I would hope for that as well, Ambassador," Picard agreed.

"If I may, Ambassador?" Will said, offering the woman his arm.

She smiled, took his arm easily, then let him guide her from the room.

Two down, Picard thought - one to go.

As if hearing his thoughts, Tiron strode over toward the senior officer, his shadow a few discreet steps behind him, then gave a formal bow. "An interesting gathering, Captain. I suspect the balance of our encounters shall be as interesting." He inclined his head at the gathering, strode toward the door - then stepped back as the shadowed figure passed through.

He doesn't completely ignore her, Picard thought, noticing the gesture. Because she's a female? he wondered. Or maybe because they've been together for a long time, he added. Or...

Curious about the relationship between the two, he resolved to have the computer search out the history of the Romulan political custom... after, he added, his early morning meeting with Andile.

He sighed, wishing he could research that problem as easily. It would be one thing to read her the riot act: toe the line, or... Or what? Accept a demotion? That had been done in the past - and it hadn't solved anything. What then? Threaten her with a court-martial? Force her off the ship? Out of Starfleet?

They were ridiculous options, of course; she had too much potential, too much she could bring to the Federation, to give her up over such an ultimatum, especially at such a perilous time - but at the same time, he couldn't permit her to go off again on her own. There was too much at stake here - including, he added, the need to maintain some semblance of order among the fourteen hundred people on his ship.

There had to be a solution, he told himself; there was always a solution.

He felt an arm slide into his, and turning, saw Beverly smiling at him, and realized that, apart from the clean-up crew, they were the last two guests in the room. "Need someone to show you the way back to your quarters, Captain?" she asked teasingly. "I wouldn't want you to get lost."

He shook his head, still unable to believe that display of inanity. "If I live to be a hundred..."

"Speaking as your physician, I assure you, you will," she promised as they walked toward the door.

"... I will never understand what women see in Jay Tillerman!" he continued.

"He can be quite charming," she replied.

He looked at her, astounded. "Surely you weren't attracted to him!" he gaped.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she countered. "He's good-looking, well-spoken, well-educated, a former Starfleet officer, a Federation ambassador..."

"But..." he began to protest.

"Those are damned attractive attributes in a man, Jean-Luc - whether the man is Jay Tillerman - or you," she added.

Taken by surprise, he shot her a look - but there was no hint of the teasing grin he had expected on her face.

Before he could respond, however, Beverly continued. "Nonetheless, you're right - I don't find him attractive."

"Oh?" he replied, nonchalantly - but secretly relived. "You seemed as enthralled as the others," he reminded her.

"That, my dear captain, is why I practice acting," she answered. "So I can look like I'm enthralled - when I'm really quite bored. Jay Tillerman is a little too full of himself - at other people's expense," she added, then looked at him. "I must say I was impressed with how you handled yourself, Jean-Luc. I know how much you hate being called Johnny - and how much you hate having your mistakes made public. I suspect Ambassador Tillerman does as well. He did it just to be mean - and there's nothing smaller than someone who has to raise themselves by pushing others down."

Picard nodded thoughtfully. "Far be it from me to denigrate the Federation's ambassador, but I still can't understand how the Council expects Jay to be a representative. I keep thinking he must have grown up since I knew him..."

"Not from what I've seen," Beverly agreed.

"... so how can they expect him to accomplish any sort of compromise?" he wondered.

"I was wondering that as well..." She thought for a moment, then clutched his arm tighter - only to see him wince. "What is it, Jean-Luc? Is something wrong?"

He shook his head - then gave conceded a nod. "Ambassador Tiron. He must have been studying human mannerisms, because he threw a punch - in comradery," he hastily added at Beverly's horrified look.

His diminution of the event reduced her concern at the cause - but not at the effect. Taking control, she guided him into the lift - then called out the deck where her quarters - not his - were located.

"I've got a med kit in my room..." she began.

"Really, it's not necessary," he countered, but she continued, "... but we could always go to Sickbay."

It was a badly veiled threat - but one he knew she wouldn't hesitate to fulfill.

Nonetheless... "Really, I'm fine..."

"Jean-Luc, Ambassador Tiron weighs almost two hundred kilos - and I'd bet that most of that is muscle. He could easily have broken your arm. But the choice is yours - Sickbay - or my quarters?" she asked with a smile.

"Your quarters," he agreed.

They reached their destination a moment later. "Take off your shirt," she ordered as she strode into her bathroom, returning a moment later with her med kit, and looked at him in surprise. "Go on, take off your shirt!" she repeated.

Reluctantly he obeyed, finding himself strangely discomfited by the unexpected strip-tease. It shouldn't, he reminded himself; she had seen him attired in less almost every day of the past fifteen years - but somehow, taking off his clothes - at least in these circumstances - seemed, well, humiliating.

She must have sensed his reluctance, because she turned to the replicator as he stripped off his dress uniform jacket, returning a moment later with two mugs of tea, her eyes carefully focused on the mugs - and not on his bare chest.

Setting the mugs on the dinner table, she took the scanner out of the kit, and began to scan the bruised tissue, keeping her eyes locked on his shoulder - and not, she reminded herself firmly, on his well-muscled chest, or the soft covering of curling grey hair. Or on his toned stomach muscles, or how his waist narrowed nicely as it reached the top of his uniform trousers...

I'm not thinking about that, she reminded herself, focusing back on the shoulder. "It's badly bruised - but you're right, it's not broken. Let me regenerate the tissue - and it should be all right by morning," she said, then took the regenerator from her bag, and began to work on the mangled shoulder.

A few minutes later, the purple mottling was gone. Beverly set down the regenerator, then placed one hand on Picard's shoulder, the other on his arm, and gently manipulated his arm, feeling the bones and ligaments slide smoothly as she manipulated the arm through the range of motion.

The regenerator had done its job, she thought; everything was in place, working as it should... so why am I still touching him?

She eased his arm back down - but still, she didn't release his arm.

Picard looked down at his arm - then at the soft hands that were holding it. Raising his eyes to hers, he saw something there, a hunger, a need they had both felt... and both continued to feel, he realized.

"Bev?" he said softly.

She met his eyes, tempted... then released his arm. "I think the conference is going to go well, Jean-Luc," she said quietly.

"Beverly..." he repeated.

"Zumell was a teacher; I think she'll be thinking of the future when she tries to negotiate for her people," she said turning away from him. "And Tiron may have been a soldier, but I think he's as aware that what we decide at that meeting reaches beyond us. You saw how he treats his disciple... and he was very attentive to Lt. Andile... he calls her baj..."

"Beverly..." he interrupted, grasping her arm, turning her to face him - and staring into what he knew were the most beautiful sapphire blue eyes in the Federation.

"Jean-Luc..." she replied, breathless, hesitant as she looked into the hazel eyes before her. Green, and grey with flecks of gold, they seemed to change with his moods - and now they smouldered with his need - and the reflection of hers.

He pulled her close to him, the scent of his skin filling her senses; he reached up, one finger tracing the line of her cheek, then drawing closer, until their lips touched.

He heard her soft sigh, then felt her melt against him... then stiffen and pull back.

"Beverly?" he repeated.

She smiled, her eyes shining brightly with pleasure and hunger - then shook her head. "This would be so easy - but... I'm not ready, Jean-Luc."

He felt a surge of disappointment - then stopped. Not ready - but not 'no', he realized. Hope welled up in him for the first time in years - a hope he had forgotten he could feel. "Then we'll wait - until you are ready," he agreed, reaching for his jacket.

To her surprise, he slipped it on - but rather than leaving, he reached for the mug of tea, and gestured toward the couch in the adjoining room. "You were saying something about the ambassador...?"

It took Beverly a moment to catch her breath - and her thoughts - then she nodded. "I was saying I think the Ambassador doesn't meet our ideas about the Romulans. He calls Andile 'baj'," she repeated.

"He did seem quite taken with her," Picard agreed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Data was in for a fight," he said with a smile.

Beverly smiled and shook her head. "Um... No, I don't think that's a problem. 'Baj' is a Romulan terms of affection for a grandchild. It's not romantic."

"Oh," Picard replied.

"I just meant that Tiron seems very focused on the younger people around him. I can't think of a better way to think, considering our circumstances," she added.

"As a rule, the Romulans are very fond of their children," he reminded her.

"But that's never stopped them from going to war at the drop of a hat," Beverly reminded him.

"Let's just hope then that Ambassador Tiron is different," Picard agreed - then finished the tea, set down the mug and rose to his feet.

Disappointed, Beverly rose as well, half hoping that he would make another move - and half-relieved that he hadn't.

But there were too many unresolved issues in their separate lives, she reminded herself, for them to be considering adding to the issues that already existed in their shared existence. Another night, then... perhaps, she added.

"Get some rest," she told him, "and if your shoulder starts to bother you, call me."

He studied her, hearing the invitation - then smiled. "It'll be fine Beverly. I'll see you at the staff meeting?" he added.

"No breakfast?" she replied, surprised and disappointed.

"No. I have to meet with Lt. Andile at oh-seven hundred..."

"Good," she announced. "Then you can have breakfast with her."

"Beverly, it's not that type of meeting..."

"It is now," she countered. "Jean-Luc, she's not eating enough. Every visit she makes to Sickbay indicates that the nano-probes are working - that she's beginning to recover - but she's going to have to start eating again. At least if you're there, I can make sure she got some food in her system. So make it a breakfast meeting," she said.

He knew an order when he heard one. Smiling, he gave a mock salute, then said, "Aye, aye, sir," - then leaned forward, pressed his lips to hers once again - and left the room.

Beverly sighed, then gave a groan. Damn him! Now she wasn't going to get any sleep tonight!


	88. Chapter 88

**Chapter 88**

Hearing the soft whush of the opening door, Andile turned from where she was combing her hair before the mirror to face the newcomer - and smiled gratefully as she watched Data enter their quarters.

Grateful - because there wasn't a time when he hadn't brought some greater joy to her day than she had known before - but doubly grateful that he hadn't walked in ten minutes before, while she was still lying on the floor where she had collapsed the night before.

That would have been a disaster: Data would have heard no lies, tolerated no excuses for her having landed there; he would have taken her to Sickbay, and neither he nor Dr. Crusher would have listened to nothing she would say until they had both contented themselves with learning the reason for her collapse - and the truth behind it.

All the truth, she reminded herself; first, that she was a telepath - a sin they would never have understood, these strange people - her people, she reminded herself - who saw nothing sinful in those who carried the ability, and second, that she had used that power to affect them, to shape their minds and their feelings at the reception last night... It was wrong! She screamed at herself - wrong, but so important, so necessary... Too much was riding on the results of that reception not to have sinned against them...

Just as she had sinned against a hundred others.

Andile, the voice whispered in her head.

She closed her eyes, nodding her head almost imperceptibly - then forced a smile to her lips as she greeted her lover.

"You're late," she said softly.

"I did not wish to disturb you," he replied after a moment's hesitation.

"In another few minutes, you wouldn't have," she countered. "I have to report to the captain's ready room at seven."

"Ah."

Andile stared at him, worried by his unexpected silence. "Data? Is there something wrong? Something you want to talk about?"

"It... is something that can wait until this evening," he replied.

Andile shook her head, seeing the concern on the android's face. "I don't want it to wait until this evening - not if it's bothering you."

"I do not wish to delay your meeting with the captain," he countered.

"You won't," she answered, silently adding, and if you do, what's the difference? He's just going to bust me down - or put me up on charges. What's a little tardiness when you're facing charges of insubordination? "Go ahead, dearest, tell me: what's on your mind?"

Data looked at her, studying her face, then looked away.

"Data...?" Andile said, suddenly worried.

"Andile..." he began reluctantly - then plunged in. "I... I believe we should not see each other anymore."

Andile stared at him too stunned to respond - too shocked to even be certain she had heard what he had said. "I... I don't understand," she finally managed weakly.

"Our relationship was founded on false pretenses," he replied.

"False pretenses?" she whispered.

"Deceptions," he clarified. "Illusions."

Oh, gods, she gasped silently, he knows! But how?

Does it matter how? her mind screamed at her. You lied - and he knows - and now you are getting what you deserved all along, what all andile deserve - nothing! Loneliness, emptiness... You do not belong with humans because you are not human - and you do not deserve to share in their company. Andile! Andile!

No! she screamed back, then turned to Data, pleadingly.

"Data... I can explain..." she began, desperately reaching to him - but he stepped back, refusing her touch.

"I am sorry, Andile," he said firmly, "but a relationship based on erroneous premises is fair to neither partner. Therefore, I believe it is best if we terminate this relationship now. I will, of course, permit you access to my quarters for the remainder of the day to facilitate the removal of your belongings - however, after that time, I believe we should limit our contact to only that which is necessary for the performance of our duties."

"But... why?" she begged. "Why now?"

He looked at her coldly, unsympathetically. "I had the opportunity to discuss many aspects of relationships with Tar Zumell last evening," he reminded her. "She informed me about that there are expectations both parties have in a relationship - expectations that they may not be able to fulfill. But to protect one another, the partners may opt to lie, to avow one set of beliefs, while secretly holding another - lest the relationship fail.

"But such relationships, based on lies, intended to protect the other, are bound to fail - even when those lies are made from the best of intentions," he said flatly.

Zumell? she thought. But how...? Suddenly, the memory of the two, enrapt in earnest conversation during the reception flowed over her. Data and Zumell, she thought, talking... About me? But... why? About what? She told him... what? What could she tell him?

Nothing, Andile knew - at least, nothing in fact. But not having facts would not have stopped Zumell from thinking, from guessing - guessing that she had actually lived among the Chiemma - and knowing what too many of those poor girls had had to do to survive, she could well have concluded - and concluded rightly, Andile realized - what she, too, had done.

But he didn't know why, she protested silently. If he did, if he understood... gods, would he begrudge her that? Yes, I sold myself - but only to keep a few of those children alive?

But he would never know that, she told herself firmly; he could never know what she had done... and even if Security would have permitted her to tell, would it have mattered?

I whored myself out. I sold myself - and no matter how I might justify it, he never would. Never could. And shouldn't have to. That wasn't what love was about - prostitution, sex slavery, abuse - no matter what the justification - that wasn't love.

Oh, gods, how could I have ever thought he would understand that - and if he doesn't understand that, how could he have understood what they did to me later?! What I've done since? What I did... last night?!

Heart-sick, she continued to stare at him, unable, unwilling to believe that everything that had made her life worth living only seconds before was now suddenly gone - and desperate not to let it go.

"No, Data," she begged, falling to her knees before him, "please, let me explain it to you... let me tell you..."

"There is nothing to explain, Andile; there is an inherent flaw in our relationship that cannot be resolved. I am sorry," he said, grabbing her arms, pulling her to her feet, then added, "It is now oh-six-fifty-eight. Your meeting is in two minutes; it will take that amount of time to reach the bridge. You should leave now. I will gather your belongings together; you may retrieve them at the end of your shift," he added.

Too stunned, too stricken to respond, she looked at him - then slowly turned and stumbled toward the door - then stopped, and looked back at him. "Don't bother. Don't bother with my clothes. Don't bother changing the entry. I won't be back."

"Your belongings..." he protested.

"Burn them. Recycle them. Just get rid of them, Commander. I... don't want them," she whispered, then turned and walked out the door.

Numb, stunned, she didn't see the hallways, didn't see the doors she passed; she walked by habit and rote, following the path she had mapped in her mind a thousand times - but walked only a few - from Data's... no, she whispered, I will not say that name again, I will not think that name again, unless I have to... from that place to the bridge.

She rode the lift in numbed silence; she would have been grateful for the fact that the lift was unoccupied by any others - had she been capable of noticing their presence had they been there - then stumbled from the lift onto the bridge, oblivious to the looks from the others there.

Blind, deaf, dead inside, she staggered toward the door to the ready room, then stabbed the door chime, insensate to anything around her - except the call of the baritone voice from within.

Numb, uncaring, she made her way to the desk, turned to face the man, and mumbled in an empty monotone, "Lt. Andile, reporting as ordered, sir."

It took her befuddled brain a moment to realize she was addressing an empty chair - and a moment further to realize there was a soft chink of ceramics behind her.

She turned, seeking out the source of the delicate sound - and was astounded to find the captain settling a delicate porcelain lid back on a teapot - then placing the teapot at the center of a low table that stood before the couch - a table that was also covered with a vast array of foods.

Horrified, Andile's mind raced over the night before: had he said seven? Or was it six? Was she to have been here at six - before this breakfast meeting he was obviously preparing for? Or had it been eight? Had she been so confused that she had misunderstood the times - or had she been so shaken this morning she had been wandering the halls so long that she had missed their meeting?

Panicking, she began an apology.

"I'm sorry, Captain..."

"As am I," he replied. "I had hoped the tea would be ready when you arrived - but I think it needs to steep a few minutes more," he admitted, then gave her a knowing look. "My apologies if it's too weak - or too strong - but your program seemed to have been deleted," he added.

She stared at him, too overwhelmed by the events of the day to even pretend she understood. "My program?"

"Your replicator program," he replied. "For guerian root tea. I had thought you would prefer that for breakfast - only to discover that you had removed the file," he explained.

She gaped at him for a minute, then shook her head, forcing herself to the present. "I... I realized no one else would ever drink it - except me. It was just taking up replicator file space - so I removed it."

"It's not just 'taking up space' if you use the file, Lieutenant," he countered gently. "And it would have been somewhat easier than making it from scratch," he added.

She stared at him again - then looked past him to the delicate spray of golden bloom that now filled a vase - the only remains of the guerian flower bush that had been in the arboretum.

"You... made tea? For me? From scratch?" she whispered.

He smiled tolerantly. "Making the tea was simple. Digging up the bush took a little more time," he replied.

"You... dug up the bush - to make tea - for me?" she managed.

"For the both of us," he replied - then gestured at the couch. "Why don't you sit down while I pour out?" he said, reaching for the delicate china teapot, and carefully filling two paper-thin cups with the golden brew - then realized she hadn't moved.

"Lieutenant?" he said. "From what you've said, you'll want to drink this while it's hot - and when this is gone, there won't be any more until the cuttings root - or until you reinstall that program. So please, drink it while it's hot," he said, gesturing at the couch once again.

Too overwhelmed to argue, she slid behind the low table, took the proffered cup - then managed a tiny sip of the tea.

"Too strong?" Picard asked worriedly as she grimaced at the acerbic taste.

Andile shook her head quickly. "No, no, it's fine."

He smiled - though he wasn't entirely certain he believed her about the tea. "I'm relieved. There seemed to be some conflicting points in the computer files about whether one should shred or slice the roots..."

"Slice them," she replied instantly. "It decreases the surface area, so the sulfur compounds can't react too much with the oxygen in the air. That's where it gets that gods' awful..."

"...piquant flavor," Picard offered, gingerly sipping his own cup.

Andile nodded, taking a second sip, a feeling the hot liquid filling her stomach - and the stimulant it contained trickling into her veins.

Picard nodded approvingly as she took the second sip, watching a hint of color coming into her too-white cheeks, then took one of the plates from the table and handed it her. "Please - help yourself. There are croissant, pastries, several hot dishes under those covers... Lieutenant?" he added worriedly, seeing the stricken and sick look on her face.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" she whispered, setting the cup and saucer down hard on the table, her hand shaking as she did so.

"Why am I eating breakfast?" he asked gently. "I usually eat breakfast - though more often it's simply croissant and coffee..."

"I mean... Please. Don't do this to me. If you're going to punish me, just do it. I understand. I broke the rules. You don't have to soften the blow by being nice," she managed in a shaken and cracking voice.

Setting down his own cup, he turned to face her. "I'm not 'being nice' to you, Lieutenant. I don't feel a need to soften any blows I might deal out to my staff with a showing of false emotions. My staff consists of adult, professional officers, who know when they have transgressed the regulations - and know that there are prices to be paid for those transgressions."

"I know," she agreed shakily. "I broke the rules - so please, just get it over with..."

"If by 'get it over with' you mean, demote you, you're going to have a long wait," he informed her. "You've been demoted to ensign before - and it hasn't seemed to have any effect on your behavior - and I doubt that it will now. More tea?" he asked, reaching for the teapot, and raising it in offer.

Numbly, she picked up her cup, allowing him to refill it, and sipped at it automatically. "But... I broke the chain of command. I made a decision - and followed through with it - without consulting my superiors," she reminded him.

"I am aware of what you did, Lieutenant. I am also aware... that you were right. Not in what you did - which we'll discuss shortly," he added ominously, "but in why you did it. We need to help make this conference a success - not for the Federation, or the Romulans or the Cardassians, but for all of us. Our survival depends on it - but in my desire to make things equitable for all parties involved, I failed to realize that I also had an obligation to make things hopeful for all of us - to remind us of what we have to lose if we fail. Our music, our stories, our cultures - our peoples. Through some of the small changes you enacted at the reception, you did just that - and for that, I applaud your efforts - even if you did so without your superior's approval," he added, cautioning her.

"I did what I thought I had to do, Captain," Andile replied resolutely. "We have so little time; I had to do something..."

"But not manipulate the emotions of the delegates and this ship's crew," he interjected sternly. "Lieutenant, if someone had realized, if something had gone wrong..."

"But no one did - and nothing happened..."

"Except you collapsed," he reminded her.

Andile reddened, then looked down at the cup in her hands.

"Have you considered what could have happened if you had collapsed earlier? Before you were able to complete your actions? The delegates might well have become aware of your machinations - and all your good intentions could have back-fired. We could be looking at three delegates screaming to go home, protesting the attempts to subborn their free will by the Federation, and determined to let the Federation fail while they take their chances. No, you acted without thinking - both regarding the effect on the delegates - and on yourself," he added, his voice softening.

"What happens to me doesn't matter..."

"It does," he countered before she could argue her insignificance. Again, his voice grew gentler. "It matters greatly. Lieutenant, you hold a unique position on this ship - in that you understand this ship and its inter-related systems in a way no one else does. To lose you would put this ship, this crew and this mission in greater peril than your efforts last night could have offset. No, we need you with us - not running off on your own, trying to save the universe."

She stared at him, then whispered, "But if I don't, who will?"

For a long time, Picard studied her - then gestured at the table, "Eat."

Andile shook her head. "I'm not hungry, sir..."

He gave her an unyielding look. "It was not a suggestion, Lieutenant. First, I am quite aware of the medical necessity for you to eat - if you are going to recover - and second, and more to the point, Dr. Crusher has made it clear to me that if I do not watch you eat something - and report that fact back to her - she is going to make both of our lives miserable. Croissant?" he added, proffering the plate.

Andile stared at the pastries - then took one.

Settling it on her plate, she broke off a tiny corner, reluctantly put the crumb in her mouth and cautiously began to chew it - then looked at him hopefully.

"I don't think that's enough to meet the good doctor's criteria," he said, "but it's a start."

"I'm sorry - but it's been a long time since I've been able to eat..." She stared at the table, then looked back at him, hopefully. "May I?" she asked.

Looking across the table, curious at to what delicacy had tempted her at least, he nodded - and was stunned when she reached for one of the golden pears that filled a bowl at the center of the table.

It had been meant as nothing more than an ornament - but as he watched her bite into the pink-tinged yellow flesh and the saw her eyes close in exquisite delight, he was glad he had chosen the centerpiece.

More than glad, he thought a moment later, watching as she savored the juicy-fleshed fruit; he had never seen anyone enjoy anything - well, at least not eating - as much as she was doing now.

But her delight in the fruit was no match for the years of deprivation she had endured; after only a few small bites, she reluctantly put the remains of pear back on her plate, then wiped away the trace of pear juice from her chin before looking at him gratefully. "That's the best thing about Earth - the fruit. There's nothing like it anywhere in the galaxy. Pears, raspberries, peaches, apples..."

Picard smiled. "We used to grow apples where I was raised. It was - and is - a vineyard - but there were a few apple trees near the house. It was my chore to bring in the apples from the trees when they were ripe," he added, fondly remembering those early fall days, the light playing on the leaves of the ancient trees, dancing off the red and gold fruit, the scent of the apples mixing with the slightly sweet smell of the early windfalls that had already begun to rot on the ground, the sound of the hungry bees devouring the over-sweet harvest, the bushel baskets waiting to be filled and brought back to the house...

Andile studied him as the smile faded. "Sir?" she asked worriedly. "Are you all right?"

He said nothing for a moment, then realized she had spoken. Looking at her, he nodded. "Fine, Lieutenant - just thinking about those apples. There was one fall - when I was very young - that my mother told me to gather the apples and bring them into the house so that she could preserve them for the winter."

"And you didn't?" Andile replied, astounded at the idea.

"No," he agreed, "I picked the apples and brought them in - but not before I put aside more than my fair share of the biggest and reddest of them all. I hid them in my room, thinking no one would ever find them - though, being only four, I hadn't thought about how to get rid of the evidence.

"Needless to say, my mother found the cores in my bed the next day - and called me to task."

"You had to give back the apples?" Andile asked.

"All but my share," he said. "My mother was a fair woman - but she didn't want a repeat of the episode. My punishment was to spend the next four days helping her to put up all those bushels of apples... peeling them, coring them, making tarts and jelly and applesauce..." He sighed, then smiled and looked at the petite engineer. "I hated it at first - I hated not being able to be outside, playing with my brother and my friends - but after I time, I came to understand what I had done - and to appreciate the punishment. It gave me a chance to share time with her in a way I never had - and it gave me the chance to experience what my mother had to do every fall. I began to understand things from her point of view, as well as from my own."

Andile studied him for a long moment, then slowly set her plate down. "I gather that I'm supposed to realize, then, that the punishment you're about to give me is for my good."

He smiled at her.

"But somehow, Captain, I don't think you're going to have me make applesauce for the entire crew, are you?" she continued.

He shook his head. "That wasn't my intention. I had something a little different in mind, something that might help you appreciate things from another point of view - so you can begin to understand why there is a need for having a chain of command - and why we - all of us - need to follow it."

Andile nodded, understanding all too well - and queasy with apprehension. He had said that demotion to ensign hadn't been effective; was he planning on breaking her back to crewman? Sending her back to the Academy - as a cadet? she asked herself with a growing feeling of nausea. By the gods, what was he going to do?

But whatever it was, she reminded herself grimly, she deserved it. She had broken the rules... and she had earned her fate.

Whatever it was, she added anxiously.

She choked back the lump that was rising in her throat. "Yes, sir," she managed weakly. "What... I mean, how...?"

"The only way I can, Lieutenant," he replied firmly. "Therefore," he continued solemnly, "I hereby grant you a field promotion to Lieutenant Commander. Congratulations, Cmdr. Andile."


	89. Chapter 89

**Chapter 89**

She gaped at him, too stunned to reply, then pulled back, shaking her head violently.

"You can't..."

"I assure you, Commander, that I can," he replied.

"Yes, sir!" she amended instantly. "I meant... "

"You meant you don't want it," he answered for her.

She stared at him - then nodded. "Yes, sir. I appreciate it - but... I'm not officer material. I know. I'm an engineer - and engineering's where I'm meant to be!"

"Engineering requires officers, too," he reminded her.

"Yes - but I'm the kind of engineer who always has my head in the engines..."

"Except when you're helping the transporter team become a team," he reminded her. "Or helping a nervous ensign learn good work habits. Or soothing a Security officer who's suffering from claustrophobia. Or helping a fellow officer learn to handle his emotions."

Andile felt a cold pain stab through her chest - but refused to say anything.

But if Picard saw her flinch, he said nothing, easily moving on. "Those are the actions..."

"... of any Starfleet member..." she tried.

He gave a soft snort of disagreement. "If those were the actions of every Starfleet member, this would be a far better universe, Commander," he disagreed.

"Lieutenant," she countered.

He ignored her response. "Those are the actions, Commander," he repeated, a soft emphasis on the title, "of a concerned _officer_. And when that officer sees a situation and takes it on to herself to find - and execute - a solution then I know I'm looking at someone I would like on my command staff," he continued.

She gaped at him, astounded. "But... you said...you said what I did was wrong!" she protested.

"It was," Picard concurred. "Commander, one of the hardest lessons for an officer to learn is that sometimes, she is going to make the wrong decision. And when that happens, she is going to have to accept the blame for it. A good officer does that; she doesn't run from responsibility when it is thrust upon her - the responsibility to act or the responsibility to accept blame when those actions fail."

"In that case," Andile replied instantly, "it wasn't my fault!"

Picard smiled broadly. "Too late, Commander..."

"Lieutenant," Andile protested.

"Commander," he countered. "I've seen the way you work..."

"Which is why I'm here!" she argued.

"... and I see in you the potential to become a top-rated officer."

"But... but... but... I've been a lieutenant commander! I didn't last a week!" she reminded him.

"You didn't last - because you requested a demotion," he reminded her, growing solemn. "Not because you weren't able or capable - but you didn't want the position."

Andile felt herself growing pale. "I didn't want to be responsible for all those lives, sir; I still don't."

"No? But you're responsible for all the lives of the crews and passengers aboard the ships you design? You were responsible for teaching hundreds - thousands! - of cadets - and ensuring that they knew how to be responsible for others' lives! Last night, you took the responsibility for a billion lives onto yourself when you did what you did!" he reminded her sharply.

"Responsible for helping them - yes! We are all responsible for that, Captain!" she reminded him, then shook her head. "But not for their lives! I... I can't do that," she admitted. "I can't watch them die."

He nodded, understanding. "Which is why you wanted to go on the mission to Cardassia alone," he said.

Andile nodded. "Yes, sir. Captain," she added hesitantly, "I've had people under my command die before - but after Wolf 359, a part of me... broke. I knew I couldn't bear to be responsible for those lives."

"You saved hundreds of lives," he protested gently.

"And lost hundreds more," she countered plaintively. She looked up at him, her eyes empty but for the pain that filled them - a pain, an old ache that he, too, knew - and wished no one else would ever know.

"Captain, I could hear their cries for help," she said softly. "I could hear them begging for someone - anyone! - to save them - but I couldn't! I had to make decisions on which ones I could save - and which ones I couldn't. I had to pass them by - and listen to them die."

"They weren't under your command," he tried softly.

"Which doesn't make their deaths any less my responsibility," she reminded him.

No, Picard thought to himself; they were mine. If I hadn't been captured...

He fell silent, remembering the days and weeks of guilt-ridden nightmares that had followed his capture by the Borg, and their brutal usurpation of his body and mind. He had had no control over what they had made him do, and no way to prevent their theft and abuse of his knowledge - but that had never changed his certainty that he had been ultimately responsible for what had happened afterward.

Ten thousand people, he grieved.

"If I had only been a little faster..." she was whispering.

If I had only been a little stronger, his thoughts echoed, his fury raging, the old pain surging up once again.

"If I had only been a little quicker..."

If I had only fought a little harder...

For a long time, a silent anguish filled the two, the room quiet, chilled by the ancient, shared pain.

Picard closed his eyes, too many memories, too many old pains rushing back over him.

If only...

"Captain...?"

A soft voice - and a gentle touch on his arm - startled him out of the reverie that had filled him. Giving a slight gasp, he looked toward the source of the gentle touch, and was startled to see Andile crouching beside him - and on the other side of the couch - and pressed a cup into his hands.

Automatically, he sipped gingerly at what he knew to be the bitter tea - then looked up as a rush of exquisite flavor filled his mouth. Startled - but pleased - he looked at her in silent question.

"You were drinking the guerian root tea to be polite," Andile explained, "but I know you don't care for it. I thought you'd prefer this. You do drink coffee, don't you?" she added, suddenly worried.

"I do," he murmured. "And this is excellent. But different," he added, taking another sip, wondering how long he had been lost in his thoughts. Long enough for her to come to grips with her own memories, he decided - and to replicate this, he added, savoring the rich taste.

Andile smiled, reached into her tool belt and held up a disk. "It's good, isn't it?" she said. "I used to drink coffee - but replicator coffee never tasted as good as it should. Seemed a shame," she added, "since Earth coffee can be so good - if anyone bothered to create a really good program for it.

She fell silent for a moment, then raised her eyes to his, the sadness heavy in the once again. "After... After Wolf 359," she said slowly, the smile fading to a somber line, "they wanted me to reconsider my decision to return to my position as an engineer. They made me take some time off - to think, they said - but my mind was already made up. So I spent that leave on this - creating a really good replicator program for coffee - and on the preliminary designs for this," she added, the smile returning as she gestured at the room, the ship, around her. "Of course, I didn't know this ship would be this ship; the old D was still up and running..." She fell silent at the pain she saw in his eyes, then forced a smile, staring at the cup he held. "But they both turned out pretty well, didn't they? This ship - and the coffee? Sun-fermented Sumatran coffee beans, ground to one million, seventy-three thousand particles per cubic inch, Coriane spring water at six degrees Celsius, and reverse pressure brewed at zero point three atmospheres, then served moments after brewing is completed. Two sugars to offset the inherent bitterness... Oh, no! I'm sorry!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I didn't ask if you took it sweet!"

"I don't - but on this case, you're correct - the sweetness is absolutely necessary," he said. "It's... perfect," he added in complete honesty.

"Thank you," she replied. "I spent a long time on it," she added - then took a sip from her own cup... of rapidly cooling guerian root tea, and not the exquisite coffee he was drinking.

Picard felt a pang of sorrow run through him, aching for the damage done to the woman beside him, for the things she had had to give up or deny herself because of her dedication to Starfleet.

But coffee wasn't one of those things, he thought in a burst of realization, remembering what she had said the night she had first brought him the tea; she had given it up because of her illness - but Beverly had assured him that she was on her way to recovery - slowly, yes - but recovering nonetheless.

Then why deny herself this simple pleasure...?

Because she couldn't, he realized. Because that child had died, her crew had died, her team had died... How could she allow herself to enjoy the pleasures of life - when they could not enjoy them?

Beginning to understand the engineer... no, he amended, not the engineer, but rather the woman - the _person_ - beside him, he took another sip from the cup, relishing the flavor and the time it represented, and reminded himself to savor what life had to offer while he could enjoy it.

And, he added firmly, to help those who served with him to learn to do the same as well.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For...?"

"The coffee - and this ship," he added.

Andile smiled, understanding, and rose to her feet. Turning, she took a moment to study the ready room, the long windows gracing the bulkhead, the soft curve that echoed the bow of the ship, restating its elegant sweep while reducing the scale to a more comfortable level... It was a remarkable room, designed for a remarkable ship - and for her remarkable leader.

She turned to look at him, studying the man as he sipped at the exquisite coffee, then spoke quietly. "You couldn't have stopped them," she said softly.

He hesitated for a moment - then nodded slowly. "Any more than you could have saved your team - or the child."

Andile's eyes met his. "But neither of us will really ever believe that, will we?"

He shook his head. "No. If we could, we wouldn't be the people we are."

"So what do we do?" Andile asked quietly.

"We do the thing that makes us the people we are; we do the hardest thing possible. We move on," he said.

Andile shook her head. "I... can't. I can't forget..."

"Not forget," Picard corrected her. "You never will forget what happened - and you shouldn't. But that doesn't mean you can't take what you've learned - and move ahead with your life."

"No! It's wrong!" she insisted. "I'm andile! For me to benefit from her death... from any of their deaths..."

"Then they died for nothing, Commander," he replied. "If they died for a reason, it was to preserve the Federation, to preserve what they believed in - what we all believed in... and to save lives. Including yours," he added. "Remember what they sacrificed - by using it to help others as they helped you."

"I thought that was what I was doing," she argued.

"I didn't mean to suggest you weren't," he replied. "But your position and your rank limits your authority. The number of people you can reach is limited - and to accomplish anything comes at a great personal cost," he added. "As a lieutenant commander, you will have the rank and the authority to effect change over a greater range, to help more people - to save the universe," he added with a small smile.

Andile reddened in shame, remembering her presumption.

"With authority comes responsibility - but in all the years you've been in Starfleet, you've never shirked from any responsibility. On the contrary, you opened your arms and accepted it - and when it hasn't come to you, you've sought it out. I'm asking you to do that once again - to embrace a new set of responsibilities - to become the officer that I know you can be, to help the Federation as I know you want to do - and to honor the sacrifice that your team made."

He continued. "I won't pretend it's going to be an easy path - it isn't. This won't be a simple field promotion, done in the heat of necessity. There will be months of study under a preceptor, hours of practice and work in every department of the ship, learning not only how the ship functions as a machine, but how the people inter-relate to it - and to each other. Studying the command structure of Starfleet. Theory and practice in diplomatic relations. Interstellar law. Treaties - and battle tactics. Every aspect of command you could imagine - and more. The work will be grueling, Commander, and the hours long and arduous - but I assure you, the rewards - professionally and personally - will be worth it," Picard promised her.

"I've never wanted to be more than what I am," she argued.

"Then say 'no' - and I'll drop it," he replied.

"You said that about my decision for the treatment," she reminded him.

Picard raised a brow. "I never said I wouldn't try to convince you otherwise, first," he reminded her. "But if, in the end, you had said, 'no', I would have honored your request. As I will here," he added.

"And if I decline, my punishment will be...?"

"Nothing," he replied. "You know what you did; you knew why it had to be done. Had you been in a position of authority, however, I would have spent last night writing up a letter of commendation for you - and beginning the steps necessary to make some aspects of your plan - the food, music, lighting and so forth, Starfleet standard protocol - rather than trying to create a corrective action plan."

Andile smiled. "Well, it's nice to know I'll still be keeping you up at night, one way or the other," she said.

"Not really," he demurred with a smile. "Part of learning to work in a command position means learning to delegate responsibilities - and activities. Accept the promotion - and _you'll_ be the one staying up, writing the reports on your own people," he replied.

Andile smiled, then turned and slowly crossed the room. She stopped before the cut spray of guerian blossoms - then looked into the water that nourished the blooms.

"How long will it take for these cuttings to root?" she asked curiously.

"If the computer files are accurate, about four months. And another eight months after that for the roots to develop to the point where you can make tea," he added.

"Twelve months. That's a hell of a long time to wait for a cup of tea," she said as she studied the yellow blossoms of the plant.

"You could simply reload your program," Picard reminded her.

Andile smiled. "I'd have to. The gods know I won't stay awake at night writing those reports without something to keep me going." Yesterday, she thought to herself, I had thought that it would have been Da... him... that had kept me awake at night - and put me to sleep. But that was over.

She looked back, resolved. "I never was one to turn down a challenge," she informed him.

As Picard watched, she stepped to the replicator, quickly entered the program code, then touched the panel to set the program in place - permanently.

It was all the answer he required.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "while I can grant a field promotion, the paperwork still needs to go through the channels. Under normal circumstances, that would be the first step - but as this requires that we maintain subspace silence, the formalities of the promotion will have to wait. Until then, you'll retain your current rank. Your training, however, needn't wait for the mission to conclude," he added.

Andile nodded. "Yes, sir. Where do I start?"

"With breakfast," he reminded her, gesturing for her to join him on the couch once again.

As she took her place, she watched him as he pulled out a padd, thumbed it into operation, took a new plate, loaded it with a variety of breakfast pastries and sliced fruits - and placed the entire assemblage before her. "You can review the training protocol - while you're eating."

She gaped at the food piled on the plate. "But..."

"No arguments. I am not about to have my newest senior officer collapsing - again - because she forgot to eat - and I am not about to have to spend my time explaining to my Chief Medical Officer why she collapsed. You will eat," he ordered her, then added in a softer voice, "what you can."

Andile looked at the plate - then broke off a small corner of a croissant, and began to chew on it as she starting scrolling down the padd - then looked up at Picard.

"Timeline?" she asked

"Normally, it takes about six months - but under the present circumstances, eighteen months," he informed her. "I can't take you away from your other responsibilities - not until Cmdr. LaForge is competent on these new engines - and you've completed your validation reports. We'll try to place some of your training sessions around those duties - but I'm afraid you'll have to give up a portion of your personal time."

"Not an issue," Andile replied off-handedly.

Off-handedly - but there was a emptiness in her words that startled Picard; studying her, he saw a sadness in her eyes that hadn't been there before - even when she had been on the verge of dying.

Something had happened between the two lovers, he realized instantly - something terrible.

For a moment, her found himself tempted to ask - then stopped. His crews' relations - or lack of relations - were their own business. If Data and Cmdr. Andile's relationship was in trouble, it was up to them to resolve them, he insisted silently.

So why then, did he suddenly feel as if he was letting them both down with his silence? he wondered.

I intend her help her lean to enjoy life again; why can I not help her with this, then?

Because, he reminded himself, it would be a matter of the blind leading the blind. How can I help her with Data - when I have never had a successful relationship of my own?

No, in this, she would have to fend for herself, he insisted grimly. "In that case," he said at last, "we may be able to step up the process somewhat."

Andile nodded, her attention on the padd once again, then looked up. "Quite a few of these areas are going to require holodeck time. Does Cmdr. Riker requisition that or should I?" she asked.

"Cmdr. Riker?" Picard asked innocently.

"He is your first officer," she reminded him. "And crew training is the first officer's responsibility," she added.

"In most cases, yes - but not in this case," Picard said.

Andile frowned. "Then... who?" she asked - then froze. By the gods, not Data! she prayed silently - then realized what Picard must have meant. "Oh, you were going to have Cmdr. LaForge serve as my preceptor," she said relieved. It made sense, but... "But, begging your pardon, Captain - just how many lieutenant commanders do you need in Engineering?" she asked.

Picard smiled back. "It's not a question of officers in each department, Commander; I'll not hold an officer back who should be promoted. But you're right - there would be a question of who is in command," he agreed. "If you were in Engineering," he added.

"I don't understand," she admitted.

He gestured at the padd. "That's not the curriculum for a specialty posting, Commander," he pointed out. "It's for Command."


	90. Chapter 90

**Chapter 90**

Andile gaped. "Command? But I'm an engineer!"

He smiled. "As you pointed out, how many commanders do I need in Engineering?" he teased her gently.

"But... I've always been in Engineering! That's all I've ever known - that's all I was ever taught!" she protested desperately.

"Then it's high time for you to learn some new things," he countered, still smiling - then grew serious. "Commander, you already know how this ship works, probably better than any other person in the history of Starfleet," he reminded her gently. "You know how every component integrates with every other part of the ship. Now it's time to take that knowledge and put it in another perspective - to understand how the ship functions as a part of Starfleet."

"But... I like engineering," she tried plaintively.

"I'm not asking you to give it up - at least," he added, "not yet. At least, not until you've managed to get Cmdr LaForge and his team familiarized with the new engines. But," he continued, his voice growing earnest, "you have the potential, and, I believe, the desire to be something more than just an engineer - or even a Commander - and I would like to see you give yourself the chance to fulfill that potential."

Andile stared at him for a long time, then gave a resigned sigh. "You could outsell a Ferengi," she sighed at last.

Picard smiled, then shook his head. "I'm not trying to sell you on anything, Commander - except yourself."

"And changing my career," she added.

He conceded the fact with a small smile. "And that," he admitted, then raised his cup to his lips, sipped the still-warm coffee and gave a silent sigh of appreciation. Even only warm, it was still delicious.

"However, if, after you've completed the training rotation, you still wish to remain in Engineering, I'm certain Starfleet would be able to find a posting for you - including back at Utopia Planitia," he added.

Andile stared at him studying his expression for a long moment, then gave a small shake of her head. "Been there, done that," she said at last. "It was time to move on," she added - though not without a touch of regret in her voice.

Picard nodded, understanding - and empathizing. Command post or no, there was a distance that arose between any leader - official or not - and the crew that followed her.

Or him, he added.

How many ships did I serve on, he asked himself, before I finally found the Stargazer and the Enterprise? How many crews did I serve with, doing my job, but never really finding a place for myself, always moving on before the loneliness became too much - before I finally found a home?

Too many, he decided - but how many more had she served upon, he wondered, never truly finding a place for herself... or perhaps never allowing herself to find that place?

As I have never allowed myself...

Instantly, he chased the thought from his mind, refusing to dwell on decisions he had made long ago. Instead, he gestured at the padd on the table.

"But you are correct; Cmdr. Riker would normally serve as your preceptor. However, a Command training schedule requires the successful candidate to draw extensively from his or her personal experiences and integrate them into her training. Unfortunately, some of your experiences require your preceptor to hold a Security clearance higher than Cmdr. Riker enjoys. Which leaves only three people on this ship who can train you: Counselor Troi, Dr. Crusher, and..."

"You," she concluded weakly.

He smiled. "Unless, of course, you have an objection?" he added.

Andile hesitated, then shook her head. "No, sir. I suppose if you can put up with me..."

"You'll have to put up with me as well," he concluded.

She raised a brow in surprise - but not in embarrassment. "I wouldn't have put it that way, sir," she said, then added, with a grin, "Lieutenant commanders have more tact than that."

Picard smiled approvingly. "Good. You're learning. Now, let's begin with a review of the ship's current situation regarding sabotage," he began.

Andile stared at him for a second - then shook her head. "If there is sabotage," she clarified.

"If there is sabotage," he agreed. "The only unquestioned event was the one that occurred the night of the interrogation. Everything else could be nothing more than the effect of a rushed installation."

"By the gods, I hope I'm not that bad of an engineer," she replied with a smile.

"You're not - but this installation was done far faster than any protocol allowed for," he reminded her.

"Yes, but I did have the systems up and running during the test runs," she reminded him, growing thoughtful. "The first power anomaly wasn't detected until after that."

"Then you still believe the anomaly is related?" he asked.

"Not necessarily," she conceded. "But it does stretch the bounds of credulity. Not that I'm perfect - I make my share of mistakes - but in this case, the engines were working without any anomalies throughout the trial runs - and _then_ it shows up? No, that's not an installation problem," she insisted.

"No," he corrected her. "That means it's not an Engineering installation problem. You're not just an engineer anymore, Lieutenant - you need to learn to think outside the boundaries of Engineering. Let's assume it's not, as you say, an Engineering problem; then what areas of the ship could have caused a power anomaly of that level?" he pressed.

Andile shook her head. "That's part of the problem, sir; the power fluctuation is so minute that it could have been from any area of the ship - except for the fact that the variation is in the warp power supply - not the generator supply. That means someone tapped directly into the warp engines power supply - and that means it is an Engineering problem."

"Or..." Picard began.

Andile's eyes widened in realization. "Or someone made a mistake," she said.

"A possibility," he agreed. "It wouldn't prove sabotage, of course - perhaps it was nothing more than carelessness..."

"Carelessness that could have been fatal," she agreed. "Gods, if that's what happened, then we've got to find the source! If they tapped into the wrong power supply, then there's no guarantee they grounded the connection correctly - and the next time someone goes to touch - whatever it is - they could be on the receiving end of the same type of shock that almost killed Erzhen!" she announced.

"The question is: what was installed - and where?" Picard reminded her.

Andile tapped the padd with her fingers, drumming a complex beat as she considered the possibilities - then shook her head. "The anomaly is minute. Of the total power supply, it's virtually nothing... no more than, say, a monitor would require. But the ship is filled with monitors... I couldn't begin to guess where this one was installed... If it was installed," she added, suddenly thoughtful.

Picard raised a brow at the change in her tone. "Meaning what?"

Andile hesitated, thinking, then looked at him. "The anomaly... It's steady. I mean, it's consistent. The power usage on a monitor isn't steady - it varies in accordance with whatever it's measuring. But this doesn't vary - at least, not much - and always in the same range..." she mused, murmuring to herself more than to him - then looked up. "I don't think someone installed a monitor, Captain," she announced.

"Then what did they install?" he replied.

Andile shook her head. "Excuse me," she tried again. "I meant, yes, they installed a monitor - but it's not a monitor. I mean, it's not actually measuring anything. It fluctuates - a little, because that's what monitors do," she added hastily, her words rushing as she grew excited, "but it's not real. I mean, it's not measuring anything!"

"Then what is it doing?" Picard pressed.

"Nothing! But someone wants you to believe it measuring something!" she explained excitedly.

"But what - and why?"

"I haven't a clue!" she replied delightedly - then rapidly sobered as she saw the exasperated expression on his face. "My apologies, Captain, but I've been trying to figure this out for weeks. For the first time, I'm beginning to think I may be able to find an answer!"

"I share your enthusiasm, Lieutenant, but let us reserve the celebration until after we find the cause," he admonished her gently.

Andile reddened, then nodded. "Yes, sir." She drew a breath, forced herself to calm down, then nodded. "Let's assume it is a monitor - the power consumption is about right. Where - we don't know yet - but we can assume the reason was installed was to replace a functioning monitor that would have displayed a variance that was out of the norm - and would have informed someone that something was wrong."

"That explains why it was installed - but not where," he agreed.

"That's not entirely true; we know it's not in engineering," she countered - then explained, "No one down there would misread the power conduits - which is probably what happened when they - he, she, whoever," she quickly added, "installed the new one. The gods be praised, they did make the mistake - or I would never have noticed there was an anomaly at all; power variations are the norm in the generator line. But tapping into the warp power lines? That was a mistake - and a stupid one at that. One of the first things you learn on a starship is to tell the difference between the two power supplies."

"Which means it's someone new to the ship," Picard decided.

"New to any ship," she countered. "An ensign, a cadet who's just graduated..."

Or a transferee from Starfleet Medical, Picard thought.

Or someone who's been promoted through the ranks so quickly she hasn't had a chance to learn the basics, he suddenly realized.

"The computer core," he said quietly.

Andile froze - then nodded slowly, understanding. Every problem they had encountered, every error - all of it had been related to the computer in one way or another. If that was where the replacement monitor was... "The core," she agreed. "There are hundreds of monitors there. Core environment, power flow, berezine temperature, pressure level... change any of them, and you can damage the core - but disguise the monitor, hide the problem - and no one - except the saboteur - would be the wiser."

"Until the computer stops working," Picard reminded her.

"But which monitor?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, rising to his feet, tapping his commbadge. "Cmdr. Riker, please come to my ready room," he said, then looked back at Andile. "Your first assignment, Lieutenant," he informed her, then called out, "Come!" at the sound of the door chime.

Riker stepped in, his eyes and demeanor wary, uncertain what to expect from the volatile engineer this time. "Captain?" he asked cautiously.

"Commander, you and Lt. Andile will go to the computer core - and detain Cmdr. James."

Riker's eyes widened. "Sir?" he replied, uncertain.

"I suspect the cause of the power anomaly the lieutenant discovered is based there," Picard explained, "and I suspect Cmdr. James may be involved."

"Cmdr. James?" he replied in astonishment - then hurriedly announced, "I'll have a Security team..."

"No. Communications may be monitored," Picard interrupted.

Will's eyes widened in realization. "My God. Of course. That's how she did it, how she knew what we were discussing - even when she wasn't present - she monitored it through the computer system!" he said, astounded.

"Or tapped into the records after," Andile agreed. "That would be simpler, harder to detect... and she could do it at her leisure. But it would be a breeze to have the computer flag her if the right words came across the communications system - like 'Security team'," she added.

"Get down there, Will," Picard said. "Stop her - and don't let anyone touch anything until Geordi and the lieutenant can check the entire computer system."

Will nodded, looked at Andile, who was already rising to her feet and nodded toward the door. "Come on, Lieutenant."

The three stepped onto the bridge together, Andile and Will hurrying toward the lift, while Picard touched his hand to his badge. "Cmdr. Data, report to the bridge," he said, keeping his voice as calm as possible, hoping that the order - a fairly common one - wouldn't be one of the ones Sandra James had programmed into her warning system.

But just in case...

"Ensign Brouhaus," he called to the slender Tellarite seated at the helm, "take us out of warp."

"Sir?" she replied, confused.

"Take us out of warp," he repeated. "Full stop."

Startled, the woman hurriedly ran her hands across the board, obeying the order while Picard watched, hoping that the order, unusual, but not out of the order of the normal operations of the ship, would pass by the computer chief's warning program.

If there was one, he added, reminding himself that spontaneity and foresight had not appeared to be her strong suit during those tumultuous early meetings. Then again, he reminded himself, it could all have been an act, a pretense to lure them all into a false sense of security - and superiority, while she prepared to sabotage the most critical area of the ship.

"Captain? You wished to see me?" Data said as he stepped up to where Picard stood.

"Data," he replied, dropping his voice, "can you back up the ship's computer programs - without letting the computer know you're doing it?" he asked.

Data gave the captain a surprised look, then nodded. "It is possible. I can instruct the computer to run a self-diagnostic - and save the findings to my personal system. After the earlier computer glitches, I have begun running such a program..." he began to explain.

Picard cut him off. "Then do so," he replied urgently. "Back up every computer program on the ship as quickly as you can. Essential systems first... warp core, environmental... and Data, quickly."

"Is there a problem, sir?"

"Not yet - and with any luck, not ever. But there's too much at stake to trust to luck, Commander," he added grimly.

"Yes, sir," Data agreed. "That is what An..." He stopped in mid-word, then froze.

"Data?" Picard said impatiently.

The android gave his head a slight jerk - then started again, his eyes suddenly clear, bright - and utterly free of emotion. "I have heard that sentiment expressed before," he announced flatly. "I shall begin immediately."

A small part of the captain's mind recognized what he had seen - the pain in his friend's eyes - and the sudden loss of feeling from those eyes. Something had gone terribly wrong for Data and Andile - but this was not the time or the place to investigate that loss.

Perhaps it should be, a part of him knew; perhaps too much of what was important in life were those things he put off until there was a better time and a better place - only to realize neither would ever happen. Life was what happened while we were waiting to reach those times and places, he reminded himself.

Which meant, he added grimly, that life for a starship captain would never allow him those niceties.

He turned, steeping back to his chair, and settled in, wondering which would come first - Data's back-up of the computer system - or Sandra James' destruction of it.


	91. Chapter 91

**Chapter 91**

"I'd feel a lot better if I had a Security team backing me up," Andile muttered as the she rode the lift toward the central computer core.

"You heard the captain's orders..." Will began.

Andile smiled grimly. "I didn't say we should violate his orders, sir; I said I would feel better if I had some back-up. There's a difference," she reminded him. "I'm allowed to feel the way I feel - aren't I?" she asked tersely.

Riker looked back uncomfortably. "Yes, you are, Lieutenant." He hesitated, thought for a moment, then started again. "Lieutenant, before we reach the core, I think we should talk about what happened..."

But before he could finish, the lift came to an abrupt halt; sliding through the doors before they had finished opening, Andile hurried down the hall coming to a stop just beyond the range of the door's sensors, then turned and looked at Riker, as if to chide him for not keeping pace with her.

"Got a plan?" she asked as he reached her side.

"I'm going to keep it low key, Lieutenant, as if we're just here to talk; she's not expecting us - and I don't think she'll put up a fight," he reminded her. "And even if she does, I don't think I'll have a problem subduing her."

"Unless the rest of the techs are in this with her," Andile offered.

Will shot a glance at her, uncertain if she were joking - and still not certain as he looked back at the door. "Then we'll play it by ear; I'll talk with her, move her into the hall - and you set yourself by the control console. If anyone makes a move toward you, lock out the panel," he said.

"Right! While I'm holding all three of them off with my brute strength," she murmured.

"I can issue you a phaser..." Will started, but Andile shook her head.

"Never carried a weapon on my own ships, sir; not about to start now. And it would clue them all in that something was wrong. No, I'll be fine - if I can't dazzle them with my footwork, I'll baffle 'em with my bull... baloney. You just take care of yourself," she added.

He nodded, then stepped toward the door - and pulled up short as the door refused to open.

He stepped back, then stepped forward again - but the door stayed stubbornly closed.

Glancing at Andile, he raised a brow. "Lock-out?"

"Possible," she concurred. "But she's a computer genius - not an engineer. There's no lock on this ship that she can use that I can't break. Give me a sec..." Andile said, reaching for the keypad -

-and snatched her hand back. "Shit!" she yelped, waving her hand frantically in the air.

"Lieutenant?" Will replied, startled.

"Damn thing's hot!" Andile swore, blowing on her fingers - then tentatively reached out again. "Really hot," she added, then looked back at him. "I don't think it's a lock-out, sir - I think something's wrong in there."

Will tapped the badge on his chest. "Emergency fire team to the computer core! Medical team to the computer core!" he ordered, tapped the badge again, then looked at the engineer. "We need to get in there," he said urgently. "We can override the door controls at the cable junction..." he began.

"Not necessary," Andile interrupted. Without saying anything more, she stepped back down the hall, measured the distance to the keypad mentally, then took three long running steps and leapt up, launching herself at the wall beside the door.

Her right heel made solid contact with the keypad, shattering the plasticene that made up the surface; pivoting as her heel caught in the fragmenting material, she pushed off the wall with her left foot, freeing the trapped heel - and smoothly landed in the center of the hall once more.

"Pharoah's engineer," she informed Riker with a smile as she stepped back toward the broken panel. "I always build a second way in - or out - of everything. Now, all I have to do is cross-connect the lines..." She reached into the open panel, ignoring the tendrils of smoke that wafted out, and pulled out the optical fibers the panel concealed - and dropped them. "Damn, they're hot!" she exclaimed, quickly sucking on the burned tips.

Before Riker could offer to help, however, she grabbed the cable, pulled out two lines and held them up. "When I connect these, the doors going to open. Ready?" she asked.

Will nodded - then added, "Lieutenant, about what happened in the interrogation..."

She nodded, understanding. "Don't worry, Commander; you were just doing your duty. I don't hold grudges," she added.

Will gave a sigh of relief.

"Grudges are for people who don't know how sweet _real_ revenge can be," she added - then grinned at him. "Stand back - if there's a fire in there, it could shoot into the hall when the doors open. We'll go on three," she added.

"Three," he agreed as he pulled back.

"One, two... three!" she cried, crossing the wires.

For a moment, the door protested - then it slid open - and a blast of flame and smoke erupted into the hall.

"Fire!" Will confirmed, coughing as he caught a lungful of the thick fumes. "Suppression must be out!"

"The staff must be out, too," Andile called back. "They couldn't have stayed conscious in that for long!"

"We can't wait for the emergency team," Riker replied. "I'll get them..."

"Commander, it's alpha shift," she reminded him. "That means there's four people in there. You can't get them all! Either we do this together - or we don't do it at all!" she insisted, beginning to cough as well.

He hesitated, wanting to argue the point - but there were people - his people, even if one or all of them were traitors - and they were dying. "All right - but go in low - and stay low. If you find anyone, call out!"

Andile nodded and sank to her hands and knees.

The air was cooler - relatively - down here and more breathable - but they weren't going to be able to last long inside the room, she knew.

"The fire suppression controls are on the far left side of the center console - twenty-five feet in," she reminded him.

"But they wouldn't all have gone toward the suppression system," he reminded her, raising his voice over the sound of the fire. "You go toward that site, I'll circle around."

"Fine - just don't be a hero. I don't think I can drag your sorry butt out of there, Commander!" she called back over the deafening roar of the flames.

"What?" he shouted back.

Andile smiled to herself, then began to crawl forward.

Instantly, she was blinded, the thick smoke black and oily, the heat from the fire singeing her face and hair, radiating up through the metal deck plates and into her hands.

Not going to go far in this, she realized, lowering her head as close to the floor as possible, greedily sucking in the cooler, cleaner air down here - and reminding herself that it wouldn't last long.

Neither would her crewmates.

Flattening herself out against the floor, she slithered forward, trying to calculate her location from the floor plates - but in the dark of the smoke filled room, she realized that the landmarks that she knew so well would be useless.

By guess then, she decided; twenty-five feet was about 5 body lengths; she had pulled herself that far at least... hadn't she? Then where the hell were the bodies? She began to reach out, feeling around her for a fallen body - and finding nothing. Nothing! Surely someone had to be here! She insisted to herself. Surely one of them must have tried to reach the fire suppression controls!

If they could, she added grimly. If there had been an explosion, if the fire had sprung up so quickly that none of them could respond...

But an explosion or a sudden fire would have triggered every alarm in the room - and on the ship! she thought; the bridge would have gone to red alert even before they had left...

... and so would the warning lights in the corridors, she reminded herself.

And they hadn't.

Not even when Cmdr. Riker had called in the alert, she realized suddenly.

"Commander!" she called out, instantly regretting it as she sucked in a lungful of acrid smoke. Choking, she moved her hand to brace herself against an uncontrollable spasm - and felt something. Something firm, heavy, unmoving...

Something dead.

"Commander!" she called out again, her voice hoarse and rough from the smoke-filled air.

"Over here! You found someone?" he called back, his words almost lost in the noise of the fire.

"Yeah!"

"Two over here!" he called back, then added, "They're both dead."

Andile's hands played over the body, trying to find the body's head - then pressed two fingers to the neck. "Here, too," she called back after a moment of feeling no pulsations.

"That's three!" he called back, his voice growing louder - and increasingly rough. "You said there were four?"

"There should be!" Andile replied, coughing as she worked her way toward his voice. "Sir, we've got to get out of here!"

"Not if there's someone here!" he argued, finally moving close enough that she could make out his soot covered form in the fire-lit space. "I'm not going to abandon my crew..."

"Sir, if that person's still in here, they're dead - and if we don't get out before the temperature safeties melt on that door, we're going to be dead too!" she reminded him gesturing toward the entrance - or toward she thought it was.

For the first time since they had entered the room, a wave of panic washed over her; in the confusion of searching for the bodies and then for Riker, she had become turned around. The door, which had been behind her and to the left was now... somewhere, she realized - but exactly where, she had no idea.

"Commander, we've got to move!"

"What is it?" he shouted back.

"I'm lost!" she admitted. "I don't know which way I came in - and the only way we can get out is to follow the core's exterior wall to the door! Come on - quick! Before we're stuck in here, too!" She grabbed his hand, pulling him into action, urging him to follow her as she made her way to the exterior wall, then turned, keeping one hand pressed to the wall, keeping one hand in contact with the cool wall that marked the boundary between the fiery room and the cool, carefully protected environment of the core...

"Oh, gods," she whispered, the realization suddenly coming to her. "Come on, Commander!" she screamed. "Hurry!"

Riker at her heels, she started scrambling for the entrance, so driven that she moved her hand from the wall, knowing the certainty of the wall afforded them safety - but only if they made it in time, before the optical fibers that kept the door from closing melted through and collapsed. After that, there was nothing that would open those doors again until the emergency crew cut through the wall with their phasers - and by then they would both be as dead as the others.

But at the rate the temperature was rising...

He felt it before he heard it: a sudden change in pressure in the room as the smoke and air that were rushing out into the hallway suddenly found that route closed.

"Too late!" he shouted against the stifling atmosphere. "Come on!" he ordered. "We can go into the core!" The berezine would damage their skin, maybe even scar them both - but the environment was insulated against the fire; once inside, they could climb down to the next level and escape there...

"No!" Andile shouted. "We can't go into the core. The berezine! It's a vapor!"

"But the concentration isn't high enough to kill us!" he shouted back.

"No! But it's high enough to explode on contact with the flames!" she reminded him. "Open that door - and we're dead - and so are all the cells in the computer!" she added, envisioning the flashback that would incinerate the millions of living cells that made up the organic component of the Enterprise's brain.

Riker must have envisioned it as well - and knew that the death of the computer would also mean the death of the crew as well. Refusing to accept that outcome, but not about to give up his own life yet, he shouted back, "Then we've got to try to reach the fire suppression system!" he insisted, starting to turn.

"No, Commander!" Andile cried, pulling hard on his arm. "Sir, we don't have time! The fire's getting hotter! It's going to burn through the environmental lines - and when it reaches the berezine line..."

Riker froze, understanding what she meant. When it reached the line that carried the berezine from the holding tanks to the vaporization units, the room would be flooded with the compressed liquid. For a moment, it would suppress the flames - then as it vaporized in the hot air, it would become as volatile as the mist that filled the computer core.

For a few minutes it would be peaceful, still - and then, Will thought, they would die. Instantly, their bodies incinerated so completely there would be little more left of them than the odd bit of well-charred cellular debris.

It was not, he thought bitterly, the way he had intended leaving Starfleet - but then again, he thought, many people who had left Starfleet hadn't gone the way they intended. Rare was the officer who died at home, in bed - and of old age - though there had been more than a few nights spent in Deanna's arms that he had thought he was about to pass on.

Deanna, he realized suddenly.

Imzadi.

I never said 'good-bye'...


	92. Chapter 92

**Chapter 92**

The voice, screaming through the fire and smoke, cut into his thoughts.

"Commander!" Andile's voice shouted at him, "Come on! I've got an idea! Hurry!" she added urgently.

Before he could question her - or try to question her, he added, knowing she was not going to waste whatever few moments of time they had left on explanations, she hurried away, trusting him to follow her quickly as she scurried along the wall's edge - then pulled up short at a small access panel.

"In there?" Riker shouted, realizing that she intended to take them into one of the miniature accessways that lined the ship. "I'm not going to fit!" he insisted.

"Fine! Then I'll go first - and your body can fill the opening and save me from the explosion!" she shouted back, hurriedly undogging the locks that held the cover in place.

For a moment, he tried to dream up an equally witty response - then realized that, for once, she wasn't joking.

He began to work on the remaining fasteners.

The fire had heated the metal of the latches to an almost unbearable point; Will jabbed at the latch, trying to loosen it without burning his fingers, then pulled his uniform's sleeve over his fingers to protect them and tried again. For a moment he imagined the heat had started fusing the threads of the bolts to those of the latches - then decided the alloy was far too durable - and the temperature too low - at least relatively - to have performed such a feat. No, he decided, it was probably nothing more than a lack of use - and the inevitable expansion of the metals as they grew hotter.

It wasn't his imagination, however, that brought the smell of burning flesh to his nose; desperate to open the latches, Andile had given up the protective barrier of her uniform sleeve for the sure grip of her fingers on the stiff latch - and with every turn of the latch, a new blister arose, broke - and the skin below began to char.

Horrified - and spurred into action - Will grabbed the next latch, jerked it loose, and began to spin it free.

A moment later, all eight latches were off - and Andile scampered into the tight space, Will on her heels, clearing the tight entrance more easily than he had anticipated.

"Stop!" Andile shouted as him as he tried to push her forward.

"The explosion..." Will began to argue.

"Will follow us right in here if we don't close the hatch!" she reminded him.

He didn't argue the point; turning awkwardly, her reached out of the opening, pulled the latch over the opening and began to close the latches...

There should have been a moment of silence, Andile thought a moment later. By every rule of physics and chemistry, when the line burned through, the berezine should have flooded the compartment, choking off the flames for a few seconds - maybe even minutes - then turned to vapor in the heat of the room - and then, she announced silently, _then_ it should have exploded.

What it should not have done was to explode on contact with the fire, Andile insisted as she lay crumpled against the far wall of the access line, her body thrown there by the concussive blast, Will Riker's sprawled over hers. It should not have done that, she repeated foggily. I'm going to have to have a talk with the berezine, she added. Write it up. First action as a commander, she thought to herself: write up defective chemical compound for failure to follow documented behaviors.

She would have laughed - but it hurt too much to laugh. It hurt too much to do anything, she added - except think.

For a moment, she lay there, thinking - and watching the bright orange flames of the fire as it sucked the little remaining air out of the accessway.

Orange? Berezine didn't burn orange! She thought to herself. Berezine burns blue... or rather, she insisted, it explodes blue. It doesn't burn at all! But those were flames!

Gods! she realized in a flash; it wasn't the berezine line that had ruptured - but one of the other life support lines for the computer. Oxygen, methane... there were a dozen other lines that could have burned through first, she suddenly realized - it didn't have to have been the berezine!

But the room was still on fire - and invariably the berezine line _would_ rupture - and the fact that they had survived that first explosion... They had both survived - hadn't they? she wondered dimly.

She looked at Riker, saw him beginning to move, slowly and painfully... yes, they had both survived, she realized - but they might not survive the next explosion.

And they definitely wouldn't survive the explosion that would follow the rupture of the berezine line.

Ignoring the pain in her body, she scrambled over Riker, maneuvering her body past his somehow, reaching for the cover panel - then slamming it frustratedly against the opening.

Caught in the explosion just as they had been, it too had been slammed against the wall in the corridor - and now it was hopelessly bent out of shape.

Damn! she swore. Now they had nothing to protect them from the next explosion... except maybe the bulk of the ship, she realized, her eyes lighting up.

She jammed the panel into place, affixing the latches as best she could; it would never stand up against an explosion - but it might slow it - and that, along with a little luck, meant they might be able to be out and through the accessways before the explosion happened.

"Commander," she said as she scrambled back to where he still lay groggily, "come on! We've got to get moving. I've put the panel in place..." she started to explain - but the eyes looking back at her were incapable of comprehension.

"Commander?" she repeated.

He stared at her emptily - then slowly, his foggy eyes cleared. "Lieutenant?"

"Sir, are you all right? Can you move?" she added/

He thought - too long and too hard, Andile decided - then slowly nodded. "My head..." he tried to explain, reaching up - and pulling back a blood-covered palm.

Instantly alarmed, she wriggled her way back toward him until their bodies were pressed against one another, their eyes looking directly into the others - and Andile felt herself go cold.

One of Will's eyes was wandering, as confused as he was - but the other was not, the pupil was fixed and dilated open.

Concussion? she tried to remember. Brain injury? Andile shook her head. She was an engineer, not a physician - but she knew enough that whatever the diagnosis, it wasn't good.

She did know enough, however, to know anyone with that kind of injury shouldn't be moved - but it was either get Riker out of the accessway - or leave him to die.

Great! she thought to herself. Just fucking beautiful. Kill the first officer by moving him - or kill him by not moving him. What a lovely choice to make as my first command decision.

Not that there was really a choice to make, she added; Riker out-massed her by at least one hundred per cent; while it was possible she might be able to move him a brief distance, she would never be able to maneuver him through the tiny corridors on her own... Gods! she realized suddenly, he couldn't go through those passages anyway! He was far too large, his shoulders far too wide... She thought, hurriedly running the ship's schematics through her mind, then nodded to herself. There was a way - a little longer, a little more complex - but it was wider than the usual passages... he should be able to make it, she decided.

"We're going to have to move, Commander," she informed him.

"Move?" he repeated dully.

"There was an explosion in the computer core; you were hurt," she added.

Will looked at his bloody hand, then reached up to his head - then nodded. "My head," he agreed.

"I think you have a concussion," she lied.

"Shouldn't move," he replied.

"I know - but if that berezine line ruptures..."

"Emergency team," he countered. "I called them."

Andile shook her head. "Commander, I don't think that call went through. If it had, the alert lights in the hall and the computer core would have gone to red. They didn't. Hell, they should have been red just from the fire!" she added angrily. "But they weren't on - not even when I went back to put the panel cover on. Commander, I don't think this fire was accidental; if it was someone in that room would have made it to the suppression system - and someone else would have notified the fire team. No - that fire was intentional - as was the failure of the suppression system, the comm system, and..."

"And...?" Will prodded, Andile's voice helping him to focus - and knowing there was something else - something important - that she was thinking of.

"And... the murder of those three techs," she added.

"Murder?"

"They had to be dead before the fire started," she insisted glumly. "If they were alive, they would have tried to stop the saboteur and put out the fire... but they didn't. No, Commander, they were dead before anything went wrong.

"As we will be," she added, "if we don't get moving. Can you follow me?"

He nodded. "I'm... a little foggy - but it's not that bad. Lead on, Lieutenant," he said.

"Okay," she said, eyeing him warily. "The first passage is going to be a little tight - but after that we'll move into the larger accessways. You're going to have to follow me carefully; I didn't bring a handlight," she admitted as she started down the rapidly darkening hall - and heard Will's soft chuckle.

"I thought a good engineer was always prepared," he reminded her.

"She is," Andile agreed, "which obviously means I'm not a good engineer."

"I'll argue that point," he replied, "if this path of yours gets us out of here in one piece."

"The path is not going to be the issue," Andile replied. "It's going to be a matter of can we get ahead of the flames, the smoke - and the berezine."

Riker, padding behind her on knees and hands already sore from the unfamiliar abuse, nodded - then gritted his teeth as a sharp pain stabbed through his temples.

Don't shake your head when you've got a concussion, he informed himself. And...

There was something else he wasn't supposed to do, he thought, trying to remember his Academy first aid courses - and Beverly's lectures.

Beverly, he thought to himself, a vague memory coming back to him; she had had a concussion that first year they had all served together - how long ago that had been? - and how so many things had changed... and not changed, he thought. Deanna and himself, once together, long apart, and finally now back together... and the Captain and Beverly, still caring for each other - and still apart. How stubborn they both were, refusing to give in to what they felt... That was it! He remembered suddenly. She had said that when she had the concussion, she had kept giving in to the desire to sleep - and the Captain had to keep waking her up.

He needed to stay awake, he reminded himself - not that it was likely that he would fall asleep while chasing behind Andile through the bowels of the ship, he added as he scrambled to keep up with her.

Nonetheless...

"Lieutenant!" he called out roughly, his voice still hoarse from the fire and smoke.

Worried, Andile stopped instantly. "Yes? What is it? Your head? Are you all right?"

"The concussion; I need to stay awake," he told her. "Can you keep talking? Give me something to focus on?"

"Yeah, sure... What do you want me to talk about?" she asked, suddenly at a loss for words.

"You were talking about an engineer..." he prompted wearily.

Engineer? she wondered – then understood. "The Pharoah's Engineer," she said. "But surely you know that story," she replied.

He started to shake his head - then checked himself and answered aloud. "No. Never heard of it."

"Really? I thought all you Earthers knew that tale," Andile replied, surprised.

It's a big planet, Will thought to himself, too tired to answer her aloud. "No," he managed. "But I think this would be a good time to learn it."

"All right," she conceded. "We're going to turn left here," she added. "This accessway was designed for moving components... it's not much bigger, but you'll be able to move more easily," she explained.

Will nodded in response, no longer caring about the knife-like pains that shot from behind his eyes as he did so, saving every ounce of his rapidly flagging strength for following her around the turn.

Hearing him behind her, Andile began. "Once there was a pharaoh. Don't ask me his name - I don't remember - and it doesn't matter anyway. He was a powerful man - but a man nonetheless - and he knew that some day, he would die. But he also knew that when he died, he would be buried, along with all the wealth and supplies he would need to provide for him in the afterlife.

"To design the house that would contain his body and store his riches, he hired the Engineer. Now the Engineer was a good man, an honorable man. He was more than willing to fulfill his contract - that was, to build the pyramid for his Pharaoh and his riches, to keep them safe and secret for all time. He took great pride in what he was building.

"But the Pharaoh was not as honorable a man. Oh, perhaps at the beginning of the project he had been sincere - but as time passed, he began to wonder how the secret of his tomb would remain secret. After all, he knew that if his funerary goods were stolen, he would have nothing to provide for him in the next world - and he was not a man who was used to doing without the finest life - or death - had to offer. But wealth like that would be a temptation to the living. If anyone knew how to enter his pyramid, his wealth would be gone - and he would be left to suffer eternally.

"Now, how one could enter the pyramid was supposed to be secret - but the workers would know how it was built - and so would the Engineer - and that meant they would all know how someone else could enter it later. They could be bribed or tortured into revealing what they knew - and when that happened, his tomb would be violated, and he would no longer enjoy his life in the heavens with the gods.

"There was, of course, only one solution: to kill everyone involved in the project to protect his secret.

"We're going to turn right here, Commander," she interrupted herself.

Riker didn't even try to nod this time; his throat hurt too much, his head was pounding... and it was getting harder and harder to focus.

Andile hesitated as she came around the corner, turning back to look at Riker in the near-blackness of the passageway. He was slowing, the effects of the concussion and the fire taking their toll on the man - but he was going to have to do this for himself, she railed silently. He weighed too much for her to even try to move him through the passageway; if he failed, if he faltered, she would have to abandon him. She couldn't drag him out of here; trying to do so would only trap them both, kill them both...

But she didn't have to think about that for as long as he kept moving... and they would reach the exit panel soon, she insisted silently, refusing to calculate just how far that distance really was.

"But, as I said," she continued, trying to distract herself from the truths she did not want to face as much as she wanted to distract him, "the Engineer was a good man, an honorable man; when he learned what the Pharaoh was going to do to the workers - and to him - he devised a way to protect the people. Each worker would know only enough to complete his task. Certain key people would have to know more - but if he took them to their work places blindfolded, so they could never realize where they were working - and if they didn't know, they would be safe - from thieves and from the Pharaoh.

"So he protected them all - but who would protect the protector?" she asked quietly.

"So he allowed himself to be buried alive?" Will rasped weakly.

"He was an engineer, Commander - not a martyr," she chided him. "He didn't want to die; he just wanted to keep building his buildings. But the Pharaoh would never let him go. But what the Pharaoh didn't know couldn't harm any of them, the Engineer realized.

"And so he had the workers construct an extra, secret passage. But none of them knew that was what they were making - for the ignorance that protected them was going to protect the Engineer as well. None of them were allowed to construct more than a small area of the passage - but when they were all done, there would be a way for the Engineer to leave.

"And then one day, the Pharaoh died. The priests performed the rituals, then took the body and the funeral good to the chamber - and then they brought the Engineer in. They sealed them in together, then sealed the tomb, knowing they were protecting their master for all time and eternity. They said their prayers for the Engineer as well... and then they left, sealing the way behind them.

"As the priests left, the people watched them, then turned and walked to their homes... all but one, who headed out into the desert. He was never seen again in that land... but he had learned his lesson. From then on every temple he designed had a second way out.

"I learned that lesson as well - after I designed and built my first ship - and my client decided to knife me in the back rather than risk his competitors bribing me into revealing its weaknesses. Since then, every ship I build has got a second way out. Not necessarily an easy one," she added, thumping the accessway's metal flooring for emphasis.

It should have elicited a laugh - or at least a chuckle, she thought - but all she heard from behind her was... nothing.

Not even the sound of breathing, she realized.

Terrified, Andile quickly turned around, crawling back down the passage, pulling up short as she saw the dark mass lying in the middle of the corridor.

"Gods' curse!" she shouted. "The gods' curse you, Riker! What did I ever do to you to make you do this to me! Gods curse you, man! Why couldn't you have just died in that explosion?! Then I wouldn't have had to try to explain why I had to leave you to die here! But that's what's going to happen! I can't drag you out of here! You weigh too much - and I weigh too little - and you're just too damned big... The gods curse you!" she shouted, then pounded her fist against the floor - and coughed.

The fire, she thought as a fit of coughing wracked her body. The smoke must have filled the room - and having done so, it was now seeping into every crevice it could find - including oozing past the half-open access panel and finding its way to where the two Starfleet officers now sat.

Lay, she corrected herself, looking at the unconscious figure of Riker, lying where he had collapsed, imagining the smoke swirling around him, building up around his face, slowly smothering him, choking off his air supply...

Damn him! she swore silently - then shook her head.

"You're a real pain in the ass, Commander. You run me ragged in that interrogation, make me go through things I wish I had forgotten about a life ago, you shame me and humiliate me... I should leave you here!" But I can't, she added.

With a sigh, she grabbed his shoulder, turning him over, moving his face out of the sooty smoke, then slid her arms under his shoulders, and locked her wrists across his chest, braced her feet, began to pull...

... and went nowhere.

"Ever consider going on a diet, Commander?" she asked him bluntly, then leaned forward, re-wrapping her arms under his shoulders, digging in her heels once more, and yanking the body - and felt herself move a few inches.

Good! she cheered herself on. Just do that ten thousand more times - and we'll be home free! Of course, the accessway will have filled with smoke and the berezine lines will have ruptured and we'll both be dead long before then - but aside from those minor details...

Andile tightened her grip under Riker's arms, braced herself once again, and pulled him another few inches, then gave a raspy cough.

"Only a couple hundred more meters, Commander," she informed him hoarsely, even though she knew he was beyond hearing or caring.

"You know," she continued, talking more to herself than to him, "that couldn't have been the berezine line that ruptured. The flames were orange. Maybe it was the air supply; there was a high enough sodium content to have given it that orange color... damned shame it wasn't the carbon dioxide line, though," she added with a grunt as she pulled him another inch. "If it was, it might have flooded the room - and put out the flames.

"Don't know that might not have been easier on us both: quick death, suffocating... instead of slowly choking to death on this muck," she announced as a new fit of coughing shook her body.

Was the fire growing? she wondered. Was that why she was coughing so much more now that she had been a few minutes before?

No, she realized a moment later; the smoke wasn't that much thicker - she was simply breathing more deeply at the effort of pulling Riker's body through the corridor.

Lovely, she thought. I'm saving his life - but killing myself in the process.

"If I die in here, it's all your fault," she informed the body as she repositioned herself. "I hope you feel guilty. You'd better say nice things at my funeral. Somebody ought to," she added softly, realizing there would be no one else who would.

Your own damned fault, she reminded herself. You didn't bother getting to know anyone - and never gave them the chance to know you...

"I gave _him_ a chance," she protested softly, "but he didn't like what he found."

For a moment, Andile was silent, as she pulled the body along, then stopped, panting and coughing, and looked down at Riker. "Please say something nice," she whispered hoarsely, her throat burning fiercely with every breath. "It'll be a lie - but you can pretend. Just for a few minutes," she begged him softly - then planted her feet once more, tightened her grip, pulled - and felt something in her shoulders tear.

Too much weight, she thought, too far a distance - and I'm too small...

Andile! the voice screamed at her. Who are you to complain or find excuses! You are nothing; your life is nothing! You should be honored by being able to offer it up to save a real human! Andile!

"Shut up!" she screamed back. "I'm going to save him - and I'm going to die doing it - so just shut the fuck up! All right? Just shut up!"

Furious, she braced her feet again - and this time managed to move him almost a full half meter...

But it wasn't going to be enough, she realized. At this rate, the smoke was going to kill them both before she managed to get him all the way to the exit panel.

On my own, I could make it, she knew; I could leave him, go for help... but in this smoke, he'd be dead before I could get back.

She changed her grip and pulled again.

"Consider..." she started, then stopped as a coughing fit caught her.

"Consider," she tried again, her voice rasping, "a diet high in fruits and veges. Less meat and carbs - you got plenty of carbs in you, I think," she added. "Maybe start working out a little more vigorously... and don't tell me you don't have time. You and the Counselor have plenty of time for those sweaty calisthenics you do together... 'Men wear cologne'," she muttered with a shake of her head. "Cologne, my ass," she added, giving his body a vicious jerk - and feeling something else tear in her upper back.

This isn't going to work, she told herself. I'm never going to be able to get him out of here...

Andile! The voice hissed angrily.

"I'm andile! I know it! But it doesn't change the fact that I can't get him out of here - whether it kills me or not!"

Andile!

Gritting her teeth, Andile jerked the body hard, ignoring the searing pain in her muscles, pulling the body a good half meter once again... and knowing, once more, that it was not going to be enough.

I can't get him out of here before the smoke fills the passage, she knew. I can't leave him here, because he'll suffocate before I can get back with help! Which leaves... what? she asked herself shakily.

Gods, there has to be an answer. Every problem has an answer! I've taught that to my students for generations - how can I not find an answer to this problem! I'm an engineer, by the gods!

But this wasn't an engineering problem, she reminded herself...

Which didn't mean it didn't have an engineering solution, she suddenly realized.

No, she was never going to be able to pull his body through the corridor - but that didn't mean that she had to leave him to suffocate. If she could just get him somewhere above the smoke, he would be safe - at least safer, for a longer time, long enough for her to crawl out, find help, and get a medical team back to where he was...

She ran the ship's designs schematics through her head, visualizing where the nearest equipment alcove was... and realizing it was almost two hundred meters - and half a deck up - from where they were now.

I'm going to have to pull his body up there, she realized. Every other alcove is below us - and when the smoke finds a passage down, it's going to fill that space fast. So it's up - or he dies... or we both die trying.

"You're going to owe me after this, Commander," she muttered, summoning the last of her rapidly flagging strength. "But then, how many Lieutenant get the pleasure of getting to stuff their CO's body into a closet - and leave them there? You just better hope I make it out - or that's going to be your tomb, Pharaoh, and your Engineer isn't going to be able to show you the secret way out."

Determined, she planted her feet, braced herself and pulled, then repeated the action again, managing to pull the body along, a few inches at a time, until she felt the floor beginning to tilt up.

"Almost there, Commander," she assured him, planting her feet once again...

... and felt them slide out from underneath her.

Too steep? she wondered - then shook off the idea. The gradient up wasn't severe; the corridor was designed to allow equipment to be pushed along - and a steep grade would have made that impossible.

Maybe something had spilled, leaving the floor slick, she thought, repositioning her feet further apart - only to feel the same thing happen again.

What the...?

Andile reached down, feeling with her hand along the gentle slope for some area free of the slick substance - then jerked her hand back with a hiss.

It was hot! she thought, horrified. Had the fire gotten out of control somehow? Had it managed to work its way out of the computer core - into the central torus maybe?

The horrifying thought was quickly banished; had the fire spread, even through the torus, the smoke would have increased as well - but if anything, it had slowed.

Maybe the carbon dioxide line had ruptured, Andile thought - hoped! - desperately. It would have snuffed out the flame, eliminating the danger of a berezine line rupture...

Working through the possibilities, she brought her hand to her mouth, sucking on the burned palm to cool it - then suddenly pulled it out and began spitting.

Acid! she thought, realizing the searing pain in her hand and mouth were borne of a chemical, not from a flame. There was acid infiltrating the accessway - burning her hand and mouth, melting the soles of her boots, causing her to lose what little traction she had - but acid from where? There was no acid in the computer core.

Except for the berezine, of course.

Gods! she swore frantically. Leaning down, she grabbed her boots, yanking them off, planting her bare feet against the sloping floor, and ignoring the pain that began to work into her soles, began to pull Riker's body up the incline.

"Come on, Commander," she grunted, "you've got to help me! I can't do this by myself!"

Some part of his concussed mind must have heard her plea, for Will brought up one leg a few inches, bracing his foot against the wall, and pushing, sending them both back a good meter.

The thrust, so sudden and so unexpected, knocked the air from Andile's lungs - but she scrambled back, grabbing the man under the arms again, and coaxing him, "Come on! Do that again!"

Somehow, he managed to plant his foot once more, kick hard - and sent them both back another few feet.

Almost there, Andile thought, feeling behind her for the inset space that was designed to hold equipment that was being installed or replaced. A few more feet...

"Once more," she pleaded with the man, her arms wrapping around him one last time, her feet planted on the floor, watching as he did the same - then felt his push-off falter and fail as he collapsed into her arms.

Alarmed, she reached for him, pressing two fingers gently against his neck - and found the pulse, strong and steady.

He wasn't dead then... at least, not yet.

Reaching to the back of his head, she let her fingers seek out the wound, finding it thick and stiff with dried and clotted blood - but not bleeding actively anymore, she added, relieved once again.

He wasn't dead, he wasn't bleeding to death - which only left the concussion.

For a moment, she hesitated - then tentatively, apologetically, pressed her fingers along the length of the wound - then drew in a sharp breath.

It wasn't just a concussion, she realized; his skull was fractured, the broken bone pressing into his brain.

Panicking, she instantly opened her mind to him, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through her own head at the contact.

His thoughts were foggy, blurred, indistinct and confused... and beginning to fade.

"Gods," she whispered to herself, recognizing the signs of brain damage. Hurriedly, she pulled him up the last half meter and then to fold his body into the small space, carefully bracing him so he wouldn't collapse back into the corridor.

"Sorry - you're going to feel as stiff and sore tomorrow as I feel now... but if I waste any more time trying to pull you around, you aren't going to feel anything at all!" she apologized as she gently wedged his head against an equipment rack. "You'll be safe here until I get back with help," she added. It wouldn't do any good for him fall out now, she thought; all this work just to have him end up on the floor - and inhale a breath of the acidic vapors? No, she insisted; I'm not going to lose him.

She made a quick calculation; it would take about thirty minutes for the berezine and smoke to fill the lower part of the corridor and begin to fill this upper part - and probably a half hour more for it to reach Riker's face... he might come out of this with a few scars - but he would come out.

If, she added grimly, I can get help.

The problem was that the nearest exit meant going back through the passage they had just come out - then down and out another exit panel. And lower, she knew, meant the berezine and smoke had already had a chance to accumulate there.

How much, however, she couldn't guess - and how much she could tolerate was an even larger question. The acid had already begun to eat through her uniform, slowly turning the fibers into a slurry of acid and fabric, pressing against her flesh, slowly eating into her skin...

And even if she made it to the panel before the acid began to dissolve her flesh, could she unfasten the latches, find her way down the hall - and get someone back to Riker before it was too late?

And how the hell was she going to let them know where he was? she asked herself angrily. Communications were out, sabotaged by whoever had destroyed the computer control boards - and until they could access that room and repair the system, communications were going to stay out.

At least those communications were going to stay out, she reminded herself. But there were always answers. Engineering answers - and engineer's answers.

Knowing Riker was secure - for the moment - she turned, starting down corridor she had just come up, ignoring the pain that sliced into her face, hands and feet. Her eyes closed to protect them from the acid vapors - that was, until the acid ate away her eyelids as well.

But that wouldn't be for a few minutes.

The bigger problem was going to be going down that last corridor, finding the access panel, unfastening the latches - and doing it all on one breath.

The pain of the acid chewing away her skin was one thing - but one breath, and her lungs would turn into jelly.

Coming to the top of the last section, she risked a quick look - then quickly shut her eyes - but unable to block out what she had seen.

The pale pink haze of the berezine filled the corridor; she was going to have one's breath worth of time to get through that mess and open the panel.

Unless someone opened it from the other side, she realized.

She hesitated; it had been a long time since she'd tried this - and there was no guarantee...

She shook her head; it _had_ been a long time - and the chance that she could still pull off such a feat was unlikely... Unlikely? She rebuked herself sharply; it was damned near impossible! No, there had to be a better way!

She slapped at the badge on her tunic, waiting - praying! - for the familiar chirp... but the badge refused to cooperate. She stared at it, invisible in the black silence of the corridor, then gritted her teeth in frustration.

I haven't done this in... in...

In more years than I can remember, she realized soberly. Only the gods know if I still can.

But this isn't for me, she prayed to them silently. It was for someone else, a human, someone worthy of their blessing and miracle.

Not for me, she begged them. For him. For the ship. Please hear me, just this once. I'll pay the price, whatever it is!

Then sitting back, oblivious to the feeling of the acid chewing its way through her uniform, she drew a shallow breath, cleared her mind - and...

*Access way seventeen, exit panel corridor fifteen Beta. Cmdr. Riker's hurt. Send help. Access way seventeen, exit panel corridor fifteen Beta. Cmdr. Riker's hurt. Send help. Access way seventeen, exit panel corridor fifteen Beta. Cmdr. Riker's hurt. Send help, damn it!*

She tried to send the message a fourth time - but the pain in her head was inescapable now, obscuring every other effort she might make. Instead, she drew in another shallow breath, gasping slightly at the slight burn that followed, and knew she had no more time to wait for a reply - or for help.

Raising herself as high as possible, she drew in a deep breath of the cleaner air there, then braced herself, pushed off - and slid down the descending accessway, her melting uniform lubricating her path, speeding her trip, until she slammed into the access panel - hard.

Too hard. She felt the air knocked from her lungs for the second time in a few minutes - but unlike before, she pressed her lips together, refusing to give into the reflex that ordered her to draw in another breath.

That would be instant suicide, she knew; this, on the other hand, she thought as she reached for the first latch, was also suicide - only the slower version. It took time to unfasten latches - more time than she had - but if she could undog a few of them, she could vent the berezine, buying time for Riker.

Start from the bottom then, she told herself; being such a heavy gas, it would vent faster that way - and if no one had heard her message, at least someone might see the gas venting into the hall - and realize that something was wrong.

She wished she could warn them, she thought as she turned the latch with her charred, burned fingers, the flesh falling off as the acid continued to work its way through the tissue; wished she could tell them to stay back from the vapor before it burned them... but she wished she could have saved them all, she added sadly. The fleet at Wolf 359, the Chiemma, Varel, her parents... she had saved none, lost them all...

Lost them all...


	93. Chapter 93

**Chapter 93**

Beverly Crusher gave an exhausted sigh, leaning against the corner of her desk for support, then slowly peeled off her surgical gloves. Reaching up, she unfastened the hood of her surgical gown, pulled it off, then ran her fingers through her hair, separating the tangled and sweaty strands with her fingers.

I need a shower, she told herself - then amended the statement. No; five hours ago, I needed a shower. Now I need a bath. A long one. A long, hot bath - with bubbles. And someone to wash my hair, she added, deciding that if she was going to dream, she might as well dream large.

And a dream was all it was or would be - at least for a few more hours. There were reports to complete, tests to review, treatments to plan...

"Computer," she called out, "Coffee, hot, extra cream and extra sweet," she added at the last, deciding that the calories from the cream and sugar wouldn't substitute for a meal - but they'd be as close as she would come for the next few hours.

Or longer, she quickly added, looking up as she heard the doors to Sickbay opening - and watching the procession of blanket draped stretchers being brought in.

Beverly studied them for a moment, silently grieving for the lost crewmen, even without knowing who they were yet - then looked up as a final figure entered the medical bay.

"Jean-Luc," she said quietly, seeing the grief on the man's face - as well as the suppressed rage - and the unyielding determination to find the person responsible for their deaths. For a moment she was tempted to reach out to him, to try to console him - but that, she knew, would have to wait. For now, he had to be strong - for them, for her, for his crew - and for himself.

As she must be, Beverly reminded herself. "Are those the bodies from the fire?" she asked, her voice cool and professional.

He nodded solemnly. "Communications are still down, so we haven't been able to positively identify the bodies by their commbadges - but the schedule indicated that Lt. Galway, Lt. TeZijn and Lt. Enriquez were supposed to be on duty in the computer core this morning... along with Cmdr. James," he added somberly.

She nodded. "I can do a quick confirmation on their identities," Beverly said. "I did a physical on all of them when they came aboard..."

"I need an autopsy as well," he interrupted.

She gave him a puzzled look. "I thought they were killed in the fire," she countered.

"They may have been," he replied. "And they may not."

Beverly raised a brow in question.

"I find it difficult to believe that three experienced computer core officers failed to detect a fire - and then failed to initiate the appropriate fire protocol," he explained.

"You think they may have been dead before the fire began?" she countered, incredulous.

"I think... that I would like to find out what killed them before I assume anything," Picard said, his voice carefully neutral, carefully controlled.

Beverly nodded, thinking to herself, trying to prepare herself for her least favorite task as the ship's CMO, performing autopsies - four of them! she added... then looked up sharply at the captain.

"Three? I thought there were four bodies?" she objected.

"There are," Picard agreed. "But..."

"But you think one of them killed the others," she concluded for him.

"I don't want to think anything until I see the autopsy results," he repeated.

Beverly nodded, understanding the man's determination to remain open to the evidence. "I'll begin as soon as I'm sure Will's stable."

Picard looked at her, a new worry - or rather, an old one, suppressed - on his face. "How is he doing?" he asked, almost reluctantly, as if dreading the answer.

"A fractured skull," she informed him gently. "It was pretty severe. There was substantial damage to the underlying tissue. The bone fragments had penetrated the brain..." She hesitated, hating to voice her concerns, hating to make real her silent fears, hating to burden the man before her even more than he was already burdened... But he was the captain, she reminded herself; she owed him the truth, hard as it was to hear. "I thought we were going to lose him, Jean-Luc..."

"Will's not a quitter, Beverly," Picard insisted.

"I know - and that helped," she agreed, then added, "but I have to give credit where it's due: Dr. Matthews pulled him through. His reputation at Starfleet Medical was deserved, Jean-Luc," she said with a sigh. "He's a brilliant tecnical surgeon. He was able to remove the skull fragments from Will's brain and relieve the pressure with a minimum of attendant damage to the tissue itself..."

"And he'll recover?" Picard repeatedly, the concern belying the confidence he had espoused a moment earlier.

"He should," she hedged. "We really won't know for a few hours, until the swelling has reduced and we can begin regeneration of the bone... The damage was focused near the occipital lobe; there's a possibility he may lose part or all of his vision..." she mused, more to herself than to him - then saw the dread in the man's eyes. Smiling, she continued, "...but if you want my professional opinion, he's going to be fine.

"But I would be far more certain about his diagnosis if Andile hadn't moved him," she added unhappily. "For all I can tell, she may have caused as much damage as the explosion did."

Picard stared at her, confused. "Excuse me? Moved him? Moved him where? What are you talking about, Beverly?"

"She moved him, Jean-Luc," she answered him simply. "She either dragged him or pulled him through those ducts..."

He shook his head. "You must be mistaken. Will weighs at least twice what she does; she couldn't possibly have moved him," he protested.

"Oh, I agree: it's not possible. Nonetheless, she did it," she countered firmly. "There is massive trauma to the muscles in her back and shoulders - trauma that is clearly indicative of moving weight far in excess her ability. Add to that the fact that most of the damage from the berezine - for both of them - was on the backs of the legs - and it becomes obvious that she pulled - or dragged - Will through those ducts. If they had both been conscious, they would have been crawling, and they would have gotten the worst of the berezine burns on the palms of their hands and the fronts of their legs. No, she pulled him - and almost killed him in the process."

"Or kept him from being killed," Picard said after a moment's thought. "If she moved him, it was because she had a reason."

"The berezine?" Beverly asked.

"Or the smoke, or a fear of an explosion," he agreed. "She's been in enough situations to know her first aid protocols; she must have known that moving him was a danger - but she must have felt that if she abandoned him in the lower levels, his chances of making it would have been lower than if she moved him."

Beverly nodded, conceding the point with a weary sigh. "A no-win situation," she agreed - then smiled tiredly. "Except we did win... at least as far as Will and Biji are concerned," she added slowly, remembering the four bodies that had just been brought in.

"And how is the Lieutenant?" Picard asked, glancing past her at the closed doors that led to the surgery.

"Amazingly well. Her injuries were minor; I've put her in stasis..." Beverly began, only to have the captain interrupt her.

"Stasis?" he said, shocked. "But I thought you said her injuries were minor!"

"I did - and they are... relatively minor," she reminded him. "The trauma to the back and shoulders, berezine burns over eighty percent of her body... but only first and second degree burns. She looked worse than she was when Geordi pulled her out of the accessway; the berezine had melted her uniform, and it was eating through her skin; when they peeled it off her, it took away quite a bit of the upper epidermal layers as well. She looked like a piece of raw meat - but as I said, it looked worse than it was. Some damage to her lungs and throat from smoke inhalation - but somehow she didn't manage to inhale the berezine. If she had... well, even her ability to heal wouldn't have helped then; one breath and the berezine would have eaten through her lungs. She would have drowned in her own blood - and there's nothing technology, medicine, or regenerative genes could have done to save her. But she was lucky; the only severe injury were some third degree burns to her hands from the fire," Beverly listed.

"But why put her in stasis?" he pressed. "With her ability to heal..."

"Her ability to heal is the reason I've got her in stasis," she countered sharply - the relented, knowing he didn't understand. "She hasn't recovered enough strength to heal properly yet, Jean-Luc. If I left her to heal on her own, the same thing that happened to her internal organs would happen to her skin; she'd turn into a mass of scar tissue. No; stasis is allowing Alyssa to regenerate the damaged tissue - without taxing Andile's system. She should recover completely, without any scarring - and without debilitating her own recuperative system. She's still ill, Jean-Luc," she reminded him soberly. "There's been some recovery of liver and kidney function - but healing injuries of any sort is traumatic to the body, even when someone is in the best of condition - and in Biji's state, the stress from trying to recover from these injuries could set her back on her other recoveries as well. I don't want that, Jean-Luc. For her sake - or mine."

Picard gave her a puzzled look.

"Biji is not a good patient; she's even worse than you are," she explained with a gentle smile.

Picard brows raised in appreciation of the magnitude of the statement.

"I want her out of here as quickly as possible, Beverly continued, "and that means doing this the best way possible, by putting her in stasis, getting her injuries repaired, and then letting her come to. As it is, I'm going to have to keep her sedated until morning; I don't want another repeat of the last time I told her she was going to have to spend the night in Sickbay."

Picard knew she wasn't completely serious; Beverly was too fine a doctor to deny any patient the proper level of care just because they were difficult - though he had no doubts she would keep the engineer unconscious for as long as she felt appropriate.

"Then again, I suppose I could just invite Data to stay with her," she continued lightly - then felt the touch of Picard's hand on her arm, and saw him shake his head slowly.

She stared at him, confused - then felt a wave of sorrow wash over her. "Oh, no," she said quietly, understanding - and grieving. "What happened?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is... something did."

"You didn't ask?" she said, astounded - then immediately checked herself. "No, of course you didn't. Forgive me, Jean-Luc," she added. "I forgot who I was talking to."

"You're forgiven," he replied, tempted, for a moment, to tell her she could never been out of his good graces for long - but that was not a topic for this place - or this time. "How's Geordi?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

"Fine. He was only in the berezine for a moment - long enough to pull Biji out of the accessway before she inhaled the gas - then the triage team hosed them both down with neutralizing compound. First degree chemical burns - but we've already regenerated the skin and he's returned to duty," she replied.

"Good. I want him to head the investigation of what happened in the core," he said.

Beverly nodded. "How bad is it?"

"We don't know," he admitted, "and won't until Data and Geordi get in there. Communications are down, propulsion and navigation - but life support is still working," he reminded her, unnecessarily. "Short range sensors are functioning - but shields are down. Weapons?" Picard shook his head, uncertain. "Worf's checking on them - but we won't have a full report of systems functions for at least several hours."

She nodded. "Including mine," she reminded him. "I'll get my report to you as soon as I've completed the autopsies."

"Thank you," he said, his voice a little softer, a little gentler than usual; he knew how difficult this part of her job was - and admired the way she did it still, never complaining - but never without adding a new hurt, a new ache to the many she already carried.

He admired her for it - but found himself wishing he didn't have to.

But, he reminded himself for the second time, this was not the time or place for those sentiments. He turned to leave, only to hear her call to him.

"Jean-Luc?"

He turned.

"Are _you_ all right?" she asked him.

He smiled; there was no hiding anything from her, he reminded himself. Raising a hand to his head, he admitted, "Just a headache."

She nodded, understanding both the man and the situation. "It's been a morning," she agreed. "Can I give you something for it?"

"Thank you, but no," he said. "It's not that bad."

"All right - but try to get some rest and something to eat."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, the edge to his voice softened by worry.

"Jean-Luc?" she added as he started to turn once again.

"Yes?"

"It's a miracle that Biji and Will survived the explosion and the fire - but it's a bigger miracle that they were found in at all," she said.

"Indeed," he said blandly.

She studied him for a moment. "After all, there are kilometers of those ducts running throughout the ship - and they almost all link up with the core at some point."

"Indeed," he repeated. "Your point?"

She smiled. "There's a rumor that you ordered the emergency teams to that specific access panel where they found Biji - as if you knew exactly where they were - and that you directed them to where Will's body was found."

"Indeed."

"That's pretty amazing, Jean-Luc - considering we didn't even know if they were alive," she continued.

He looked at her for a moment. "I've known Will Riker for enough years to know that if he were able to find a way out, he would," he said firmly. "It was just a process of elimination; if they were alive, they would either escape through the core or through the accessways. Since utilizing the core would endanger the bio-neural cells, I eliminated that option - and since there were only a few accessways large enough for a man of Will's build to fit through, that limited which ones they could use," he said easily, as though the conclusion were obvious.

"Indeed," Beverly replied, then stepped closer, dropping her voice. "You shouldn't lie to your physician, Jean-Luc. You might have been able to realize that they took an accessway out - but there is no way you knew Biji would use that specific exit - or that Will was in that equipment alcove," she reminded him. "And to commit the rescue team to being in that one spot? You either took a hell of a chance, Captain - or you knew something you're not telling me," she concluded.

He reddened slightly at being caught out, then cleared his throat with a soft harrumph - but declined to explain further. "I'll be expecting your report," he said firmly.

She smiled at having caught him in... in something, she realized - though what it had been, she wasn't entirely certain - then let the smile fade as she began to prepare herself for the task ahead. "I'll get it to you as quickly as I can, Captain," she replied.

"And keep me apprised about Will - and the lieutenant," he added, casting a quick glance at the closed doors that hid the two officers and their surgical teams from sight.

"I will," she promised, then added, "But, in my expert medical opinion, they're both going to be fine."

He nodded, though his faith in her abilities conflicted with his own worry - then shook off the doubt. If she said they would be fine, then they would be fine.

Relieved, at least in part, he turned, stepped through the doors - and left Beverly to sigh as the exhaustion that had fled at his arrival returned in force.

Realizing she was still holding a cup of coffee in her hand, she sipped at it - then curled up her nose at the now cold and bitter brew. No time for a fresh cup, she decided, then began to strip off the surgical gown and prepare for the autopsies.


	94. Chapter 94

**Chapter 94**

"I never thought I would say this - but I wish I still had my VISOR," Geordi murmured as he slowly toured the charred remains of the computer control room.

Data looked at his friend in surprise. "You would prefer that your optic nerves had not regenerated?" he replied.

Geordi shook his head, smiling. "No, of course not. It's just that with the VISOR, I could see things I can't see anymore. I could scan for chemical residue, impact signatures, micro-traces of genetic materials..." He sighed as he looked around the devastated room, knowing it would take hours to find, collect and analyze all the scraps of residue that might - might! - tell them what had happened here. "I don't miss it, Data - but I would have a lot better idea of what had happened just by looking at it. Now..."

"Now, you are required to rely on the information gathered through tri-corders and scanners - as we do," Data answered. "Does this bother you?" he

asked curiously. "Do you miss your superior visual acuity?"

"The acuity - yes - but not the VISOR," Geordi explained. "As much as it helped me to fit in with sighted people - it also marked me as someone apart, someone different. Not just because of the obvious fact that I wore the VISOR - but the fact that I saw things on more levels than other people did." He smiled at his friend. "There was a time, Data, when I wondered why Dr. Soongh didn't give you the android equivalent of a VISOR - until I realized that, above all else, what he wanted was for you to fit in - to be just another person, facing the same limitations we do."

"But I am not - and never will be - just another person, Geordi," Data replied instantly - almost sternly, Geordi thought, looking at his friend in surprise - and finding an equally surprising stern expression on the android's face. "I am, have always been, and will always be - different. Separate. Apart. I cannot be human - and not all of my limitations can be overcome."

Taken aback, Geordi found himself unable to do anything other than stare at his friend in astonishment and pain. Something had happened to Data, he realized - something that had set the android back years on his path toward self-realization... and years ahead on the path to loneliness and bitterness, he added.

Before he could voice his concerns, however, the android had turned away, using his tri-corder to scan the far wall of the control room.

Geordi hurried to his friend's side. "Data..." he began worriedly.

"There is no evidence to suggest that the fire was initiated by a damaged control line," he said, his voice tightly controlled - but not unemotionally, Geordi realized. He was feeling - but trying to keep those feelings reigned in - and not doing a completely successful job, Geordi added.

"The oxygen line shows unmistakable signs of having been damaged by heat rather than by a concussive force," Data continued. "There is carbonization here and here," he added, gesturing to two points, "and a thinning of the diameter of the wall of the line, consistent with excessive but uneven heating from an external source," he continued.

"So the oh-two line melted from the heat of the fire," Geordi translated, "and when it did, the rush of oxygen into caused the explosion."

"Which, in turn, caused the fractures in the berezine and carbon dioxide lines to form; under continuing pressure, the fractures developed into ruptures, with the carbon dioxide line appearing to have broken first, thus suppressing the flames," Data surmised.

"So when the berezine line broke a few minutes later, the temperature was below the flash point," Geordi concluded.

"Hence no secondary explosion."

"Instead, the room - and the accessways - were flooded with the gas," Geordi reminded him, glancing down at his hands, feeling the slight tingle that would accompany the newly regenerated tissue for the next few days as the nerves readjusted themselves to the healing flesh. He sighed and shook his head. "I can see how it happened - but still, I can't believe Biji didn't design a safety system to prevent this from happening! Those lines control the environmental balance for the computer core; one mistake and it could have been the core that was flooded, not the accessway!" he complained - then reminded himself that it had been Biji who had paid the price for her oversight.

"Hmm?" he said a moment later, glancing back at his friend; lost in his disappointment and worry over his new friend, he hadn't been paying attention when Data had spoken.

"I said, 'On the contrary, Geordi; Lt. Andile did build a safety system.' I know this; I reviewed the design parameters during the preliminary meetings on the computer renovation, then oversaw the installation of the system. The system had multiple redundancies; it would have alarmed had there have been a drop off or build up in the pressure in the gas lines, should the concentration rates of the gas in the tubing system been outside control limits, should the storage containers exceed their designated temperature ranges, in the case of..."

"Okay, okay!" Geordi interrupted. "I get the point - there was a safety system! But if Biji built a safety system, why didn't it work?" he pressed the android.

"It did work," Data argued. "We validated the system through both computer simulated tests and real drills, and I reviewed its functionality; it did function within design parameters," he insisted.

Geordi stared at his friend for a moment, then nodded slowly, thinking he understood the problem. "Data, it wasn't your fault that it didn't work today," he told his friend gently. "What happened to Cmdr. Riker and Biji... That was an accident. And they're both going to be fine. She's going to be fine," he added, knowing the real source of his friend's foul mood.

To his surprise, the announcement didn't seem to affect Data in the least.

"I am not blaming myself, Geordi - nor do I feel responsible for the accident," he explained.

"Good," Geordi answered, though he wasn't sure he completely believed the android. "But... maybe it would be a good idea if you stopped by Sickbay after we're done here. Just so you can reassure yourself that they're both all right..." he began.

Data cocked his head, digesting the idea and the implication behind it - then straightened, and gave a solitary shake of his head. "That will not be necessary. Drs. Crusher and Ogawa are exceptional in their abilities. I am confident they will do their best."

"Data," Geordi sighed, wondering, not for the first time, how someone so intelligent could simultaneously be so dense. "I know you and Beej didn't work out, dating-wise - but you're still good friends. I know it would make her feel better - and I think it would help you, too," he added.

"It would not," the android replied flatly, "because... we are not."

"You're not... what?"

"We are not friends, Geordi. Lt. Andile and I. Our parting was not... amicable. Therefore, it would be inadvisable for me to visit her, as it would not increase her sense of well-being, and may, in fact, cause her greater stress," he explained.

Geordi gaped at his friend, astounded that anyone as mild-mannered and good-spirited as Data could have parted un-amicably with anyone - let alone with someone he had cared about. Dumbfounded, he started to protest - but Data had already turned his back on his friend and had begun to scan the damaged wall again.

"Data," he tried once again - then stopped. Data would talk about it, when – or if – he was ready.

He sighed, sorry that his friend was no luckier in love than he had ever been, wishing he could commiserate with the pain the android was feeling - but knowing there was no way one could ever truly share the feeling of being lonely.

Taking out a scanner, he began to examine the floor.

"The safety defaults did not work," Data said after several minutes, "because they were not permitted to work."

"Huh?" Geordi said, looking up from his scanner to where Data was pointing. Tracing the area with his own equipment, he studied the read-out, then gave a low whistle. "If these read-outs are right, the valves were jammed open. The shut-offs couldn't work, even when the computer triggered a shut-down," he sighed.

"If the computer did initiate such a cessation," Data suggested.

"You think it didn't?"

"A computer initiated shut-down of the environmental system would have triggered an alert on the Security monitors. If the sabotage was to be successful, the computer alerts would have to have been over-ridden, or the Security department would have been alerted. No such alert was recorded," he reminded Geordi.

"But the monitor in environmental control would certainly have shown the pressure build-up..."

"If it was functioning," Data reminded him.

Geordi shook his head. "It was," he answered. "I was down there the other day - everything was reading normal."

"Was it?" Data countered. "Or was it simply reading the normal predicted values?"

The Chief Engineer gave his friend a hard stare. "What are you getting at, Data?"

"Consider this, Geordi: If someone wanted to prevent an pressure build up from being detected, one would have to defeat the computer safety system - a feat requiring exceptional computer skills - but would also have to be able to defeat the simpler back-up system - the observation of the pressure ranges displayed on the monitor. While distraction would be one way of achieving such a feat, it would also have been risky. Therefore, if the saboteur could not be assured that such a goal could be accomplished, a simpler, and less precarious method would have to be implemented."

"Such as...?"

"Replacing the monitor."

Geordi considered the idea - then nodded. "Sure. It makes sense... but the input current wouldn't equal the readings; there'd be a power fluctuation..."

His voice fell as the puzzle pieces finally began to sort themselves out - and he began to see the completed picture. "The power anomaly!"

Data nodded. "The variance in such a monitor system would be in precise accordance with the lieutenant's anomaly readings," he agreed.

"Except that the variance was from the warp generator line, Data!" Geordi reminded him. "Monitor's aren't connected to the warp generators!"

"Not when they are installed correctly," Data countered. "But I believe that when the monitor is removed, we will discover that, in the haste to replace the monitor after my completion of the safety system validation protocol, but prior to the ship's departure, an error was made. The power was drawn from the warp generator lines in error."

Geordi nodded again. "The lines are similar - to a non-engineer. My God!" he added with a whistle, thinking back to the near-disaster in the shuttlebay. "It's a miracle she didn't accidentally kill herself then!"

"Indeed," Data agreed. "Cmdr. James was not an engineer nor had she had even the normal superficial training most cadets receive; her records indicate she never completed her primary rotation in engineering."

"It's an error she might have made," Geordi agreed. "And bypassing the computer system to avoid setting off any other alarms from the fire meant that it had to be a computer expert. There aren't many people on this ship who could have done that."

"Only three," Data replied. "Myself, Lt. Andile, and Cmdr. James."

Geordi sighed. "And I know neither of you would have done it," he said confidently, "so it must have been Sandra - but to set fire to her own computer?" he protested.

"She did not," Data countered.

Geordi nodded, conceding the technicality. "Okay - she only blew up the control room."

"No, Geordi," Data interrupted. "She did not do that either."

The Chief Engineer stared at the second officer. "What do you mean, she didn't? Data, look around you!"

"I mean," Data said soberly, "she was dead before the fire began."


	95. Chapter 95

**Chapter 95**

Beverly nodded automatically, absently confirming the question that Picard has proposed from his seat at the head of the conference room table, but found herself unable to look back at him. Instead, she stared at her hands, studying them as if they belonged to someone else.

These are the hands of a surgeon, she thought to herself numbly; these are hands that should save lives - not cut apart the bodies of the dead, searching through their remains to try and find what killed them!

But I couldn't save them, she reminded herself emptily; no one could have. The evidence was clear: they - all of them - were dead before the fire began.

I couldn't save them, she reminded herself, still staring at her hands; no one could have. So why so I feel so guilty?

"Doctor?"

She started as a gentle hand touched her arm; looking up, she met Picard's eyes - and found herself smiling automatically as she heard the cool, professional tone of his voice, so different from the worry that filled his eyes.

_I'm all right_, she told him silently, even though she knew he couldn't hear her, then broadened the smile slightly as she apologized to the others in the conference room.

"I'm sorry; I'm just a little tired," she explained, then faced the gathered officers and drew a deep breath. "You are correct, Data; my autopsies confirm that Cmdr. James was dead before the fire. They were all dead before the fire," she added grimly.

"Then the saboteur is still among the crew," Worf growled angrily. "She - or he - must have killed the computer crew before placing the explosive device in the room, hoping that the fire would conceal the signs of her - or his treachery!"

"I didn't say that," Beverly countered. "What I said was they were dead before the fire - but they didn't die in the same way," she added.

Picard pulled out a chair at the conference table, guiding her to it before releasing her arm, then took his customary place at the head of the table. "Explain," he said.

"I believe that three of the technicians - Lieutenants Galway, TeZijn and Enriquez - were killed before the fire began. The fire did a good job of concealing the evidence - but not good enough," she said looking down the table at Geordi, Worf, Deanna and Data. "First of all, the pattern of tissue damage to the bodies of the three junior officers did not follow the typical patterns I would have expected to see in a burn victim. Normally, when a conscious person is caught in a fire, they make a concerted effort to cover their face with their hands and arms; had they been conscious at the time the fire broke out, I would have expected to find minimal damage to the face, but extensive burns to the outer epidermal layers of the hands and arms. Instead, I found burn patterns that followed no known pattern, as if they had made no attempt to shield themselves against the flames."

"Maybe they were just unconscious," Geordi suggested; he hadn't considered Sandra James a friend - but he adamantly refused to consider the possibility that she was a cold-blooded murderer. "Maybe the smoke knocked them out before they knew what had happened..."

"I'm afraid not," Beverly replied quietly, seeing the denial on Geordi's face, and wished she didn't have to burst that bubble of hope. "While there was substantial damage to their bodies from the fire, I found no evidence of smoke inhalation in the lung tissue of any of the three junior officers. At the time that the fire broke out, Geordi," she told him in a sadly pained voice, "they were already dead."

He stared at her, stricken by the grim truth - then gave a slow nod. "And Sandra... Cmdr. James?" he asked, still desperate for something, some act, some justification for her to act as she had.

"She was dead as well," Beverly confirmed. "But she died differently - after the others, I believe. Like the others, she had no smoke or soot in her lungs, so I can state she was dead before the fire - but unlike the others, her body was severely damaged: the bones of her face were crushed backwards, into her brain, her larynx crushed, neck broken, multiple fractures of the collarbone and arms... " Beverly stopped, knowing the details didn't matter. "She was killed by an explosive device. My guess is that it exploded prematurely," she concluded. "Based on the damage patterns to the body, she was probably holding it at the moment it detonated, taking the brunt of the explosion in her upper body and face. It killed her instantly..."

Data nodded. "... and initiated the fire. With the environmental gas lines locked into the open position, it was simply a matter of time before the increasing heat ruptured the lines, and the fire spread throughout the core."

"Which does prove the existence of the saboteur," Worf growled. "It does not, however, prove that the commander was the only one."

"Rather the opposite," Data countered.

"How so, Mr. Data?" Picard replied.

"Sir, Cmdr. James was, by all accounts a brilliant computer technician and programmer - but her performance profile indicates that she was incapable of acting spontaneously," he reminded them.

Deanna nodded, "Data is correct in this, Captain. When we were notified of the change in the ship's preparation at the beginning of this mission, I felt what could only be described as panic in the Commander. She was overwhelmed by the idea that she would have to attempt to redesign her installation to conform to the new time constraints - so overwhelmed that..." Deanna hesitated, uncomfortable with speaking ill of the so-recently dead.

"That what, Counselor?" Picard pressed.

Deanna looked at him for a moment, then nodded to herself; these were her crewmates, this was her ship; this was where her loyalty must lie first.

"She was so overwhelmed that for a moment... I believed she may not have invented the computer system at all."

The table exploded in gasps of disbelief. "But Starfleet reviewed her papers..." "...five years of development..." "...clear functional knowledge..."

Picard listened to the others for a moment, then raised his hands, silencing them all, then turned his attention back to Deanna.

"Why didn't you mention this earlier, Counselor?" he asked.

"I would have, sir - if she hadn't been able to recover herself by the next day. After all, sir, a momentary sensation of self-doubt at an extremely difficult task is just that - a momentary sensation. We all have them," she added, "and all the more so when we're young. And the commander was extremely young."

Both in age and maturity, Picard added silently.

"Nonetheless, there may some validity to the Counselor's thought," Data offered. "In retrospect, the computer processing pathways that the commander used in the integration process of the bio-neural and iso-linear chips and in her original designs are distinctly different; the latter was done using conventional protocols, while the former was done almost as if two different people had developed them," he continued.

"But that type of dimorphism in a rescue program isn't atypical," Geordi protested. "With a system as new as hers, she may have reverted to the old 'tried and true' pathways rather than risk creating bigger problems with an untried program. It's a common enough practice - even for an established programmer!"

"Agreed," Data said. "Nonetheless, it also goes toward demonstrating that the Commander was not adept at what is called 'thinking on one's feet'. She needed guidance - in the form of drawing from previous, successful designs, in the case of the computer re-installation - and perhaps, in the case of the sabotage, drawing from outside sources."

"Then there is another conspirator aboard the ship!" Worf exclaimed triumphantly.

"Indeed," Data agreed.

Picard shook his head. "That is still supposition, gentlemen. We need facts - and proof."

"We have both, sir," Data replied easily. Turning to Deanna, he affixed her with his unflinching stare. "Counselor, based on your conversations, both informal and formal, do you believe the commander could have killed the three computer technicians in cold blood?"

Deanna looked at him for a moment, then shook her head decisively. "No. To do so would have been completely out of character for her."

"And yet all three were dead," he reminded her.

"Are you suggesting that her accomplice entered the computer core with the commander - and killed them while she sabotaged the computer system?" Worf asked skeptically; Security protocols would have required that any unauthorized personnel in the core be reported to Security - and even if the intruder had been armed with a phaser, there would have been time for one of the three to have hit the alarm before they had been killed.

"No," Data agreed with Worf's unspoken assessment, "such an intrusion would have triggered a Security alert." He looked at Deanna again. "Counselor, based on your knowledge of the commander, do you believe she would she have been capable of administering a drug to her coworkers?"

"To kill them? No. As I said..." she began, only to be interrupted.

"I am not suggesting that she did so with the intent of killing them..." Data interrupted.

"You're not suggesting that she somehow accidentally overdosed three people!" Beverly exclaimed.

"No," Data agreed. "That is unlikely."

"Then what, Data?" Geordi interjected. "You think she gave them the drug, believing only that it would... what? Just knock them out?"

"It is conceivable, given the nature of her personality," Data concurred. "Cmdr. James may have been instructed to administer what she had been told was only a sedative, not knowing the drug was actually a poison."

"That's it," Beverly murmured to herself, her eyes widening as she reached for the padd, studying the device once again.

"Doctor?" Picard coaxed her.

"There were faint traces of hyrazodine in the tissues of all three bodies..." she answered absently, still studying the padd. "I attributed it to being a by-product of the fire..."

"Hyrazodine-like compounds are produced when the elements of some of the consoles are subjected to intense heat," Geordi agreed.

"... but it's also lethal poison. And there was a slightly higher concentrating in the digestive organs of the bodies..." Beverly shook her head, then looked up at the others. "She didn't inject anyone with anything - she put it in their coffee," she said in horrified realization.

"That," Deanna said, somewhat grimly, "would be in keeping with her personality. An easier solution, one she could more easily distance herself from. She would have known her team's morning routine: perhaps she would have arrived a few minutes early to relieve the night shift - and prepared the coffee for the others - perhaps after pouring an untainted cup for herself first to allay any possible suspicion."

"It would be less noticeable than attempting to inject three individuals with a hypo - without the others realizing something was happening," Worf reminded them.

"But that leaves the question of why! Why drug them?" Beverly said. "Yes, if they were unconscious, they wouldn't get in her way while she was destroying the computer lab - but then what? Why refuse to kill them - only to leave them to the flames?"

"I suspect that was not her intention," Data answered them, "or rather, that was what she had been told - that the others would be removed from the core before the explosion could harm them."

"But why let her believe that?" Geordi objected. "She'd have to have realized that if the others were alive, they'd reveal that she was the saboteur..."

"Not if she feigned her own drugging as well," Deanna offered.

"A complex ruse, Counselor," Worf replied. "One that could be believed only by an innocent."

"Which, in many ways, she was," Deanna answered softly.

"So innocent," Data continued, "that her assertion of also having been drugged would never have survived scrutiny. No, Counselor, the only way that the perpetrator could have insured the plan's success was to delude the Commander into doing what she did, in the belief that no one would be harmed. And then to ensure her silence by prematurely detonating the explosive device."

An instant silence filled the room as the others stared at Data.

"Then," Picard said slowly, the idea registering in his mind with a numbing finality, "you do not believe the explosion that killed the Commander and started the computer core fire was an accident."

"No, sir," Data replied. "Cmdr. James was murdered, just as her fellow technicians were murdered. As they had to be," he added grimly.

"Had to be?" the captain echoed slowly.

"Yes, sir," the android replied. "The saboteur had to be sure that we had no way to re-initialize the computers. He - or she - had to make that we stay here."

"Why here?"

"Because 'here' is where whoever is behind this sabotage will come to capture the ship."


	96. Chapter 96

**Chapter 96**

Worf slammed his fist into the conference table, the blow threatening to crack the wood. "Then we are trapped! No defenses, no shields, no weapons... we cannot even tell who they are or if they are approaching!"

"On the contrary," Data replied simply, "we can tell that they are not."

The group turned to the android, stunned at his easy denial of the situation. "Explain, Mr. Data," Picard said instantly.

"Sir, if my theory is correct, the explosion and subsequent fire - and its intended destruction of the computer core - was arranged to occur at a certain time, not only for the convenience of Cmdr. James in eliminating her crew, but also, and far more importantly, because it would mean that the Enterprise was located at a specific location, which would facilitate our rapid, and presumably undetected capture.

"However..."

Picard nodded, understanding instantly. "However, the Romulans' delay arrival put us behind schedule by several hours - something of which Cmdr. James was unaware. We are not," he reminded them all, faith, hope and confidence ringing clear in his voice, "where they expect us to be. We still have a chance to escape whatever fate was assigned to us. And to carry out our mission," he added resolutely.

"If," Worf growled dourly, "we can repair all the systems that were damaged in time."

"And time is the question," Beverly reminded them, then turned to Picard. "How long do we have, Captain?"

He shook his head, then glanced at Data - who returned an equally unsure look. "There is no way to tell, sir," he replied. "While our position is off by three point seven two hours from that which was scheduled, it must also be remembered that the lieutenant's new engines require a slightly modified navigation system; the temporal engines are more sensitive to gravitic anomalies, requiring a different navigation plan than a standard warp engine would have required. While it is conceivable that we are closer to the point at which we were to be intercepted, probability would favor the possibility that we are considerably further away. And due to the nature of searches in a three dimensional space, our chances of being quickly located by the confederates of the saboteur are unlikely. Indeed, even that possibility is based on a presumption: that the ship was to be taken as soon as it was disabled. While an immediate capture would have been most propitious if their intent was to take us by surprise - it would have also been the most hazardous, as the computer core damage may have had unforeseen ship-wide effects. Therefore we must conclude that while we have not yet been captured, we must assume that they – whoever they may be - are on the way."

Picard nodded. "Agreed. We'll prioritize repairs accordingly. Worf?"

"Shields," he said instantly. "Weapons second..."

"Propulsion," Geordi objected.

"A warrior does not run from a battle!" Worf reminded them all gruffly.

"He does if it means the mission will succeed," Picard countered. "And the nature of this mission is far more important than individual pride. If we fail, the Federation fails, and everything that we - and Starfleet - believe in, fails as well. I concur; defenses first, escape second. Data?"

"I concur, sir - but it may be that the fire has damaged the control systems beyond the point of repair."

"But that doesn't make sense, Data," Deanna objected, glad for the opportunity to speak, anxious for anything to keep her mind from worrying over Will. There was nothing she could do for him now - except to make sure there was a ship for him to come back to when he was well, she reminded herself. "I mean, if they simply wanted to capture the ship, they could have done it far more easily by flooding the ship with anaesthezine gas - or worse, shutting down life support - rather than carrying out a very detailed - and very select - pattern of sabotage. But they didn't. We can only assume then, that they wanted the ship damaged, but capable of functioning - and the crew in a similar condition."

Picard nodded. "Which means that they intend on repairing the ship - and using it - and us - for purposes as yet undetermined. And if they can repair it, then we can as well. The question is - can it be done?"

Data glanced at Geordi. "The computer night shift is finishing the damage assessment; we'll need to review it before we do anything else," the engineer said.

"Once the computer has been re-initialized, we will need to perform diagnostics on every system" Data added. "There may be additional damage to the ship's subsystems that must be repaired prior to re-implementing power to the systems."

"But we cannot just sit here, defenseless!" Worf roared. "If these cowards who strike at us in the dark are indeed searching for us, we must prepare to defend our ship!"

"Agreed," Picard said quietly, his voice a calm contrast to the Klingon's angry tone. "Suggestions."

"Ship's sensors are non-functional," Geordi reminded them. "They could be sitting out there right now - and we wouldn't know."

Beverly smiled bleakly. "You could just look out the window," she reminded them humorlessly.

No one laughed - but the remark cut through the tension in the room, forcing a smile from Geordi. "It may come to that, Doctor. They may be the only thing left on the ship that still works."

For a moment, there was silence in the room - then Deanna gave the others an uncertain, tentative look. "What about things _not_ on the ship?" she asked.

Beverly shook her head. "What do you mean, 'not on the ship'?"

"I mean... We've all mentioned how Sandra James was not really familiar with starships, and that her errors led us to realize there was a saboteur. What if she made another error? What if... Geordi, would damaging the ship's computer affect the shuttlecraft?" she asked.

He stared at her - then began to shake his head, slowly at first, then with increasing vigor as the idea sank in. "Not unless they were being operated - and they weren't! All the shuttlecraft were in powerdown mode... as was the captain's yacht! Their systems should work!" He thought for a moment, then turned excitedly to Picard. "Sir, we could enable the shuttlecraft with basic phasers, then launch them. They could ring the ship with far-range sensors enabled... They could provide us with positional information - and serve as an early warning and defense system."

"There are insufficient shuttlecraft to provide adequate sensor information, Geordi - and we still have no communications from the shuttlecraft to the ship," Data interjected. "We would have no way to relay the data back."

"Visual transmissions," Worf interjected. "Position one shuttlecraft directly ahead of the main viewscreen - and have the pilot relay information by light pulses."

"Which takes one more shuttle away from orbiting the ship," Beverly reminded him. "That's not enough to be effective, even with sensors at full power."

"Then use the escape pods for additional sensor information," the Klingon replied. "There are several hundred of them - and they were inactive at the time of the computer failure. We could launch them on automatic control, have them envelop the area surrounding the ship and relay data back."

"But if we can't get the ship's systems back on line, Worf?" Beverly asked soberly. "We escape... how?"

"Escape where, Doctor?" Worf countered. "The enemy is in search of us even as we sit here, talking. Without warp power, the pods would still be in range when they arrive; it would only delay the capture of the crew - or worse," he added.

Worse, Beverly realized, because their captors might not bother to go after the tiny pods, leaving their inhabitants to die slowly as food, water and air ran out, freezing to death, lost in the depths of space.

It might be a better fate than what awaited them elsewhere, she reminded herself... but it wasn't the fate she wanted. She wanted to go out on her own terms, fighting for a chance to survive... Beverly smiled to herself, realizing how much she was beginning to think like Worf.

"It would not be a warrior's death," he intoned, as if hearing her thoughts.

Picard must have been thinking the same way, she thought, watching as his mind ran over the notion - and seeing him give a brief nod of his head. "Agreed. The question is: Can we launch the escape pods without the computer?"

Geordi looked at him uncertainly. "Launched, yes - but we can't control them from the ship without the computer coming back on line - and I don't know how long that will take, Captain," he added. "Until we finish the damage assessment of the computer, see what the status is, and map out a repair plan, we can't guess at anything on this ship. The problem is..." he began hesitantly.

Picard raised a brow in question. "The problem is what, Commander?"

"Sir, the problem is that I'm not sure that we can make any repairs. At least not in time. You see, while Data knows the computer almost as well as Sandra did, he's the only one. The remaining techs were never trained on the system. There's no one on board who's qualified."

"What?!" Picard exploded.

Geordi nodded. "The new techs were brought on board as part of Admiral Czymszczak's replacement crew - but the only ones who were trained in running the systems were the three that were killed. None of the remaining staff have had the training required to operate the system in a situation like this. Basic functions are the same for both our previous system and Sandra's - they could operate the system - but they can't repair or rebuild it."

My God, Picard thought, that's why they killed her - why they killed them all. Alive, Sandra James would have had the possibility of changing her mind, of realizing what she was doing, of growing scared - and of deciding to help us instead of betraying us. So they killed her - and killed our chances with her.

Or did they?

"But as you have indicated, Commander," Picard objected, "Mr. Data is familiar with the system."

"Captain," Geordi interrupted, "he's also the only one familiar with the engines, now that Biji's hurt. I'm going to need him in engineering to re-implement the systems there. And good as Data is, he can't be in two places at once," he reminded the man.

"He doesn't need to be," Picard replied gruffly. "Doctor, what is Lt. Andile's current condition?"

"She's in stasis..." Beverly began - then her eyes widened as she realized what he was suggesting. "You can't take her out yet, Jean-Luc!" she protested angrily. "Alyssa's going to need at least another hour to finish the skin regeneration..."

"You indicated that was mostly cosmetic. The repairs can be performed later. Can you bring her out of stasis - now?" he growled.

Beverly glared at him, leaning closer and dropping her voice. "The tissue will heal at an accelerated rate, and scar," she reminded him. "On the more deeply burned tissues, nerves may scar as well. She may lose sensation, possibly even function of her extremities. The strain to her system may reverse the progress we've made on her organ deterioration. Taking her out of stasis now could leave her permanently injured; it could kill her. Give me six hours..." she began to plead.

"The ship may not have six hours, Doctor," he interrupted, equally grim. "Bring her out of stasis."

"I can't!" she insisted. "At least..." Beverly hesitated for a second, then sighed, "... not until the exterior tissue grafts are in place. I won't risk an infection of an open wound," she added resolutely.

"Do what you have to do," he agreed, "but quickly. I need her out of stasis and working. As soon as possible," he added coldly, her dismissal from the meeting unspoken - but unmistakable.

Furious, Beverly glared at him, then rose from her chair and stalked out of the room.

Picard turned away, refusing to watch her leave, refusing to acknowledge that, at least at some level, she was right, knowing that at a different level, he was right as well.

But this was what command was, he reminded himself; having to make the hard decisions.

Andile might die as a result of this decision, he reminded himself.

But his crew, his ship, and his mission might survive.

He looked back at the others, seeing the discomfort in their faces at the terse argument that had gone on between two of their superior officers - and two of their friends - and refused to acknowledge that any more than he had acknowledged Beverly's anger. They would all recover... if they survived.

"Internal communications?" he said, quickly returning them all to the topic.

"I believe we should be able to restore function to individual communicators relatively quickly," Data surmised. "While the console controlling ship-wide communications was destroyed in the fire, badge to badge communications have a back-up circuit due to their use on away missions. Chief G'Sef and his team should be able to reroute them through the captain's yacht; restoration should be possible within under three hours."

"Make it two," Picard ordered. "The more time we spend racing around the ship trying to talk to one another, the more time we lose in getting repairs done."

Data nodded.

"Anything else we need to address immediately?" he added.

The others shook their heads. There were more problems they all knew, hundreds, perhaps thousands, many as yet undiscovered - but all addressable - if they survived long enough to find them.

"Then you're dismissed," he added, rising to his feet, tugging down on his tunic as he did so, his eyes locked on the padds on the table while letting the others leave, knowing he needed a moment of peace before he went on to his next task.

A task, he sighed, that he did not want to perform.

But didn't I just spend the morning explaining to Lt. Andile that there were tasks that officers had perform, even when they didn't want to?

He shook his head, thinking to himself, My God, was that only this morning? How few hours have passed since we talked - and now my world - her world, all our worlds have changed so radically - and perhaps permanently?

But our obligations have not changed, he reminded himself harshly - and nothing - nothing! - short of the destruction of the ship and the loss of his own life would take away his obligation - his duty - to his crew.

All of them, he added sternly.

With a sigh at the inescapability of his task, Picard tugged his shirt into place once again, then turned and strode out of the room.


	97. Chapter 97

**Chapter 97**

He was shorter than she had envisioned, only a few inches taller than she was, his hair thinning already, even at his age - but as he reached out to take her in his arms, she sighed happily, deciding that balding men weren't in the least unattractive - and that the difference in their heights really wasn't noticeable.

But then everything had become less noticeable, she realized as he slowly guided her around the floor, giving her a few minutes to find her footing and learn the patterns of his footsteps - and to mold her dance steps to his; the walls of the dance studio faded to the glittery panels of the immense restaurant, then slowly fading into the background as the dance floor grew larger and larger until it could hold the dozens of dancers who slowly appeared, the women dressed in identical dresses of black and white, each man dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, all circling the border of the dance floor as Andile and her escort took their place at the center as the dance grew larger and larger, more and more complex.

He spun her away, watching her carefully, assessing her movements - then spinning her back to him, keeping her motions - and his - in perfect time with the rhythm that filled the room, perfectly played by the invisible orchestra.

The dancers swayed together for a moment, their bodies echoing the orchestra's repeating vamp, each familiarizing themselves to the other - then Fred Astaire launched himself and Andile into the intricate moves of the beguine.

She followed him easily, mirroring his steps without even thinking about them, her body reflecting his motions smoothly, automatically...

Automatically.

She looked down, watching Fred's feet, suddenly no longer impressed by his dazzling movements. They were a little too precise, a little too carefully planned... as if it weren't the muses that moved him as much as it was a program.

She looked up, staring into his eyes, only to watch as they - and the room - faded from sepia-tinged black and white into full color - and Fred's eyes faded from black dots into deep gold.

A surge of joy filled her; it had all been a dream... no, she thought, a nightmare. He hadn't thrown her out, hadn't told her it was over before it had even begun; he had come back to her - and now he was here, his arms around her, holding her tighter and tighter...

Too tight! she gasped suddenly; I can't breathe! Struggling to draw in air, she looked up at Data - but he was gone, his image slowly being replaced by a larger man, a man with eyes cold, cruel - and all too familiar.

He smiled.

She screamed - or she would have screamed, but there was no air in her lungs and no way for her to draw in a breath as he held her against him, his arms tightening slowly, holding her tighter and tighter with every passing second.

She pushed at him, trying to break away, only to feel him spinning her faster and faster, immobile in his embrace, the room reeling so quickly that the glitter on the walls broke free of their bonds and began to float toward her, landing on her skin, stinging, biting, burning...

"I said hold her!" Beverly snapped at the nurse, trying to dodge the wildly flailing arm so she could press the hypo against Andile's neck.

"I'm trying!" Kim Lewandowski replied frustratedly, his body already half spread over Andile's legs, one hand holding her arm while trying to grab the other one as Andile thrashed about. "The lidopine's not working!"

"Can you give her something else?" Picard asked from his place at the foot of the bed, his voice calm, even, unemotional.

Beverly shot an angry glance at him. "No; lidopine is one of the few drugs that can be used when transitioning a patient out of stasis – but even it was not intended for use when the transition is premature. Without it, we risk severe physical and neurological damage – risks we're already running from the premature withdrawal," she added sharply. "But it doesn't control pain; I can't do anything for that until she's completely back. And right now, the pain is agonizing. She was burned, Jean-Luc," she reminded him unnecessarily.

"I am aware of that, Doctor," he replied sharply.

"Then be aware of this, Captain," she retorted, "once she's completely out of stasis, her body will begin to repair the tissues and the nerves – and they will scar, just as her internal organs did. I can block the pain – but I can do nothing to limit the degree of nerve destruction; she may have to have extensive reconstructive surgery on her hands when this is over - and I can't guarantee she'll ever have full use of them again," she added furiously.

Picard nodded, seemingly unaffected by the news. "Proceed," he said quietly.

Beverly's jaw clenched in outage - then she turned away, her focus on her patient once again. She glanced at the chronometer, then at bio-bed's readout - then nodded at the nurse. "Another two ccs of lidopine," she decided.

Kim responded automatically, loosening his grip on Andile's arm as he reached for the hypo from the table beside him...

The Cardassian grinned down at her, his eyes filled with triumph - and a sickening hunger. He changed his grip on her, holding her tightly against him with one arm, while the other hand slid between their bodies, reaching to unfasten his belt...

No! Andile screamed in terror. Not again! Not again!

A surge of adrenaline filled her; with a sudden jerk, she tore herself free of her jailor, and swinging her arm, she felt it make contact with his body - then felt the pressure suddenly release.

Free! she screamed triumphantly. Now to escape...

"Kim!" Beverly cried out as she saw the nurse thrown to the floor - but she could do nothing for him at the moment. Her patient was in trouble, and she knew what her first priority was and would always be. Throwing herself across the Andile's body to keep her from pushing herself off the bed, she reached out for the hypo on the bedside table - but Kim's fall had pushed it away, sending the table - and the hypo she needed - just out of her reach.

Damn! She needed the hypo - but didn't dare release Andile, not even for the micro-second it would take to reach the injector; the woman was thrashing about so violently that even one moment, unrestrained, could mean permanent damage.

She opened her mouth to call out for help - only to feel the Andile's thrashing suddenly ease - then cease altogether.

Stunned, she slowly looked down - and saw the gentle rise and fall of the engineer's chest - then looked up at the bio-bed's display, and saw the confirmation of Andile's status: vitals approaching normal - for Andile, she added - oxygen saturation levels acceptable, brain waves: normal. Even calm, she realized, watching the patterns steady out.

Easing her body off the bed, she glanced at where the nurse lay sprawled on the floor, the called out to Picard. "Jean-Luc, would you check on Kim?"

For a moment, there was no response; Beverly turned to him, about to repeat her question - and stopped.

He was staring at Andile, she thought - then amended the thought as she realized he wasn't staring _at_ her. Rather, his eyes were aimed at where she lay - but his were glazed, unfocused.

Stricken by having given the order to subject one of his crew to such pain? Beverly wondered - then dismissed the idea. More likely he was simply stricken by having to endure the chaos of the Sickbay.

Laying her hand on his arm, she watched as he turned to face her - then let out a breath in relief as she saw the recognition slowly returning to his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, giving his head a shake to clear it. "You were saying?"

She studied him for a moment, concerned - then reminded herself there were others she needed to be concerned about as well. "Would you check on Kim?" she repeated.

Picard nodded, still seemingly foggy - then stepped around the bed to check on the fallen nurse.

Fierce as the blow had been, its landing was more accidental than aimed; Kim Lewandowski had been knocked down - but not out, the breath knocked from him - but he was already starting to his feet before Picard reached him. Still, he accepted the proffered hand, then rose to his feet, shaking his head to clear it as he did so.

"I'm okay, Captain," he insisted to Picard, then glanced at Andile and smiled relievedly. "Lidopine finally kicked in, eh?" he asked.

Beverly nodded uncertainly, then turned her attention back to the engineer. "Lt. Andile. Biji. It's Dr. Crusher. Can you hear me?"

For a long moment Andile didn't respond - then she gave a slow nod, opened her mouth - and gasped in an inhalation of pain.

"Don't try to say anything," Beverly cautioned. "Just nod. Don't try to breathe deeply; keep your breaths shallow and frequent. Do you understand?"

A nod - then moved her hand toward her throat.

Beverly caught the limb gently. "I know," she said softly, easing the hand back into place. "Your throat hurts. It's going to hurt to breathe - but you have to try not to tense up; it will just make it harder. I'm going to give you a breathing treatment in just a moment; it should help - but I need to examine you first. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

Another nod - and a word mouthed through dry, cracked lips. "Sickbay."

"Yes, you're in Sickbay," Beverly agreed. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Fire," Andile mouthed.

"Yes. There was a fire in the computer core. You remember what happened?" the physician pressed.

Andile hesitated; she remembered the fire, remembered the heat and the smoke and... and... something else. Something important, she knew. Something she had to tell them...

"It's all right," Beverly assured her, seeing the confusion on the woman's face. "You've been in stasis while we've worked on you - and coming out of stasis can be very disorienting. It's going to fade away - but as it does, as you become more aware, the pain is going to increase. I can control some of that pain through a neural suppressor. It's going to take me a few minutes to make the adjustment - and you need to know that it can't control your pain entirely - but it will help," she assured Andile.

Andile felt a hand, cool, careful and gentle, slide beneath her neck - then felt something cold and metallic press against the base of her neck - and felt the world begin to come into sharper focus as the pain began to ease. She let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding.

"Better?" Beverly asked, watching as the engineer's expression eased.

Andile nodded - slowly, carefully, feeling the abused muscles in her shoulders protest that normally easy motion - then started to raise her hand to her eyes.

Something stopped her - again, gently and carefully.

"Try not to move," Beverly chided her. "You've torn some of the muscles in your back and shoulders; I've regenerated the muscle tissue, but it's still inflamed. That's normal, and should fade in the next few days - but it may be quite uncomfortable until then.

"Your eyes were also affected by the fire. That, however, is something I can help right now," she added. Hold still," she added - then Andile felt two drops of cold liquid land in the corners of her eyes.

Automatically, she tried to blink - then again felt a hand stopping her, this time with a gentle pressure on her lids. "Don't try to open your eyes yet, Lieutenant," she said. "It's going to take a few minutes before the drops have a chance to work. Just relax, and try to breathe evenly," she cautioned the woman.

Andile nodded - carefully, once again - then lay back against the pillow of the bio-bed, aware of little more than the soft chirp of the bed's sensors, the doctor's cool hand on her shoulder, reassuring and gentling, the sound of both of their breathing - and, she realized slowly, another set of breaths, deeper and lower than her own or Beverly's.

"Captain," she whispered hoarsely.

Picard glanced at Beverly, taken aback that the engineer had deduced his presence, then started toward the head of the bed - only to be stopped by Beverly's curt shake of her head.

"No talking, Biji," Beverly warned her. "Not until you get that breathing treatment..."

"No," the engineer managed hoarsely. "Report..."

Beverly shook her head, then sighed noiselessly, knowing this was a fight she would not win. She gestured for Picard to come closer to the biobed and its occupant. "Keep it short," she whispered sharply.

He nodded, then stepped closer to the bed. "Right here, Lieutenant," he said quietly.

Ignoring Beverly's caution, Andile forced her eyes open - then closed them again, her heart breaking.

The eye drops were blurring her vision – but there was no mistaking their expressions: Crusher's, concerned yet professional - but not without a trace of accusation for the woman, and Picard's, worried, raging, in pain for...

"Cmdr. Riker," she whispered.

I failed, she screamed silently. Failed!

She had tried her best - but her best wasn't enough - it never was - and he had died in the accessway, trapped as the berezine levels rose, slowly tearing into his flesh, chewing at him as the gas levels rose, until it reached his face, his head, his mouth and nose -

-and he took that one fatal breath of the deadly acid.

And all because I failed! Because I didn't get him out! Because I couldn't get my message to someone. Because I wasn't fast enough. Because...

_Because you are andile!_ the voice in her head screamed.

_ANDILE!_

She felt the tears well in her eyes - but tears, she berated herself viciously, were for humans, not animals, not andile, not... me!

She had no right to tears, no right to anything but the pain and the shame and the grief that andile deserved.

She clenched her eyes shut, then gasped back the sob that tried to escape. She had no right to emotions, no right to feeling; she was filth, garbage... she was a killer.

Again.

This time the single sob, wretched with pain, was impossible to stop.

"Beverly!" Picard barked.

But the physician had heard the cry in that same moment; instantly her scanner was out again, her eyes locking on the bio-bed's read-out, then turning back to the frail woman. "Where is it hurting, Biji? I can increase the suppression, but I have to know where..."

But the guilt-ridden engineer only shook her head, violently this time, ignoring the screaming muscles in her back and shoulders.

"I'm sorry... I... I..."

"You what?" Beverly pressed.

Andile shook her head again, praying they wouldn't make her do this, wishing they would just leave her alone with her guilt and her shame... but she didn't deserve that favor, she knew. She had to speak the words, had to admit her crime, her sin...

"Cmdr. Riker..." she began.

Beverly lay a hand on the engineer's shoulder. "It's all right, Andile. It was touch and go for a while – but he's going to be all right," she said soothingly.

Andile opened her eyes, confused – then closed them against the blurry images before her.

Picard nodded at the ashen-faced woman. "We got to him in time," he assured her.

"He's... not dead?" Andile whispered, relief flooding over her, threatening to carry her away in its wake.

"No," Beverly assured her. "Alive – unconscious and recovering from surgery," she added, "but quite alive. He should make a full recovery," she added reassuringly. "Right now, let's focus on you. How is the pain?" she asked gently.

Andile hesitated, tempted to lie, tempted to fall back on her usual dismissal of the pain – but the readouts on the biobed would make that lie transparent to the physician – and then she would simply medicate her as she saw fit.

And keep her in Sickbay while she did so.

"Hurts," she managed. "Hands feel funny," she added, surprised by that realization.

When Beverly didn't respond, however, Andile forced her eyes open, blinking back the drops and the tears – and was taken aback by the look on the physician's face.

"Doc?" she whispered.

Beverly hesitated, then glanced at Picard - angrily? Andile thought, seeing the glance that passed between the two - then looked back at her patient.

"Lieutenant..." Beverly began, then hesitated, and tried again. "Andile..."

"It's bad?" Andile rasped, trying to raise her hands into her limited range of vision.

Beverly hesitated, then shook her head. "Not... yet. And maybe not ever. We finished regenerating the upper layers of the tissue, Biji, but we weren't able to properly complete the deeper layer regeneration..."

Beverly's words and explanations washed over her as she brought the offending limb into view, studying the pink and white mottled skin that covered it, then watching as she slowly and painfully closed her fist, then opened it again.

It wasn't right, she knew at once - not that it had ever been right, she added, not since Cardassia - but now it was even further from what she had once known. The sensations were blunted, edged with a prickling sensation, and even slower to respond than before.

Part of that was the neural block, she knew, part was the stasis, she knew - but most of it was new.

But why? she asked; why bring me out so early if I haven't healed yet? she wondered, more from curiosity than accusation. Because I wouldn't heal - and there was no more need to keep me in stasis?

A few days ago, that might have been the answer - but today? After all the treatments she had undergone? After the dialysis and the apheresis? No! she protested. I can heal - am healing, she added sharply, closing her eyes and letting her body report back to her, seeking out any unusual sensations - and finding...

Nothing. Nothing unusual, nothing different. A slowness, yes, borne of her brush with death - but slowly fading away. And pain, of course - but pain had been her constant companion for as many years as she could remember. Nothing unusual there.

Then why...?

She opened her eyes, looking at Picard - and realized the worry and the fury she had seen there hadn't been for his lost crew as much as it had been for something else.

His ship.

My ship, she reminded herself.

Understanding, she opened her hand toward Beverly, stopping her in mid-explanation.

"Ship's in trouble," she croaked. "Need me."

Beverly gaped - then closed her mouth and looked at Picard, who seemed entirely unsurprised by the reaction.

"Yes," he agreed brusquely.

"Okay," Andile agreed. Positioning her hands beside her hips, she began to push herself up - only to be firmly pushed back by another pair of hands.

"Not so fast," Beverly said. "Breathing treatment first - or you won't get ten feet before you start coughing - and once that happens, you'll wish you _had_ inhaled berezine. Now lay back, Lieutenant, and don't move." She shot a glare at Picard. "And you keep her there - or I won't release her, and I don't care what the circumstances are," she added firmly.

It was not a threat, Picard knew; it was a medical decision, by his medical chief - and one no argument would change.

He nodded, then looked at Andile sternly.

She sighed, then eased herself back onto the bed.

Beverly nodded her approval, then gestured at nurse. "Let's get the treatment set up, Kim," she ordered, then the two exited the central infirmary, leaving Picard and Andile alone in awkward silence.

"I think I owe someone an apology," Andile said at last.

Picard raised a brow in question.

"I think I hit someone..." she continued.

"Nurse Lewandowski," Picard said.

"Oh."

Another awkward silence filled the room, then...

"I thought he was..."

"I know what you thought," Picard interrupted softly.

Andile stared at him, confused.

"Cardassia," he said. "The guard. What he - what they - did to you," he added, his tone growing gruff with fury at the memory.

Her eyes widened - then she shook her head, ignoring the flames of pain that shot through her body, refusing to accept what Picard was saying. "You can't. That's... not possible."

"No," he countered with a half smile. "Impossible is the ship's captain sending the entire rescue team to an isolated access panel, and announcing the missing crew members would be found there. That, Commander, is impossible. But it happened."

She studied him, looking up into his eyes, seeking out the truth - then sighed, relieved. "Then you heard the message."

"Oh, I heard it," he assured her - then forced a smile. "It damn near knocked me out of my chair," he added. "Fortunately, it didn't - though took me a few moments to realize what it was - and who, and where."

"I'm sorry," Andile began in whispered apology. "I just didn't know how else... Our commbadges were out... "

He stopped her with an upraised hand. "As a general rule, Commander, I don't require my officers to apologize for saving my crew, my ship - or my first officer. It was simply... quite surprising. Though not, I suspect, as surprising as my order to send the emergency teams to that access panel," he admitted, remembering the look of astonishment - and momentary incredulity in the faces of the bridge officers.

"But," he continued a moment later, "why me? I would have thought there were others aboard with better developed telepathic skills."

Andile shook her head. "It's not a matter of skill. It's... familiarity. I've never touched anyone else on this ship - not telepathically," she added. "First contact is hard, especially if you have to search someone out first. The only one I knew for sure, aside from you, was Counselor Troi - and even if I found her, the time it would take to explain who I was, what I was sending - _how_ I was sending," she emphasized, then shook her head. "Captain, I haven't sent messages in years. I wasn't sure how long I could - and if it was only once, then to waste that chance was a risk I wasn't going to take. I'm sorry, but I knew I could get you - so I did."

Picard considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. "A good decision, Commander," he approved - then smiled again. "But next time, turn down the volume. About where you have it now is fine," he added.

"Where I have it now?" she echoed, confused.

"The level at which you're sending your thoughts now," he explained.

"But I'm not sending," she protested.

His eyes widened. "But I can hear you!" he insisted. "Not clearly - but I can sense the pain in your shoulders, your concern about the..."

No! she screamed silently. You can't! Not my thoughts! Not my life! Not what I did!

Somehow unaware of her silent protestations, Picard continued on blithely. "Ensign Cho, Tar Zumell, Admiral Czymszczak... the child... Data..." he added, his words slowing, softening as a wash of feelings, unexpected in their intensity, began to flood over him.

NO! Andile screamed again. You can't know! No one can know!

But he did, she realized, seeing the expression on his face beginning to change; he knew - or was about to learn.

But how? How could he hear her if she wasn't sending...?

The drugs, she realized, the drugs, or the fire, or the fatigue, or the combination... Whatever it was, when she had opened the door from her mind to his, she had been rendered unable to close it - and now, now...

Now he could hear everything she was thinking, feel everything she was feeling - know everything she knew, who she was, what she had done...

NO!

With a scream of agony borne of thousand lifetimes of shame, she slammed shut every door between their minds.


	98. Chapter 98

**Chapter 98**

The first scream didn't register in Beverly Crusher's mind.

It wasn't that she didn't hear it: there was no way that any hearing person in Sickbay could have not heard the ear-splitting cry that tore through the rooms - but as a physician, Beverly had trained her mind to respond to cries according to the nature - not their volume.

And the nature of this cry was one of frustration, of fear, of rebellion, even pure rage - but it was a cry that she had heard often, usually from a patient in the midst of healing, fighting against as they tried to force an injured or ill body back into its old patterns, to relearn old paths - or learn new ones to replace those lost; it was the cry of rage and frustration borne of healing - and while Beverly hated the thought that any patient must suffer, she knew equally well that this was a necessary stage.

The sound was noted, recorded, archived for future reference - but it didn't register on her consciousness beyond that brief mental footnote.

The fact that she didn't have a patient in Sickbay who should be in that stage took a moment longer to occur to her - and before it did, the second cry came.

It, too, didn't register on her conscious brain; her mind was still attuned to the cries of her patients, cries of pain and discomfort, of loss and sorrow - but this cry was too primitive, too animal, to register as have been made by a rational being - and too raw to be understood by one.

Rather, it bypassed those higher centers of thought, cutting directly into the soul of those unfortunate to have heard it; it stabbed into her gut, cut into her heart, pounded itself into her very bones, as if its maker was trying to spread the pain to everyone and everything around it, as if by forcing itself on others, the agony of the sufferer could somehow be lessened.

Beverly froze, hearing - but not comprehending, knowing something had happened - but not knowing what - or knowing how to react.

She froze - but only for a split second, until the sound of a crash, a dull thud, and the grunt of a sudden exhalation reached her; those were sounds she knew, sounds that her well-trained, physician's mind could identify and to which she could respond.

Grabbing her medical scanner without even consciously being aware if her action, she hurried into the main room of Sickbay, froze once more at the scene before her - then began barking orders.

"Kim! See to the Lieutenant," she snapped, gesturing at Andile, who was now lying on the floor, curled in a fetal position, still screaming, though her cries were being muffled by her arms, half covering her mouth as she clenched her head between white-knuckled hands.

All these details were recorded in her mind as she moved past the fallen woman, hurrying to where Picard lay sprawled, his body draped over the fallen remains of a bedside table, its contents now spread across the floor; the details were recorded and analyzed - and understood - and not understood - all in the course of a moment.

But this was not the time for analyzing what had happened in her brief absence; for the moment, her focus had to be on her patient... no, her two patients, she amended as she pulled her medical scanner out and began passing it over Picard's body.

He was conscious - but only just, his face grey, his lips blue... Loss of blood? She thought instantly - but there was no blood on the man or the equipment over which he was sprawled. Passing the scanner over him, she could find no trace of an internal injury either.

"Jean-Luc!" she barked at him, trying to rouse him. "What happened? Can you hear me? Tell me what happened!" she insisted.

He grimaced, his face contorting in a rictus of agony. "Pain," he whispered hoarsely.

"Where? Jean-Luc, where is the pain?! I can't help you if I don't know what hurts!" she snapped back, her voice growing strident from fear.

Fear? she thought to herself, startled at the realization. I'm no first year med student! This isn't the first disaster I've handled! Hell, it's not even the first time I've had Jean-Luc as a patient - and in worse situations than this! What am I afraid of? she insisted to herself, then damped down the emotion, demanding her mind maintain the cool and analytical paths she had developed during her years of work as a physician.

"Jean-Luc," she said, more calmly this time, "I can't find anything wrong. Tell me where the pain is," she repeated.

Picard gasped, his twisting in pain even as Andile shrieked once again, then managed, "Lieutenant."

Damn it! she swore silently, loving and hating him in the same instant for his apparent selflessness; there's a time to be the captain - and a time to think of yourself! "Kim's seeing to the lieutenant," Beverly informed him firmly. "Now tell me where do you hurt?" she repeated.

Andile cried out once again, her screams growing hoarser now, more animal as the pain began to wear at her; shooting a glance at her nurse, Beverly watched as the man frantically tried to help the convulsing woman - then felt a hand clench at her sleeve.

She turned back - and met the fierce - and pain-ridden - stare of her commanding officer.

"Not me! Help... her!" he growled from between gritted teeth - then released her sleeve as a new wave of pain tore through him, accompanied by a strained cry from the writhing lieutenant.

Beverly stared at Picard, baffled - then looked at Andile...

My God! she thought, the truth coming on her in a blinding flash of awareness. How could I have missed it!

Jumping to her feet, she raced to Andile's side, moving her scanner toward the engineer's head - then realized it was useless.

Too much tritanium, she remembered - otherwise I would have figured this out long ago, she added.

"Kim!" she barked at the frantic nurse. "I need a CSF sample."

"A sample...?" the nurse began to ask, only to be harshly interrupted.

"Hurry!" Beverly repeated, fumbling through the contents of the toppled bedside table for an empty hypo.

Kim gaped at her for a split second, then grabbed a hypo from his kit, grasped Andile's head, pushing it toward her chest, and applied the hypo to the back of her neck.

Beverly waited a moment for the topical anaesthetic to work, then maneuvered the empty hypo between the spreading vertebrae. Finding a minute opening between the bones at the base of Andile's skull, she touched the hypo, drawing out a few milliliters of the clear cerebrospinal fluid. Holding it up triumphantly, she hurried into the adjacent lab and dropped the sample into the analyzer - then began to swear softly at the machine.

"Hurry up," she said quietly, then "Damn it! Hurry up!"

A moment later, the display lit - and Beverly shook her head. "Nothing!" she muttered disappointedly, looking at the list of neurotransmitters and constituent compounds. "Nothing out of the ordinary," she added a second later, then looked at the list again. Nothing out of the ordinary - now!" she declared exultantly - then jabbed at the computer controls. "Two ccs ought to do it," she thought to herself, then amended as another shriek, this one high and shrill, but with a soft baritone echoing it two octaves lower, filled the lab, "better make it three."

She touched the control pad with the order, voiced a silent prayer that the fire hadn't destroyed this part of the computer - and was rewarded a moment later with the sound of the replicator running.

Grabbing the ampule, she forced it into a hypo, hurried back into the room, and gestured at Kim once more.

"One more time," she informed him, positioning the hypo at the base of Andile's head once again, then, finding the tiny niche between the bones of her spine, slowly infused the fluid.

The on-going scream didn't end at once; it was growing softer, yes - but more out of fatigue and exhaustion than a reduction of pain, Beverly thought, her heart reaching out to her suffering patient.

Her hand still on Andile's neck, she increased the suppressor to its full potential; it wouldn't stop the pain that was tearing through her head, she knew, but it might dim the agony the rest of her body was feeling. And if it wasn't enough...

If it wasn't enough, she told herself, they were going to have to put her back in stasis, the ship's crisis be damned. Not that it would make any difference; no one, not even Andile could work in that much pain.

Not even Jean-Luc, she reminded herself soberly, realizing what she might have to do.

She steeled herself, preparing to assess him professionally, coldly, analytically; she would determine if he could continue to endure under these circumstances - and if he couldn't, she added firmly, she was going to have to remove him from duty, put him in stasis as well - and prepare herself to live the rest of her life without him.

Without him - because he would never forgive her for this, she told herself.

But she would never forgive herself if she allowed him to suffer as he was.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned to her captain, her friend, the only man in her life who had truly mattered for the last ten years - and felt the relief wash over her so violently that it threaten to drown her.

He was sitting up, looking at her, his face still pale and drawn - but the color beginning to return as he breathing began to grow normal.

"Jean-Luc?" she whispered, then, reaching for the ubiquitous scanner, began to run it over him - then, seeing the data returning to its normal ranges, snapped it back in its case with a furious glance.

"Damn it!" she snapped. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

He shook his head, perplexed. "Tell you - what?" he asked.

She stared at him, then glanced at Andile - and suddenly realized the screaming had been reduced to a moan. She looked back at Picard, daggers in her eyes, and whispered, "That she's a telepath!" she snapped, then jumped to her feet, hurrying to Andile's side.

"Let's get her back on the bed," she said to Kim, then helped the man lift the tiny body back on to the bio-bed.

Andile groaned softly at the movement, then grew quiet as a blanket was pulled over her, the sound of her cries slowly growing faint, replaced with the soft chirps and hums of the bed's read-outs.

Beverly watched the panel for a moment, then glared back at Picard, who now stood behind her once again.

Before she could speak however, Picard shot a slight glance at the nurse, then back at Beverly.

Startled, she hesitated, then spoke up. "Kim, why don't take a break?" she said quietly. "That blow the lieutenant gave you probably shook you up pretty badly."

Kim Lewandowski gave a short laugh. "Ma'am, she isn't big enough to hurt a fly..."

Picard cleared his throat, interrupting the man.

Surprised, he looked at the captain, then back at the physician, who met him with a knowing look.

"Uh... actually, that might be a real good idea, ma'am. I am a little shaky - after hitting my head like that. I might have hurt myself. You know, when I hit my head. In fact, it may have affected my memory. That's what that must have happened," he insisted. "I think I've already forgotten almost everything that's happened this afternoon," he added.

"Permanent memory losses like that can be problematic," Beverly cautioned.

"Memory losses like what?" the nurse replied innocently - then added, "It's time for me to finish the medication inventory, Dr. Crusher. In fact, it's probably taken me all day to get this far with it."

"I would expect it has," she agreed, then flashed a grateful smile at the young man.

He nodded, then stepped out of the room, leaving the three alone.

"Do you always teach your assistants to lie?" Picard asked. "First, Dr. Ogawa, now Nurse Lewandowski?"

She gave him an angry look. "Coming from you, that's rich," she snapped back. "If you or Andile had been honest with me in the first place, I would have been able to spare you both a lot of pain! But no, you both had to keep silent..."

Picard shook his head, perplexed. "I don't understand," he confessed.

"Andile's a telepath!" Beverly railed. "She is, isn't she? It explains everything! That's how you knew where she and Will were after the fire: she sent you a message! And you've been in contact with her since..."

"Only since she came out of stasis," Picard protested.

"Oh! That's all! Damn it, Jean-Luc, if one of you had told me she was a telepath back when I first realized she was ill..."

Picard shook his head. "I didn't know it, then - but does it really matter?" he added.

"Of course it matters!" she snapped back. "Damn it..." she began - then fell silent, drawing a deep breath - and reminding herself that what was obvious to her wasn't obvious to him.

"Jean-Luc," she said, forcing herself to be calm, "telepaths have the same physiology as we do for the most part - except for two things: the structures in their brains that permit the use of their psionic abilities - and the neurochemical make-up that drives that ability. The neuro-transmitters in a telepath are different than ours; the basic components are the same - but the balance is different, because they combine them into different neuro-transmitters. Most of those that they use in greater quantity are provided for by diet; Deanna's love of chocolate is as much a physiologic need for the neurochemicals in it as it is for the taste.

"When Andile began her treatment for the organ failure, I made sure the basic nutrients she needed for her health were included in her diet, and stabilized through her treatments. Had I known Andile was a telepath, I would have either insisted she add certain other foods to her diet to supplant those needs, or given her injections to insure there were enough components in place to prevent what just happened from happening," she continued.

"Which was...?" he asked, still somewhat dazed.

Beverly stared at him - then realized with a rush of guilt that he had been as much a victim of the accident as Andile had. His face was still pale and deeply lined, his lips still tinged with blue; the pain had ended, Beverly realized - but he had suffered terribly while it was happening. Suffered - and now she was berating him for not having prevented it in the first place.

Not your fault, she told him silently. I should have put everything together earlier... but you could have told me, too, she added.

"You know the function of neurotransmitters in the brain," she reminded him. "They facilitate the passage of neural impulses from one synapse to the next - but the construction of those transmitters varies, depending on the function they perform. Many telepaths use their brains not just as we do, but to read other people's thoughts, project their own - and frequently for a number of other higher and autonomic functions. I suspect Andile has a number of additional talents she hasn't mentioned to us, ones that are so common to her that she doesn't even think about them. Pain suppression for one," she added, looking at the bed's read-out.

"Unfortunately, as the brain uses the transmitters, they break down to their constituent components to await recombination - and recombination takes energy. Andile didn't have it. She lost control - of her ability to contain pain, and, judging from your reaction, her ability to limit contact - her mind was encountering the equivalent of a firestorm, firing messages at incredible rates - but with no way to control it. And you, because you were in contact with her, got caught in the middle of that storm.

"Had either one of you told me about her telepathy, I could have supplemented her with more nutrients and energy compounds to keep the production levels in her brain at a functional level; as it was, I ended up injecting her with a compound of completed neurotransmitters - filling the gap between the breakdown and reconstruction. But it's just a temporary solution - and it's going to take me time to get those levels stabilized."

She shook her head disappointedly. "But you didn't tell me - and when the neurotransmitters finally failed - I presume you were in contact with her just before that?" she said with a questioning look.

He nodded wearily.

"When the transmitters failed," she continued, "she was completely unable to control her pain - and you both paid the price. That will teach you both not to tell your doctor the truth - and all of it," she added, feeling her anger beginning to grow once again.

"Doc."

The word was little more than a whisper, forced out through a dry and smoke-worn throat, but it was strong enough to carry the weight of ten thousand years of grief and pain in its fragile sound.

Beverly turned, a plastic, professional smile on her face - then let the expression fade as she met Andile's sorrowful eyes. She had suffered, Beverly realized - and from more than just the headache and the fire. A sensation of genuine contrition came over the doctor. "I'm sorry, Andile. I thought you were resting..."

"Not his fault," she interrupted. "He didn't know..."

"He knew you were a telepath," Beverly countered. "If he had told me - if _you_ had told me..."

"Beverly."

It was Picard's turn to interrupt. Beverly turned to face him.

"I was trying to respect the lieutenant's wishes," he explained. "Her... people didn't hold telepaths in high esteem; admitting she's a telepath is tantamount to admitting she's..."

"Filth," Andile whispered.

Beverly looked back at the woman, appalled.

"Disease," Andile continued. "Andile..." She shook her head. "There's no word in your language that translates. 'Shit' is the closest word you have - but it doesn't convey how base, how vile we are..."

"Were," Picard objected.

Andile nodded wearily, agreeing, not wanting to argue - but not believing. "Yes, sir," she said, "but you can't unlearn a lifetime of being told that you were less than garbage - because you could read minds. To admit it, even now..."

Beverly shook her head, understanding, not understanding - but knowing that what mattered now was her patient. "Then your people were fools - or worse," she said, adding, "But if it's what you want, then it won't go any further than here," she agreed gently. "If you'll agree to let me help you."

Andile shook her head. "I'll be fine," she insisted - then to Beverly's amazement, began to push herself up from the bed.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" the physician asked.

"Ship's in trouble," she reminded the physician.

"So are you," the doctor countered.

"I'll be fine..."

"Like you were five minutes ago?" Beverly replied caustically. "No. You're going to stay here..."

Picard opened his mouth to object, only to be stopped by the physician's upraised hand.

"...You're going to stay here until you get the breathing treatment - and until I check the recombination rate on your neurotransmitters. I gave you an injection of what I use for Deanna - but depending on your metabolism, you may use those quickly..."

Andile shook her head. "I haven't 'pathed in three hundred years, Doc. This was it. I'm not doing it again."

Beverly shook her head, scoffing at the notion. "Wrong. You're doing it right now. You're trying to control your pain, aren't you? Don't lie, Andile; I can see your metabolism rate on the readout - and it's a lot higher than it should be."

"It's not 'pathing," Andile insisted, exhausted.

"No," Beverly agreed, "it's a mental self-discipline - but it uses the same neurotransmitters. The harder you try to control your pain, the faster the neurotransmitters are going to degrade. If I don't put them back in balance, this is all going to happen all over again.

"Once that happens, Lieutenant," she said looking at the frail woman, "Captain," she added, glaring at Picard, "then and only then are you going to be released to return to work. Understood?" she asked, glaring at them both in turn.

"But I can work like this..." Andile protested.

"And you can also stay right where you are," Beverly countered. "You know my conditions. But the choice is yours."

"Yes, ma'am," Andile replied.

"Yes, Doctor," Picard echoed.

She nodded approvingly. "That's better. Now you lie down," she ordered Andile, watching as the woman eased herself back onto the bed, then glared at Picard. "And you let her rest," she added.

He nodded, watching as she left the room - then turned his attention to the woman on the biobed.

For a long moment, an awkward silence filled the space between them, then Andile met his eyes, the awkwardness growing.

He had seen into her soul, seen her devils, her demons; seen her at her worst, her most loathsome; shamed almost to the point of unbearability, she ached to turn away, to hide her humiliation... but she had no right to do that. She was andile...

"Lieutenant?"

Andile looked at him miserably.

For a moment he said nothing, then...

"If it wouldn't disturb your rest, I would like to review the systems damage we've found so far," he said.

She stared at him; she was wretched, she was filth, she was andile, and

they both knew it. But she was also an engineer.

And for now, that was the only thing that mattered.

She nodded. "Yes, sir," she said softly.

"Starting with the sensor arrays..."


	99. Chapter 99

**Chapter 99**

Andile took one last look at the padds on the table before her, then raised her eyes to the others at the conference table.

"Your thoughts, Lieutenant?" Picard asked.

There was no trace of anxiety in his voice, no trace of the worry that must have filled him - only a cool calmness that spoke of his professionalism.

Indeed, each set of eyes she met as she faced each person seated at the conference table displayed that same expression - though each with its own undercurrent breaking through from within.

Geordi's curiosity over how to address the problems - and his confidence that an answer could be found; Worf's fury at an enemy who would dare harm his ship; Deanna's quiet certainty in herself and the others that almost - almost! - hid her worry over Will Riker; Beverly's silent intensity as she listened with one portion of her mind while planning how to treat the casualties of whatever might come, Data...

Andile turned away, not wanting to see what was in those golden eyes - and not wanting him to see what was in hers.

They all were worried, concerned - but they all had faith that an answer could be found.

They did not, Andile thought grimly, have a clue.

Drawing in a deep breath - one which instantly became shallow as her smoke-damaged lungs protested - she spoke. "This assessment is correct, sir - almost," she amended quickly. "The damage to the core - like the damage to the ship itself - is minimal - almost inconsequential, but the damage to the computer control systems is devastating. Most of the destruction lies in the computer interface; without it, we can't access systems or computer - but the damage is not irreversible. We can rewrite those interface programs... in time," she added solemnly.

"How much time?" Picard pressed.

Andile drew a deep breath - or rather, started to draw one, only to cut it short once again as her lungs screamed in protest - then shook her head. "More than we have."

Deanna shook her head, rejecting the idea instantly. "But you don't know when they're coming!" she insisted, hope overriding reason. "We don't even know who they are! We might still have time. We might be able..."

"Counselor," Andile interrupted softly, "I don't have to know who 'they' are or when 'they' are coming to know that the only way we're going to be able to restore full function to the ship is to rebuild the entire computer system. Even with preprogrammed systems shipped directly from the Daystrom Institute, it took two full days - and that was with every support system the Institute could provide. Here, now, we have a minimal number of back-up cells, no existing control consoles - and only a handful of people aboard who can implement those repairs.

"My best guess - absolute _best_ guess," she repeated emphatically, "is three weeks. Working round the clock, no breaks, no down time, no flaws, no problems. Yes, it can be done. It just can't be done in time," she added.

For a long moment, the group stared at her, stunned beyond silence, shocked not at facing the possibility of capture by an enemy force - but shocked the possibility that this time - for the first time - they might not win.

After a moment, Picard nodded, accepting the grim prediction, then looked at Andile again. "Your recommendations?"

"Begin repairs anyway," she said. "Prioritize - shields, weapons..."

"Beej, propulsion should be next..." Geordi protested.

Andile cut him off with a shake of her head. "Not realistic, Geordi. My engines are too complex for a quick repair. The balance between the components will take weeks to re-establish - even if we had enough bio-neural cells available, even if we eliminate every validation that should be followed, we simply can't get the engines up and running before whoever they are show up - whoever 'they' may be," she added.

"As if you do not know!" Worf railed.

All eyes turned toward the angry Klingon, startled by the rage in his voice.

"Mr. Worf..." Picard began warningly, only to be interrupted by the engineer.

"As a matter of fact," she snapped, "I don't know who _they_ are. Nor do you. But what you do know - or what you _would_ know if you hadn't been so damned busy nailing my hide to the wall is that whoever they are, they had more than one person aboard."

"Yes - and that other person is you!" Worf roared.

"That other person is _not_ me," Andile replied, "and you should have realized it some time ago. Certainly you should have figured that out since the computer was damaged!" she snapped.

Worf stared at her, furious - but confused - as were the others.

"I don't understand, Beej," Geordi conceded.

"I do," Data interjected.

They turned to face the android.

"Explain, Mr. Data," Picard said, his tone low, controlled - but obviously concerned.

"The damage to the computer was detailed and precise. An explosive device alone could not have caused that exact level of damage; instead, I believe the computer control systems internal mechanisms were destroyed by a computer program that was run to ensure the level of destruction prior to the explosion."

"Then why explode the device?" Beverly asked. "To cover the evidence?"

Data shook his head. "No, Doctor; the computer core consoles were destroyed for the same reason that the technicians were killed: to prevent any possibility of repairing the system. However, the use of the program supports the possibility that there are, indeed, two saboteurs aboard."

"How so, Data?" Geordi asked.

"Because it damaged our ability to access every vital system, except life support... and the replicator."

Beverly shook her head. "I don't follow you, Data. Maybe the replicator was left undamaged for the same reason as life support..."

"No, Doctor," he countered. "Access to a functional replicator would allow us to create the components we need to repair every system, including the computer. A saboteur who wished us to truly be helpless would not have forgotten so critical a system..."

"Cmdr. James, however," Worf objected, "has been shown to have failed to pay attention to detail. It may have been an oversight on her part."

"If the commander had written the program," Data answered, "then I would consider that possibility. But the Cmdr. James did not write this program. Neither did the Lieutenant," he added.

Despite his protestation of her innocence, Andile felt a surge of fury rising in her.

How dare he defend me! she railed silently. How dare he presume to think that I need him to protect me or my reputation! Who the hell does he think he is?! Who does he think I am?!

A hand, laid gently on her sleeve, startled her out of rage-filled protest; startled, she turned - and found herself facing a worried Beverly Crusher.

"Is the pain getting worse?" she whispered, her voice so soft, her motion so discreet that no one else even noticed the side conversation was taking place.

But why she was even bothering to ask confused Andile. She shook her head.

Perplexed by the denial, Beverly stared at her - then raised a hand to Andile's face, barely touching the delicate tissue - then pulled back.

There, glistening in the soft light of the conference room, was a teardrop.

Stunned, furious at her body for releasing the droplet, furious at herself for daring to feel anything so strongly anymore, she stared at the drop - then met Beverly's eyes and shook her head. "My eyes..." she added a second later, as if to explain the unintended tear.

Beverly met her gaze for a moment - then glanced toward Data - then back to her. "I understand," she said at last.

No you don't, Andile insisted silently. You can't!

Still, the hand lay upon her sleeve, the compassion radiating from her eyes.

Andile smiled, seemingly appreciatively of the gesture - but after a moment, she carefully edged her arm out from under the sympathetic embrace.

I don't want you to understand, she thought with a quiet calm she hadn't felt in months.

Somehow, in that moment, it became easier; in that moment, the room grew quiet, peaceful; her passion became dispassion; she could step back, and coolly appraise the ship's situation, the crew's situation, her own situation - and know that it didn't matter.

Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. In the grand scheme, it didn't matter if the ship made it or not, if the crew lived or died, if the Federation thrived or failed...

In the grand scheme, it didn't matter.

But in the grand scheme, the crew was nothing more than an amorphous gathering of names and random faces - but these were names she knew, faces she could see, people whose stories and families were as real to her as if they were her own. And the ship... not some construct, some pale representative of a Platonic ideal - but their ship, their home, their work, their passion. The Federation wasn't just a list of words on paper - but the faith these people lived and breathed.

In the grand scheme it didn't matter.

Fuck the grand scheme.

"Cmdr. James didn't write the program," she said quietly.

Data nodded his agreement.

Andile noted the head movement; noted it, ignored it - and went on. "The program was too elaborate for her to have written, too detailed - and it had to have details that Sandra simply could not have understood. No, the program came from outside. She had a collaborator."

"You could have written it," Worf reminded her angrily.

Andile shook her head. "No - for two reasons. One is purely logistical; this program is elaborate - detailed and precise - not beyond my abilities," she added quickly, "but beyond the limits of my time. Almost every minute of my life for the last four months is documented; this program would have taken days to weeks to write - and I simply didn't have the time."

"You could have written it while you were at Utopia Planitia," Worf pointed out.

"Yes - but when I was at Utopia, the decision to install Sandra James' computer had not yet been made. That decision was made after I came aboard. Whoever wrote the program did so after the computer was installed."

"But..."

"More to the point, Commander," Data interrupted, "is the fact that the replicator system was overlooked by the program. Not by intention; should we recover the program, I believe we will discover the program was intended to damage that interface as well. But since that did not occur, it would suggest that the programmer was not aware of the change that had been implemented."

"Cmdr. James knew though," Deanna pointed out.

"She knew," Andile clarified, "but she didn't think it through. She had a brilliant mind - but undisciplined. She didn't think to put things together in logical, ordered patterns. She didn't realize a change in the replicator program would render the sabotage program null on that interface."

"You could have failed to program the computer in order to prove your innocence," Worf protested.

Beverly shook her head. "No, Worf; either the lieutenant is thorough, or she's not. You can't have it both ways to suit your convenience."

"It still doesn't prove that there is a collaborator aboard," Geordi reminded hem all.

"On the contrary, it does," Data contradicted.

Picard nodded. "Agreed," he said, then turned to Worf and the others. "From what the Lieutenant has said, the program was written with the knowledge that Cmdr. James' computer would be installed. That was information that was not available in time to write the program before the Enterprise left dock. Hence, it came aboard later," he said flatly - then looked at the gathered faces.

The table erupted.

"The ambassadors!" Worf exploded.

"Possibly," Picard replied.

"It must be! They were the last ones aboard..."

Data cocked his head, conceding the point, then added, "It must be pointed out that you, also, Commander, boarded the ship after our departure from McKinley Station."

Worf stared at him, astounded - and outraged. "You would accuse me...?"

Data shook his head. "I make no accusation. I was merely pointing out that circumstantial evidence can be misleading. Similarly, the late arrival of the delegates would suggest their possible involvement - but there exists the possibility that they were nothing more than carriers of such information - perhaps without being aware of doing so."

Deanna looked at Picard. "Tar Zumell did bring a large number of books with her..." she reminded him.

"And while Ambassador Tiron might have been cleared by his government, his 'apprentice' is an unknown," Beverly suggested.

Picard hesitated, then let out a breath. "Jay Tillerman may not be the most honorable graduate the Academy ever had, but I know he believes in what Starfleet stands for. He wouldn't jeopardize the Federation - knowingly," he conceded a moment later. "But that doesn't mean that he - or any of our guests - may have unwittingly carried the program aboard," he conceded.

"It's also possible that the ambassadors themselves weren't the carriers," Deanna suggested. "A message could have been relayed between the saboteurs when the ships rendezvoused."

Picard nodded. "All possible - but without further evidence, there's nothing on which we can act. All we can do is to begin with the ship's repairs - and to defend ourselves against any further sabotage."

"If Biji's right about the repairs," Geordi said, "that shouldn't prove too difficult; everything we need to do is focused in the computer core. Lock out every entrance to the torus, and restrict entry to everyone going in the core."

"Unnecessary," Andile interrupted.

Picard looked at her, surprised. "How so, Lieutenant?"

She shook her head. "They saboteurs have done what they were supposed to do; bring the program on board, implement the program - and kill anyone who could possibly repair the system. It's quite unlikely that they don't have a back-up plan; they didn't think they'd need one. Now they're just sitting back, waiting," she said grimly.

"But waiting for whom?" Beverly answered, voicing the question for which they did not have an answer.

"If I might suggest..." Data interjected.

"You think you know who's behind this, Data?" Geordi asked his friend.

"No - but I believe that a reasonable supposition could be made, based upon a number of factors."

"Which factors?" Beverly pressed.

"Assuming that the timing of the explosion - and the resultant destruction of the computer - was based on our presumed proximity to the saboteur's superiors, so that the capture of the ship would be quickly made - we simply need to calculate where the ship was supposed to be at the time of the explosion, had we not been delayed by the Romulans."

"And that would have been where, Data?" Geordi pressed his friend.

Data fell silent, making the complex calculation in his head - then raised his eyes to the others.

"If my computations are correct..." He fell silent, looking at the others around the table, a grim look on his face.

"Data?" Deanna said worriedly.

He met her eyes, then let his eyes wander around the table once again, slowly meeting the gaze of the others, then coming to rest on Andile's.

For a long moment, he said nothing, simply staring at the woman - then turned back to Picard.

"Sir," he said, his voice grim, "if my calculations are correct, at the time of the explosion, we would have been within three million kilometers of the Federation-Breen neutral zone."


	100. Chapter 100

**Chapter 100**

The Breen.

"The Breen," Picard repeated, his voice flat, emotionless, refusing to display the dread that filled him at the name of the enemy - then looked at Data, a glimmer of a hope he knew was hopeless in his voice. "Are you certain?"

Data nodded solemnly. "Of our intended location - yes. As to the involvement of the Breen, however, of that I can not be as certain. It is possible that the site was chosen by another race with the intent of implicating the Breen... "

"If the location of our disappearance were ever found," Andile said softly. "If there was any debris to track. If the 'others' dared risk waiting in Breen space." She shook her head. "Too many 'ifs', Captain, for someone who planned everything else in such precise detail."

"Then you believe it is the Breen themselves?" Picard pressed.

"I think..." She hesitated, then looked at him, worry obvious in her expression. "I think we that we're wasting time. We need to get the hell out of here - now - and worry about whoever it is - later."

"Beej," Geordi objected, "you said it would take weeks to rebuild the computer controls for the engines..."

"The temporal engines, yes," she said. "But the warp engines can be brought on line far faster, Geordi," she continued. "The programs weren't on line during the explosion; they should still be intact in the memory. We'd have to rebuild enough of the interface to handle the program - but that can be done," she said, giving Data a surreptitious glance - then looking at the others again.

"But the warp engines won't function while the temporals are in place, Beej," Geordi reminded her. "As long as they're there..."

"Then we tear them out, Geordi!" she snapped. "By the gods, they're just engines! We can always build new ones!"

"They're your life's work!" he protested.

She smiled, then shook her head. "My life, Geordi," she reminded him softly. "Not yours. Not anyone's on this ship. I can make more - when we're home." She looked at him expectantly.

Picard looked at the engineer as well. "Can we do it, Mr. LaForge?" he echoed quietly.

Geordi looked at the captain for a moment, considering - then glanced at Data, searching for confirmation.

"With the replicators still on line, we can manufacture the components to replace the damaged circuitry," the android replied, then fell silent as he contemplated for a moment - then gave a single nod of his head. "Yes, sir. It can be done."

"How long, Data?" Deanna asked.

"Twenty-two hours," he replied.

"Nineteen five," Andile countered.

Data raised a brow in question.

"ODNs are already initialized," she replied, envisioning the android's approach to the repair in her mind - and seeing a shortcut.

"Ah!" Data answered, instantly understanding. "But the constrictor coils..."

"We can salvage the existing coils," Geordi chimed in. "They're already calibrated."

"Contamination..."

"We don't have time to vent the plasma, Geordi," Andile said. "The only thing we can do is transport the pieces directly into space."

They continued for a moment, the others at the table staring at them as the ever-swiftening babble of techno-speak continued - the Picard raised his hands. "Mr. La Forge, can it be done?"

Geordi looked at the other two for confirmation - then nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then proceed," he said.

The three rose from the table, starting for the door, then Data stopped, turned and looked at the captain. "Sir, I believe that our repairs could be addressed more expeditiously if I were to focus on the computer interface reconstruction while Cmdr. LaForge addresses the engine repair."

Andile felt her shoulders sag under the weight of the android's words.

Gods, he can't stand the thought of working with me; he can't bear to be in the same room with me - even a room as big an Engineering; he can't even bear to say my name!

_Self-pity!_, the voice roared in her head. _Andile don't deserve self-pity; andile do not deserve any feelings! They are for humans! Not for filth, not for slime! Not for you!_

She choked back the sob that threatened - then nodded to herself, drew a sharp breath, squared her shoulders and followed Geordi through the open door...

... and almost walked into the Chief Engineer, who had stopped short just outside the conference room doors.

"Whoa there, Beej!" he said with a smile, grabbing her - gently - by the shoulders and stopping her before she could collide with him. "Be careful where you're going. I can't afford to have you spend any more time in Sickbay right now; I'm going to need you if we're going to get this done before the Breen get here," he reminded her, then studied her closely. "Are you sure you're up to this?" he added worriedly. "Dr. Crusher wasn't happy about you leaving Sickbay so soon..."

Andile smiled, then touched his arms reassuringly. "Geordi, I'm fine...or," she added, a forced laugh interrupting her, "I'll _be_ fine. Finer than I'll be if we stay here," she added, the laugh fading to a warning grimace.

He nodded. "Okay - but if you need anything..." he repeated, studying the woman's face, and not caring for the pink mottling of her face - or the grey pallor that lay beneath it.

It was too soon, he insisted to himself, remembering all too well the discomfort of plasma burns and regenerated flesh. In theory, the wounds were healed almost instantly; in practice, _almost instantly_ tended to be a lot closer to several days - and all of them filled with am unremitting, unending throbbing.

"I won't," she insisted, ignoring the concern in his eyes.

Geordi studied the woman a moment longer, then sighed, knowing he would never win this argument. "All right. Without the computer to run the self-diagnostics, we're going to have to check everything by hand," he began.

Andile nodded, understanding. "I think we can get by without realigning the dilithium crystals. The efficiency's going to drop..." she added worriedly.

Geordi grinned. "Beej, as long as we can move the ship out of here before the Breen - or whoever it is - gets here, I don't think the Captain's going to care _what_ our efficiency rating is."

She smiled back wearily. "Of course not," she agreed, then thought for a moment. "Geordi, since the engines are off line, let's start by rerouting the power supply back to the warp engines," she said. "It'd be easier now..."

"Rather than waiting until the power's back on - and have to take it off again," he said with a nod. "Good idea - but we're going to have to let Data know what we're up to, so he can plan the computer memory reconstruction accordingly. Don't want to burn out the circuits that he's just replaced by having the wrong power supply attached," he explained.

Andile hesitated - a hesitation that Geordi, despite his preoccupation with the work ahead of him didn't miss - but, to her relief, completely misunderstood. "Beej, just remember, you don't have to do this all by yourself. You can't - and probably you shouldn't - go running back and forth between the engineering bay and the core. Until communications are up again, I'm going to assign Cho and Dulfer to you..."

"Cho and Dulfer?" she said, astounded. "Gods, Geordi, I almost killed them the last time I worked with them! They're never going to want to work with me..."

"Beej," he countered calmly, "they've been begging for the chance. They both knew what they did in the shuttlebay was wrong - and they want to prove themselves to you. I think you should give them the chance," he added knowingly.

"Give them the chance to get killed by me once again?" she grumbled - then sighed. "Okay - but only to run messages. You make that clear to them - no showing off, no trying to prove themselves. Okay?" she insisted.

The Chief Engineer smiled. "They'll behave, Beej; they've learned their lesson," he replied, then turned, hurrying down the hall toward the lift.

They've learned, Andile thought to herself - but when will I?

For a moment, she stood there, wondering, aching - then turned in the opposite direction.

Reaching the aft lifts a moment later, she reached out to activate the pad, only to have the door spring open - and found herself facing a enormous expanse of a silver jacket.

"Baj!"

The roar of the bass voice echoed down the hall, sending Andile stumbling back a step - but only a step, as a massive hand grasped her arm, trying to steady her - and earning a gasp of pain in response. Without thinking, she jerked her arm free of his embrace and reached across with her other hand to protect the painful site.

"Baj?" Ambassador Tiron repeated, the enthusiasm in his voice instantly replaced by concern.

When she failed to respond immediately, the Romulan reached down to her, then carefully, almost tenderly, placed his fingers beneath her chin, turning her face toward his.

"Baj?" he repeated again, this time the name as much an exclamation of horror as it was a question.

"An accident," she explained instantly. "There was a fire... It's nothing, Patchni," she added insistently.

"Nothing?!" he roared. "This is intolerable! Has the captain enacted no safety measures, no precautions - no healers to treat such injuries?! How can Picard permit such dangers to exist on his ship? How can he allow... children!..." he seethed as he stared at the engineer, "to be placed in such peril?!"

"Patchni!" Andile snapped - then instantly relented, forcing a beseeching smile on her face. "Grandfather," she repeated, her voice dropping low, forcing the giant Romulan to bend close to her. "Please. He _is_ my captain," she reminded him.

Tiron's eyes widened at the gentle rebuke, then, chastised, he nodded and straightened. "Of course, my baj," he said softly.

"And I have my duties," she added softly.

He 'tsked' softly, shaking his head. "Such dedication," he said, half in praise, half in reprimand. "You must not forget that there is more to life than your work."

"Yes, Patchni," she agreed - then looked at him pleadingly.

He nodded, smiling sympathetically. "But you are too young to understand that yet," he sighed. "I hope you do not learn that lesson too late," he added.

"No, Patchni," she agreed.

He nodded tolerantly, knowing the advice would pass by such young ears. "In that case, Lieutenant," he said, emphasizing her rank slightly, as if to tease her with it, "if it does not keep you from your duties, where would I find your captain?"

Andile gestured down the corridor. "Captain Picard is in the conference room, Patchni... Ambassador," she corrected herself, then glanced past the Romulan and his protégé to the guard who stood behind the two. "Conference room thirteen," she clarified for the guard, realizing the failed computer system meant that no one knew where anyone else was - and short of running around the ship, searching, no one was going to find anyone else.

Which meant, she added, looking at the slightly winded Ambassador Tiron, his protégé and the guard, that they must have been searching for the captain some time before coming upon their current location.

No one knew where anyone else was, she realized, the implication suddenly slamming into her with a painful suddenness; it was hard enough having to rely on runners to spread information - but if they didn't know where the recipients were... Damn! she swore to herself, this was going to play havoc with the ship's repairs; gods, it might make them impossible!

It was something she hadn't calculated into her repair schedule, she thought, falling into a deep thoughtfulness.

Communications are down because the ship's computer interface failed, she mused; to reprioritize the interface would require...

Tiron watched as the tiny engineer brushed passed him, entering the lift as they exited, completely unaware of their movement past her, utterly lost in her ruminations.

He watched as the doors shut, then gave a disapproving shake of his head before turning abruptly to the guard. "Take me to your captain," he ordered.

Picard looked up as the doors slid open, surprised by the interruption - and doubly surprised by the cause of it.

"Ambassador Tiron," he began, "you should return to your quarters..."

Tiron ignored the warning, glaring at Beverly and Deanna. "You will leave us," he ordered firmly.

Picard's brow raised, unused to having anyone else order his crew about - only to be dumbfounded as Tiron turned to face his own guard and protégé. "You as well. Leave us."

There was an equally stunned silence from his two companions, the guard turning to Picard while the hooded figure seemed to stare, shocked, at her mentor.

"Go child," Tiron repeated, his voice gentling, growing softer. "I must speak with the captain... alone," he added.

Turning, he faced Picard, the order - the request, the plea - clearly written in his expression.

Still, a part of Picard rebelled at the intrusion; about to refuse, he felt a gentle pressure on his arm.

Turning, he looked to Beverly, and saw her give an almost imperceptible nod. "It's all right Captain," she said softly. "Deanna and I were just going to Sickbay." She glanced at Tiron.

Picard nodded, appreciating Beverly's discretion; that the ship was in trouble, the Romulan ambassador may have been able to determine for himself - but the degree of that trouble was no one's concern but his - and the crews'.

"I'll be expecting your status report," he replied obliquely.

Beverly returned the brusque nod, understanding the captain perfectly. then glanced at Deanna, who was studying both Picard and Tiron. Catching the empath's eye, she gestured at the door, and the two exited, followed, after a moment's delay by the hooded disciple.

Left alone, the two men stared silently at one another.

"You wanted to see me, Ambassador?" Picard said at least, finally breaking the tense silence.

Tiron gestured at the conference room window. "The ship has stopped, the computers are not working, the internal communications have failed. This ship is in trouble," he said, announcing it defiantly, as if daring Picard to disagree.

But despite the accuracy of the Romulan's assessment, for a moment the captain was tempted to do precisely that - then stopped himself.

Instead, he nodded. "Yes, Ambassador. However, I believe you would be safer if you and your protégé were to remain in your quarters..."

"Safety? You would speak of safety when you send children into peril and risk their lives?" Tiron seethed.

"Ambassador..." Picard began placatingly.

"That you would do so..." Tiron interrupted, "That you would risk an innocent's life..." The Romulan's voice rose as his fury surged - then fell back as he stopped himself, checking his anger and his rage. He raised a hand as if asking for a moment's forbearance from the human, then drew a deep breath, steadied himself - and continued.

"That you would do so... that you would put the lives of the youngest of you in such peril means that this ship is in far greater danger than I suspected," he said as calmly as he could - then hesitated, drawing another deep breath.

"Captain, we are sworn enemies," he went on. "There are those among my people who believe our participation in these talks is tantamount to treason; that by parlaying with you and the Cardassians, we are betraying all that the Romulan Star Empire stands for - and that should we succeed, we, as a people, shall fall! If any of them were to hear me now, to see me meeting with you privately, my life would be forfeit!"

Picard nodded, understanding why the man had emptied the room of all the others, including his student - but still not understanding what the man wanted.

"I appreciate your sentiments, Ambassador, but..."

"Then understand that what I am about to say, that what I am about to do, must never go further than this room," Tiron continued.

Picard hesitated a moment - then nodded, uncertain of what he was about to agree to.

"I understand," he said solemnly.

"Then..." Tiron hesitated for a moment, thinking - then met Picard's eyes.

"This ship is in trouble," he said, his voice deep, his tone ominous, "and that trouble means our lives, all our lives, the lives of our friends, our families - the future of our worlds - everything we each hold dear - everything, Captain, that we love - it is all at risk," he said.

"Ambassador..." Picard interrupted impatiently, agreeing with the man - but knowing he could accomplish nothing as long as he stood here, listening to the Romulan.

But Tiron was not a man to be stopped before he had been heard out. "Captain, all that we love is at risk - and so, at the risk of my own life, I must ask..." He hesitated.

"Ask what, Ambassador?" Picard echoed softly.

Tiron hesitated a moment longer, the conflict, the risk, the consequences racing through his mind - then met Picard's eyes.

"Captain Picard, how can I help?"


	101. Chapter 101

**Chapter 101**

For a moment, Picard was too astounded to reply - then hastily, but tactfully, began to decline the offer. "I appreciate what you're suggesting, Ambassador, but I assure you..."

The assurance fell, incomplete, from his lips as he saw the expression in Tiron's eyes - aching, desperate.

"I saw her, Captain," the Romulan said softly.

Picard shook his head, confused. "Saw... who?"

"The baj," Tiron replied. "I saw her. She had been burned."

Picard hesitated - then nodded. "There was a fire in our computer core."

Tiron's eyes widened as the enormity of the disaster registered - then tightened in anger. "And you sent a child to tend to it?" he countered accusingly.

Picard sighed. "Lt. Andile is not a child, Ambassador," he answered as patiently as he could. "She is both qualified for her rank and her role..."

"Pah!" Tiron exploded. "She is a child; an infant!"

"More to the point, Ambassador," Picard continued gently, "she was one of the first on the scene; she acted to remedy the situation - and save her crewmates lives."

Tiron stared at Picard, then with a strangely troubled expression, nodded. "I should have expected as much," he said softly, then turned, staring out the window of the conference room for a moment - then turned back to Picard, his expression now resolute. "How extensive was the damage?"

"Fortunately, not as bad as it could have been: the core was not damaged - but the computer interface was."

"This is the hybridized linear chip/bio-neural computer?" Tiron interrupted.

It was Picard's turn to look surprised - then suddenly suspicious. Cmdr James had been working with someone - someone who could think quickly, act quickly - and Tiron's physical size was no barrier to those two qualifications, he reminded himself. And, as he had just reminded Picard, there were Romulans who wanted to see this mission fail, including, perhaps, Tiron himself...

Despite the severity of their situation, Tiron found himself unable to suppress a small smile at the distrust he saw in the captain's face. "You are too suspicious a man, Captain; the hybridization was published in your Daystrom Institute's theoretical compendium two years ago. The theory has become common knowledge, even outside the Federation - and its existence has been hypothesized for the last twelve months. And where else would the installation be - if not on the flagship of the Federation?" he added.

For a moment longer, Picard let the expression stay - then slowly relented, easing the muscles in his face as he realized Tiron was right.

Indeed...

"You are a computer specialist?" Picard asked the man, hope surging for a moment.

And fading equally quickly as Tiron shook his head. "No. I know what is necessary to run a computer system, of course - but I was primarily a navigator and helmsman in my youth, not a computer technician, Captain."

"Ah," Picard answered, trying to hide his disappointment. It had been an unrealistic hope, of course, he chided himself harshly; even if Tiron had understood computers, there was almost no chance that he would have known the hybrid system well enough to assist them in the reconstruction.

And even if he had, Picard wasn't certain he would - or could - have accepted the offer of help. There was still a saboteur aboard, he reminded himself... A suspicion rose in his mind.

"And your protégé?" he prompted the large Romulan.

Tiron gave Picard a baffled look.

"Your... disciple," Picard repeated, struggling to remember the term the Romulan had used. "By any chance, is she an expert in computer systems?"

Tiron shook his head. "Captain, in Romulan politics, she does not even exist on this journey - but even if she did," he conceded, "she would be a student of politics, not computers."

Picard nodded, silently relieved. A part of him wanted to trust Tiron - but a greater part of him wanted just to eliminate the ambassador - and the potential ally - from his list of suspects.

Not that this would do so - at least, not entirely, he added - but there had been no veiled suggestion that in these two lay a too-conveniently timed, too-conveniently placed solution to their problem. No, Picard decided; Tiron may have ulterior motives in offering help - but furthering the damage to the ship didn't appear to be one of them.

He sighed, relieved - and frustrated. As much as he would have distrusted such an easy solution, he would have also welcomed it. But in Tiron - and his disciple - there seemed no more solutions than he had already found - or, more accurately, failed to find.

"I thank you, Ambassador," he said after a long silence, "but my crew is capable of handling the situation..."

"I did not mean to suggest that your crew was not able, Captain," Tiron interrupted. "I just... " The Romulan fell silent, then glanced out the window, staring at the stars.

Picard followed the huge man's gaze, then stepped closer to the big man, studying the stars beyond the panels.

They were beautiful, he thought - but so still here in the depths of space.

He had grown used to them moving, whether just the scintillation of their light as it passed through the atmosphere of whatever planet they were on, or their prismatic streaks, streaming across the viewports, or, more recently, the rainbow-faceted blurs caused by the temporal shifts of the new engines, they had always been a constant, but constantly changing, partner throughout his travels, moving, just as he had been.

But here, now, they were still, cold, silent, reminding him of the depths and un-ending stillness of the space that surrounded them.

Tiron seemed equally as troubled by the visage; he studied it silently for a moment longer - then spoke.

"Even as I child, I longed to go to space. I was born on Romulus, near the southern pole deserts - and my nights were filled with the stars and the auroras. I knew, even as a child, that I wished to spend my life among them, and among the worlds out there," he said, then looked at Picard.

"Conquering them," he added with a rueful smile. "We are a warrior race, Captain, a race of conquerors; my parents raised me to be a warrior, a conqueror, and always a loyal member of the Romulan Star Empire.

"And through that loyalty," he continued, "I was able to reach my stars, to go where I wanted, where my dreams called." He smiled, seeming only slightly embarrassed by the confession. "I repaid that gift, Captain; I was - and am - loyal to the Empire. Loyal in myself - and in my children."

He fell silent, considering for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the stars - then back to Picard. "I taught my children well, Captain; I taught them that a life dedicated to the Empire would be repaid, not just through personal gain, but through the strengthening of our society. Working as one, the Empire would grow, thrive... I asked them, encouraged them, convinced them that their dedication to the Empire would be the greatest gift they could give our people.

"And so, when the war came, my sons went to fight... and died," he said quietly. "I grieved - but they had died as a Romulan should die - for a cause, for a worthy cause. I grieved - but I rejoiced as well; their lives were ones well spent.

"Lost too young," he added, "but not lost meaninglessly. And... and I had a daughter; my family would not end with their passing."

Tiron looked at Picard. "Have you a family, Captain?"

Picard gave a slow shake of his head. "No."

"A wife?"

Picard shook his head again. "Those... were choices I didn't make, Ambassador," he replied quietly.

"Then you are a fool, Captain," Tiron countered. "What we do here," he said, gesturing at the room around them, "is only half of a life lived. If we do not remind ourselves what it is we fight for, work for, then it is all without meaning. I did what I did for my children. For my sons - and for my daughter. And I never doubted it. Not when my wife died, not when my sons were killed in battle... not even when my little one came to me - and told me she had enlisted."

Tiron grew somber, quiet as memories flooded over him. "I was proud of her, proud of the choice she had made - and confident that she would be safe. She was too little to become a warrior," he explained. "The Empire would never send her into battle; she would never qualify, never meet the standards. No, she would perform her service, honoring her family, honoring her brothers' sacrifice, honoring her people - and then she would leave, and honor us once again by marrying, having a family of her own to carry on the name..."

He fell silent.

"Ambassador?" Picard pressed, uncomfortable over the awkward revelation, dreading the end he knew was coming - yet finding himself strangely drawn into the tale the Romulan was telling.

"She was working as a records clerk - just a cadet, trained to do nothing more than maintain ammunition files for the warbird on which she was stationed," Tiron began, his voice straining with emotion - then looked at Picard, his eyes shining with tightly controlled tears. "A safe post... but nothing in a war is truly safe.

"There was a power overload; a fire started... She could have run to safety," he insisted, "but she didn't. She stayed back, fighting the fire, trying to keep the flames from reaching the ammunition storage room. If they did," he added quietly, "the fire would have detonated them all - and the warbird would have been destroyed, and all her crew lost. Including my little one.

"She knew that," he said firmly. "She knew that she was all that stood between her crews' deaths - and their survival. And so she stayed... and fought... and died.

"And with her died my life."

Picard stared at the huge man, stunned that so strong a man could be broken down by so small a thing - a child's death... No, he chided himself, not so small a thing; wasn't Beverly still worrying, grieving over her missing son? Hadn't Andile been laid low by the child she hadn't saved?

What wouldn't he have done to have saved his Meribor, his Batai? he asked himself.

"Ambassador," he began gently, trying to understand, but knowing he never would fully - but knowing enough not to pretend he could share a father's loss.

Tiron looked back at him, the tears now fading, replaced with a quiet resolution. "In the days - and months and years - that followed, I realized that had there been no war, had my sons not been aboard those ships, had there been no munitions aboard my daughter's warbird, they might still be alive. And with them, the sons and daughters of a thousand others.

"In those moments, Captain, I doubted everything that I once held dear - but in time, I came to understand that it was not the Empire that spelled their death, and the death of my family, but the wars we fought. The wars were killing us, Captain, killing our people, killing our future. In one war, we watched almost an entire generation die - and the future of the Romulan Empire with it.

"I believe in the Empire, Captain Picard - but I no longer believe in war. That is why I am here - for my people. For my Empire. For our future. And yours," he added solemnly.

Picard raised a brow in question.

"The little one," Tiron answered, gesturing toward the door and the hall beyond. "My daughter was no older than the baj when she died. Seeing her today..." He smiled, but there was more of shame in his expression than pride.

"I did not come here today to offer my help, Captain; I came here to insist upon answers, and demand a solution! I was about to demand that you find a way to get us to the conference, so that we could solve the problems that confront our people... and then I saw the little one.

"I know what regenerated burns look like, Captain; I've seen enough of them on the crew with which I've served, on myself as well. I saw her, burned, healing... and thought my daughter did not have that chance, the chance to heal and recover.

"I did not know what happened to the baj, but in her face I saw the determination I believe my daughter must have felt in those final moments - and I knew that however the little one had been hurt, it was in the service of her people. As my little one died to save her crew. Her people. Her way of life - for what she was raised to believe in.

"And that way of life is no longer insulated from the world of others," he said firmly, he resolve, his dedication unshakable. "We can no longer act for ourselves or even just our own people, Captain; we must now - and perhaps forever, work together. Each with our own goals, perhaps, but together, that we may reach those goals.

"And so I ask again, how may I help you?"

Picard studied the man for a long time, then said, "You said you knew helm control and navigation?"

Tiron nodded. "For many years - both on the main bridge and on shuttlecraft, both as officer in charge and as a teacher," he added, his pride at the achievement evident in his eyes.

Picard considered a moment longer, then nodded, to himself as well as Tiron. "In that case, Mr. Ambassador," he said softly, "I think I have a something for you that may save this ship - and all our peoples."


	102. Chapter 102

**Chapter 102**

An hour later, Jean-Luc Picard entered Sickbay - then stopped and drew a breath of relief as the weight of a thousand worries slipped from his shoulders.

It wasn't that he hadn't trusted Beverly; she wouldn't have assured him that Will would be all right if she wasn't sure he would be - and yet, there was always that nagging doubt at the back of his mind: that something would go unexpectedly, unresolvably, wrong; that there would be something she hadn't found, or that the surgery hadn't been able to correct - or that despite Will's unflagging strength of will, this would be the time that his body simply could not recover.

And it had been a month... no, a year - too many years, he admitted - of too many doubts, of too many questions about himself, his beliefs, his faith in others - to believe in anything or anyone as completely as he once had.

He had believed in Starfleet Command and the Admiralty - and they had betrayed the Ba'ku homeworld. They had betrayed his ship and his crew. He had believed in Sandra James - and she had turned out to be a saboteur. He had believed in Admiral Czymszczak - grudgingly - and he had betrayed Lt. Andile.

And the lieutenant...

He drew a breath, wondering how much of his belief in her was realistic - and how much was nothing more than a pipe dream, a hope of what may be.

I want to believe her, he insisted to himself, but... I can't be sure, he admitted.

I'm not even sure of myself, he added.

But he could be sure of Will, Picard thought to himself, a grin coming to his face as he spied his first officer, looking exactly as he had expected to see him, sitting on the edge of the bio-bed, dressed in the inevitable blue Sickbay pyjamas, his bare feet dangling over the edge, Deanna beside him, grinning furiously, rubbing his arm as if to reassure him that she was there - and to reassure herself that he was as well - and arguing with Beverly.

"I'm fine!" he protested.

"You had a fractured skull, Will - not to mention smoke inhalation and extensive burns to your hands, berezine burns to your legs and..."

"I know what else got burned," Will interrupted, his cheeks flushing red as he shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

Beverly smiled back. The chemical burns to his legs and backside had been treated and regenerated successfully - but that didn't mean that she wasn't going to enjoy teasing him about the injury in the weeks and months to come.

If they had weeks and months, she added, suddenly growing sober.

"Normally, I'd put you on leave for at least a week," Beverly continued.

"Beverly..." he protested - then looked up and saw Picard. "Captain..." he tried again.

Picard raised a hand, silencing the unvoiced argument.

"I'm not the one in charge here, Will," he replied, then looked at Beverly. "How is he, Doctor?"

"As I was trying to explain," she said, the frustration in her voice growing evident, "Will _is_ in good condition - considering that he's recovering from a severe fracture of the skull, surgery to repair that damage, and from berezine burns across thirty percent of his body. But all of those are traumatic events to the body - and none that should be treated lightly. There are consequences - potentially life-threatening consequences - that can arise," she continued, glaring angrily at Picard. "Releasing him from Sickbay at this point - without knowing that his condition is completely stable and that he's out of danger - would be inadvisable in the best of circumstances. Ideally, I'd like to keep him here, under observation for another twenty-four hours - at least - and on leave for a week further."

Will opened his mouth to protest, but Picard silenced him with an upraised hand.

"Unfortunately, Beverly," he said, his voice quiet but worried, "these are _not_ the best of circumstances."

"I am aware of that, Captain," she replied, the anger still evident in her voice, "and for that reason - and that reason only, I'm willing to settle for one more neurological scan - and, if there are no abnormalities, Cmdr. Riker may return to duty - on the condition," she added sternly as she saw the expression of ready concession in both men's eyes - and the look of worry in Deanna's.

She turned to Will, her expression as serious, as concerned as he had ever seen it. "Cmdr. Riker," she said soberly, solemnly, "you must promise me that if you experience anything out of the ordinary - any blurring of your vision, any weakness in your muscles, tingling or paresthesia in your extremities - anything! - unusual, you will report back here - immediately," she added emphatically. "Will, I cannot stress strongly enough how precarious your condition is."

Will studied her, seeing the worry, the concern, even the fear, in her expression, knowing it was utterly sincere - but found himself unable to accept it fully. I feel great! he protested silently. Better than great, he added; a day's rest, admittedly induced by medication, but completely untroubled by worry about the ship and the mission - or about his own situation, he added - had left him feeling better than he had in a long time.

His protestations and rationalizations, however, would carry no weight with the physician; instead, he glanced at Picard, their eyes meeting and instantly agreeing that this concession was the best they were going to get from the doctor.

He looked back at Beverly, sighed, then nodded. "All right - but I still think you're being overly cautious. I feel fine!" he protested.

"Beverly just wants to make sure you stay that way, Will," Deanna said softly, still stroking his arm gently as Beverly took out a scanner and began passing it along his head.

He turned to the Betazoid, their eyes meeting - and he smiled softly.

Imzadi, he thought - and watched as tears of relief welled in her eyes.

I thought lost you, she thought back.

Never, he replied, the promise soft, gentle and warm in her mind. I'll be with you... for as long as you'll have me.

Her hand ran down the length of his arm, settled on his hand - then raised her eyes to his.

Then... forever, she replied.

For a moment, Will said nothing, did nothing - and Deanna felt her heart freeze, a new terror overwhelming the one that had possessed her since she had learned of the fire and his injury. This was not the time, not the place, she realized, looking away.

She felt him take her hand and squeeze it tightly - and looked at him once again, and felt her fears melt away.

Forever, he replied.

Picard wished he could look away, wished he could turn his back to grant the two a moment of time without distracting them - but even if he could, there was no time in which to do it. Still, he hesitated for a moment, granting them another second together - then stepped closer to the bed.

Seeing the motion, Will squeezed his beloved's hand once again, then loosed his grip and turned his attention, his focus and his thoughts to the man before him.

"How much do you remember, Will?" Picard asked gently.

"Not much," the first officer conceded. "I remember Beej breaking into the room, the fire, calling in the alarm... "

"We never got the alarm," Picard replied. "The emergency and communications systems had been disabled before you even got down there. We're still working without both of them - though Geordi informs me we should have communications back within the hour." He handed the pyjamaed officer a gold comm badge. "They're being modified to run through the yacht's comm system; the range will be limited, but we'll be able to maintain internal communications."

Will nodded, attaching the badge to his pyjama top.

"You're going to need this as well," Picard added, handing a phaser to the man.

Will looked at the weapon, unpleasantly surprised; arming the crew was never a good omen - and arming them before the enemy had even made itself known to them... It was not, Will thought to himself, a good sign.

It was, however, a reality of their plight. He raised his eyes to Picard's, meeting the older man's steely gaze - then nodded, glanced down at his pyjamas - and smiled grimly. "No place to carry it on this outfit," he murmured.

Despite his worry for his friend and his ship, Picard found himself smiling back, unable to escape the man's inexhaustible good humor.

"What else do you remember, Will?" he pressed.

"It was too hot and smoky to perform much of a search; we couldn't even walk in - we had to crawl... I remember finding two of the bodies - Biji found a third..." He looked at Picard, confused. "We didn't find the fourth," he realized, hope tingeing his voice.

Hope that Picard instantly quashed. "We found all four bodies after the fire was put out. Will," he added soberly, "all four were killed before the fire started."

Seeing the look of confusion on the man's face, Picard quickly informed the man about what had been discovered in the hours since the fire erupted and the subsequent findings and conclusions.

"Then there is still another saboteur aboard," Will announced as Picard concluded.

"There is a conspirator," Picard countered. "Someone who was helping Cmdr. James - indeed, probably in charge of her actions - but my guess is that that person is not in a position to act."

"Otherwise," Will interrupted, "there would have been no need to enlist Sandra's aid."

"We should be grateful that there was," the captain replied. "If Cmdr. James hadn't participated, we might never know that any sabotage had been performed - until today's events had occurred. It was her incompetence, her error in installing the false environment monitor in the computer core, and using the wrong power supply in doing so, that alerted Lt. Andile."

"Credit where it's due, Captain; that anomaly was within tolerances. If Biji had been any less..." Will paused, searching for a polite term for the overly-exacting engineer, "...persistent, if she hadn't given up, we might not have been able to put together all the clues."

"Would that we had put them together a few hours earlier," Beverly interjected, closing her scanner with a distinct snap. "We might have been able to save Cmdr. James, the technicians - and you and Biji," she added unhappily. "And we might have found the other saboteur."

Picard nodded. Whatever her motivations, Sandra James was not a strong individual; she would have broken easily under interrogation - a fact her co-conspirator must have known. All the more reason she had to be eliminated, he realized.

"We still have a mission to save billions of others," he replied, understanding Beverly's anger all too well, having felt the same rage and disappointment - but reminding himself that they still had a greater mission before them. "We will grieve... later," he added.

Beverly nodded, though there seemed to be some doubt, some reluctance in her eyes.

Something else to discuss later, Picard added. How much of our humanity do we sacrifice for our jobs, he wondered. How much do we give up so that others need not give up anything?

He drew a deep breath, letting his mind wander over the choices he had made - then shook his head, chasing off the ruminations. Those thoughts, like his discussion with Beverly, were something better suited for another day.

"Speaking of Biji, where is she?" Will asked, glancing around Sickbay, a look over worry growing in his eyes as he realized he was the only patient present - then one of relief as he realized there was no grief in his fellow officer's faces.

"Engineering," Picard replied. "She's dismantling the temporal warp engines so that we can initialize the traditional warp engines as soon as the computer system is rebuilt."

Will nodded approvingly. "Good. Glad to hear she wasn't hurt in the fire. A good thing, too," he added with a grin. "I couldn't see a damned thing in that accessway. The only way I knew where I was going was by following her voice." He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "It's funny; I don't recall what she was saying, just that I could hear her voice... something about Egypt, maybe?" he murmured to himself - then smiled again. "Whatever it was, I'm grateful for it; it gave me something to focus on until we crawled clear of that corridor."

Picard raised a brow, then looked at Beverly - who looked back at Will. "And you remember crawling out of the accessway?" she asked.

"No... Not really," Will admitted, slightly confused - then shook his head. "But there's no other way I could have gotten out of there," he added.

Beverly smiled. "Will, I think there's something you should know: You didn't crawl out. Biji dragged you out of there."

The first officer stared at the physician - then broke into an enormous grin. "Good one, Beverly; I almost believed you this time. But Biji couldn't pull me two meters, let alone two hundred..."

"Well," Beverly conceded, interrupting his protest, "you're half right. She pulled you through to an equipment storage alcove. From what we can tell, she left you at that point and went to get help. From the severity of berezine burns you both experienced, we can assume the levels were growing too high to risk moving you further - so she left you and went for help."

"And she told you this?" he asked skeptically.

Beverly shook her head. "She didn't say a word, Will. But there was unmistakable evidence that she had moved a significant weight through the accessway - and you both have berezine burns on your calves, thighs and buttocks - and unless you're about to tell me you crawled through those passages backside first, I'm going to draw the most reasonable conclusion I can." She looked at him, silently daring him to disagree.

For a long time Riker was silent - then he sighed. "I think I owe Beej an apology."

"An apology?" Deanna asked.

"Before we went in the core, I was concerned she might have some hard feelings about what happened in the interrogation," he admitted.

"And you asked her?" Beverly said, astounded.

"Just before we reached the core," Will admitted. "I didn't know she going to have to drag me out of there a few minutes later!"

Deanna cringed as Picard raised a brow in dismay - and Beverly smiled. "For a man of your experience, Will," she announced for the three, "you have a remarkable sense of bad timing."

"There will be time for apologies later, Number One," Picard assured the man, clapping him firmly on the shoulder, "after we finish the repairs and get the delegates to the conference. If we can get repairs completed," he added, looking at Beverly.

"If you're asking if Will's free to leave, he is - but..." she began warningly.

"I'll let you know if I have any symptoms," Will promised her.

"As will I," Deanna assured the doctor.

Will shook his head in mock frustration. "That's the only drawback to having a empath aboard," he said. "You know everything that's going on in my head!" he shook his head, feigning disappointment. "It's a sad thing when a man can't keep a secret to himself."

"Will, you know I would never reveal anything I learn that would be considered a matter of privacy or personal confidence," Deanna protested. "I would only reveal something that I felt would endanger the health, safety or security of this ship, her crew or the Federation."

"That covers a lot of territory, Counselor," he countered teasingly.

Deanna smiled back - then they both realized the Captain was still waiting beside them.

"Well, I guess I'd better get dressed," Will said, pushing himself off the bed - then stopped, and turned to Picard, his expression serious once again.

"Sir, this still keeps coming back to one question we haven't answered: Why? Why sabotage the ship?"

Picard nodded. "Agreed, Number One. If we can determine that, we may have a better chance of determining who else is involved - but we still don't have a clue."

Will nodded - then hesitated. "Sir, I hate to even suggest this... but what if they are after Lt. Andile's engines?"

Picard affixed the man with a steady gaze. A moment before, the engineer had been "Biji"; now she was "Lt. Andile". Will had thought of something - and despite owing his life to Andile, the idea had once again made the man suspicious.

And, Picard admitted to himself, despite his own conversations with the engineer, despite all she had told him about herself, her past, her misadventures in Starfleet and beyond, there was still so very little that he truly knew about her.

No matter what, he thought, she was still uniquely suited to being able to present herself as both an innocent - and the main culprit.

And, Picard thought, a sudden chill running through him as Will's innocent remark to Deanna flashed in his mind, if she were even half the telepath he already knew her to be, she could have easily read his thoughts and known what he wanted to hear - what he needed to hear - to convince himself she was not the enemy.

Even that fleeting, horrifying glimpse into her mind could have been nothing more than the elaborate, intricate machinations of an expert manipulator.

Or, he added with a tired sigh, it could have all been the truth.

Or somewhere in between - and where the truth lay - the real truth, the entire story of more years than he could begin to fathom - he might never know.

No, he corrected himself, he could never know what the truth was; in reality, no one ever truly could know what the whole truth was with anyone. All we really ever have, he reminded himself, is trust.

But trust was born of time spent, experiences shared, and knowledge gained - together.

And he had simply not had the luxury of any of those.

He hesitated for a moment, then faced his first officer, his eyes cold and hard.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"If they - whoever they are - are after engines, the optimum way to steal them would be to capture the entire ship with the engines in place and functioning."

Picard nodded. "Agreed - but that doesn't implicate the lieutenant," he reminded Will. "If she intended to give them the engines, then why not just defect? She has the knowledge and expertise..." he began - the hesitated.

The knowledge and expertise, he thought - but not the time. She had known she was ill, probably that she was dying - she wouldn't have had the time to implement the new designs before her internal injuries finally killed her. The only choice she would have had was to turn over the functioning engines, the computer records - and all the crew that had worked with them.

Not only would that have ensured that all the information available had gone to the collaborators - but without her, without the engines, without the few people who had worked on those engines, there would be no doubt that the Federation would be left wanting.

But that had been before Beverly's discovery of a possible cure for her deteriorating condition, he thought. Time was something she now had; now there was no need to sacrifice the crew as well as the engines - but the plan was already in motion. How better to salvage the project - and the crew - than by removing the engines - and dumping them in space where her confederates could pick them up at their leisure.

"You may be right, Will," Picard replied softly.

"And you both may be wrong," Beverly interrupted harshly. "If Biji really was a saboteur, why did she try to save your life, Will? She didn't have to; she could have left you to die in the core, a victim of the smoke and flames and the explosion, or left you to die in the berezine," Beverly continued, ignoring the expression of pain on Deanna's face, hating to hurt her friend so, but knowing someone had to remind the two men about the reality of the situation, "and we would have all understood. Grieved for you, mourned for you - but in the end, not one of us could have expected her to haul you out through that accessway, burning the flesh off her hands and arms, almost inhaling berezine herself when she tried to get help... She didn't have to do that," she reminded them. "But she did. Why? If she was the saboteur, why did she do that?"

Picard reached out, laying a calming hand on the physician's arm.

"Beverly, I'm not saying she is the saboteur, or that she is involved. I'm just agreeing with Will that we do need to keep ourselves open to every possibility, every piece of information that comes our way - and one of those possibilities is that, despite everything, the lieutenant may still be the saboteur."

Beverly glared at the man, then shrugged off the soothing hand and turned back to Will. "Go on," she said, unable to hide her anger at the two, "get dressed and report for duty - before I change my mind and decide that your mind's been more severely affected by the fracture than my tests show."

Will stared at her for a moment, then with a glance at Picard, turned and left the room.

A moment later, Beverly followed - though not without a final glare at Picard.

Deanna studied the three - then turned and faced the captain. "Sir, I can sense your emotions are very... confused... regarding Lt. Andile."

"That would be a bit of an understatement, Counselor," he replied, still staring at the door where the two had left - then, realizing that Deanna was still beside him, turned to face the Betazoid.

"Captain, Beverly was right," she reminded him. "If she was the saboteur, she had no reason to save Will." Deanna hesitated for a moment; she loved Will - she knew the captain loved him as well - but there was a truth, inevitable and uncomfortable as it was, that they both knew - and had to face.

"Sir, as an officer, as a member of Starfleet, Cmdr. Riker has no information or knowledge that isn't available to the Breen - or whoever is after the ship - that can't be derived from other sources. Biji had enough knowledge about this ship and about Starfleet to be aware of that fact - and if she is the saboteur, if she is the key player in this, then she would have to weigh each action against the possible outcome. She risked her life to save him - without reason. He could gain her nothing - if she is the saboteur. And yet she did - and at a cost."

"I am aware of that, Counselor," Picard replied acerbically.

"And yet you still have doubts about her," she said.

"I do," he admitted. "I have to, Counselor," he added emphatically, meeting her eyes, appreciating once again how someone so empathically aware of the emotional needs of the ship's crew could also be so coolly analytical - at just the right times. "The needs of this ship, this crew..." he began to remind her - unnecessarily.

"I know, Captain," she replied, "but there is a time to listen to yourself as well - to your feelings and beliefs. There is a time when all the facts and knowledge you have isn't enough - and you have to rely on instinct. I've seen you do it on negotiations, in battles, in conflicts, sir, and they've served you well. Now, you need to use those same instincts here - to see beyond what you know and to give credence to what you can't know - but can only feel. I know you don't believe it's part of your nature," she added with a smile, knowing the protest he was going to make even before he voiced it, "but it is. Your ability to judge character - even when you know little about the other person - has marked your career - even back at the Academy.

"For once, Captain, you're going to have to have faith in that part of you in which you have the least faith," she said.

He looked at her for a long time, then sighed. "You mean I'm going to have to guess - and hope like hell that I'm right."

She smiled at him. "I thought, sir, that that was the definition of being a captain."

It is, he sighed to himself as he turned away, heading for the doors, it is.


	103. Chapter 103

**Chapter 103**

Will Riker stepped onto the bridge of the captain's yacht - and stopped.

Stopped in part because he couldn't proceed for the obstacles of open control panels, meters of optical cable and dozens of tools and carrying cases sprawled about - but stopped in greater part because of the other sight displayed before him: the two men cramped under the central console.

Not that the sight was so unusual in and of itself - there didn't seem to be a day when Geordi or Beej - along with half a dozen other engineers - weren't working on some part of the ship, renovating upgrading or repairing one system or another - but even with the captain's warning, Will had not - could not! - have prepared himself for the reality of a seeing Romulan doing the same thing - and right next to Geordi.

Well, he amended, not _right_ next to Geordi; that much bulk didn't work _right_ next to anything - and with arms that massive and muscular, he needed more than a little 'spreading out' space to get to and replace the tools they were using - but nonetheless, seeing a Romulan - of any size - working on a Federation vessel was simply something he had not prepared himself to confront.

For a moment, he felt a flash of resentment surge in his soul - then pushed back the feeling, replacing it with a grin; the Enterprise's crew helped out more than a few damaged Romulan vessels - and for the first time, he could understand the umbrage those officers had felt when they saw the Federation officers: How dare they think we can't repair our own ships?!

Of course, this wasn't the same situation, Will reminded himself; Ambassador Tiron's participation was not one of desperation, as their work on the damaged Romulan ships had been, but more in the nature of 'make work': Tiron had needed to do something.

Will nodded, understanding, reminding himself that that had been one of the most difficult lessons to learn as he worked his way up the ranks: the higher one's status, the less one actually did. As an ambassador, there was probably very little that Tiron actually did - and if he was as new to the diplomatic leagues as the other delegates, Will added, the sedentary life might have come as more than a bit of a shock.

No wonder the captain tried to go on as many away missions as he did, he thought with a grin; sometimes a person needed to do something, rather than just tell others.

At least I don't have to worry about that problem anymore, he reminded himself, feeling his smile fade a little - then pushed it back in place. There would be advantages to being a captain of a ship outside Starfleet, he thought; if I want to go on an away mission, then, damn it, I will!

"How's it going, Geordi?" he asked.

Surprised by the voice - but trained by years of practice not to over-react while working in cramped spaces - Geordi raised his head only a fraction of an inch, but the grin he wore wasn't tempered in the least by the confined area.

"Commander!" he replied, feeling a wave of relief wash over him at the sound of the familiar voice. "Welcome back!" Quickly crabbing his way out from the tight space, he rose to his feet, clapping Will on the arm - and making a quick, surreptitious check of the man.

"Don't worry, Geordi," Will assured him. "I'm in one piece - more than I can say about this place," he added, anxious both to get an update on the engineer's work - and to change the topic.

Geordi nodded, understanding the man without his having to say a word. Will Riker was not about to detail his own weaknesses in front of a former enemy - and he'd be damned if he revealed the weaknesses of his ship!

"It may be a mess, Commander," Geordi interjected smoothly, "but it works. At least I think it works. We've done the final run-through - all that's left is to test it out." He gestured at the badge on Riker's chest. "Want to give it a try?"

Will nodded, tapped the badge, then said, "Riker to Picard."

There was a moment of tense silence, followed by an even tenser moment as a soft crackle of static came through the badge, then...

"Picard here."

Will grinned, imagining the expression on the man's face, a mixture of surprise at the speed with which Geordi and Tiron had accomplished their task blended with the pride he had in his crewmen, all carefully concealed beneath his ever-present mask of calm professionalism.

A look that Will quickly duplicated; as far as Tiron should know, he thought, miracles should be the standard on this ship.

"Communications have been restored, sir," he replied impassively, as though rerouting the entire ship's communications system through the captain's yacht was something they did every day.

"Good work, Commander," Picard replied.

"Shall I issue modified communicators to the crew?" Will added automatically, expecting an equally automatic affirmation.

To his surprise, however, there was a momentary hesitation, then... "Have Cmdr. LaForge perform a level one diagnostics on the system first, Number One. I don't want our guests to be inconvenienced by a second interruption in the system."

Geordi opened his mouth to protest, only to see the warning look in Will's eyes. Confused, he closed his mouth, listening as Will responded to the order, then tapped his badge again, and turned to look at the engineer.

"Commander, I've already..." he began to protest, even as Will raised his hand to silence him - and as Tiron laughed.

The two turned to the huge Romulan, watching as he awkwardly managed to disengage his bulk from the cramped space, his grin fading as he grunted and puffed his way out from the tiny space. Making his way to his feet, he dusted his hands off on his trousers, then met the two Starfleet officers' gazes.

"Your captain is a clever man - but," he added with a grimace of growing concern, "not quite clever enough, I fear."

Geordi looked at Will, saw his own confusion echoed in the man's face, then looked back to Tiron and shook his head. "I don't understand, Ambassador."

"Your captain informed me of the fire in the ship's computer system," Tiron informed the two Starfleet officers.

Will nodded evenly; the captain had told him about Tiron's discovery - and his offer of help.

"He did not, however, tell me there was a saboteur," the Romulan continued.

Geordi's eyes widened in surprise; stunned, he turned to Riker - only to see cool denial in the officer's face.

"A saboteur, Ambassador?" Will said, his voice still carefully neutral.

"A saboteur, Commander," Tiron insisted. "If not a saboteur, why not provide the entire ship with communicators?"

"You heard the captain, Ambassador," Will began. "He wants a level one diagnostic..."

"The diagnostic has already been performed, Commander," Tiron countered. "I was here; I saw it done."

"I beg your pardon, Ambassador; you may have seen Cmdr. LaForge initiate _a_ diagnostic, sir," Will hedged uncomfortably, "but a level one diagnostic..."

"Is what he has done," Tiron replied, smiling knowingly. "The Tal Shiar is... was..." he corrected himself, "quite thorough in its understanding of your engineering systems and computer protocols. I know quite well what a level one diagnostic entails. And," he added, looking at Geordi with an expression of unmistakable respect, "your Cmdr. LaForge is too thorough an engineer to inform his captain that the system was restored, until he was certain it was. To do so in the Romulan Star Empire would be an offense met with severe punishment - and among your people, such an error would result in a worse fate: a loss of respect from one's captain. And I do not think Cmdr. LaForge would take such a risk," he added.

Will felt an uncomfortable shiver crawl up his neck; Tiron was either a little too clever - or a little too well informed. Either way, Will was no longer quite as certain he wanted this man here, at the one place in the ship that offered them any hope of getting the repairs finished before the Breen - or whoever the hell had planned all this - found them. His hand drifted toward the phaser at his belt.

"Supposition, Ambassador," he replied tersely. "Pure supposition."

"Perhaps," Tiron conceded, "and perhaps not. What is not questionable is the supposition that your captain is as good a man at his job, as Cmdr. LaForge is at his. Your captain is a man of strong beliefs, and he would not arbitrarily restrict communications - unless he felt a need to. Such as the need to prevent a saboteur from talking easily with others. Or perhaps," he said, a knowing look filling his face as understanding came to him, "the need to prevent the saboteur from learning his work has been detected - and undone."

"None of that proves there's a saboteur aboard, Ambassador," Will argued.

"No. But in combination with that," Tiron countered, pointing to Will's hand and the phaser poised beside it, "it does.

"It is well known that Starfleet officers do not go about their onboard duties armed," Tiron explained, "unless they are in battle or under threat. One hour ago, I stood with your captain, talking in your observation lounge - and saw no ships. There is no battle waging, and there is no threat outside. That leaves only a threat from the inside. You, Cmdr. Riker, have a saboteur aboard," he said, a knowing grin on his face.

Riker sighed, his hand dropping from his phaser - then looked at Tiron once again. "You are correct, Ambassador; there is no threat from outside - yet," he said cryptically.

Tiron's grin faded as his eyes widened. "You believe you have been betrayed? To whom?"

Will hesitated, unwilling to reveal everything they knew - or thought they knew - but, he reminded himself, the captain had trusted this man - at least, Will added, trusted him in part.

Seeing the hesitation in Riker's face, Tiron raised a hand, staving off the need for Riker to answer. "It does not matter, Commander," he said, "and I suspect we do not have time for these quibbles. What else can I do?"

Will nodded, silently thanking the man for backing off, saving him from the issue of how far he could trust the Romulan. "I'm afraid I need Cmdr. LaForge," he said, then looked at Geordi. "The lieutenant is ready to proceed," he added, rather obliquely.

There was trust, after all, and then there was trust. The captain trusted Tiron to help with the communications systems; he doubted, however, that he would be quite so ready to trust him with the ship's new engines - even if they were in the midst of butchering them.

Geordi nodded, understanding. "I'll go catch up with her," he said, given Tiron a nod of thanks, then hurrying through the yacht's main cabin, leaving Tiron and Riker alone.

Tiron gave the first officer a questioning look. "And me, Commander?"

Will looked around the formerly immaculate bridge of the yacht, tempted in part to suggest the Romulan clean up the space - then chucked the idea. Biji might be able to get away with the suggestion - somehow, Will thought, having Beej insist on cleaning up a mess never seemed to be denigrating - usually because she was the first one to start in on it - but coming from anyone else, the idea of a foreign delegate being relgated to maintenance would be nothing less than insulting.

And a waste, he added; a waste of talent and a waste of resources.

Worse, it would be inefficient.

Will chuckled to himself; I'm sounding more and more like Biji, he told himself.

Which may or may not be a good thing, he hastily added. She might be a traitor.

And she might not, he reminded himself.

Damn it, Beej, he thought frustratedly - then forced back his anger and looked at Tiron.

"I understand you worked with shuttlecraft?" he asked the Romulan.

"I was quite a pilot when I was younger - and smaller," he conceded.

Will smiled, a little too familiar with the increasingly cramped space of the shuttlecraft - or perhaps, he admitted, his own increasing size making the space seem smaller. "Actually, I was thinking of something even smaller than a shuttlecraft, Ambassador."

"Oh?" Tiron replied, confused - and intrigued.

"The captain wants to ring the ship with escape pods - and use their sensors to provide external data."

Tiron's eyes widened. "Your sensors are down?" he said in quiet horror, then fixed Will with a hard gaze. "Commander, just how badly has the ship been damaged?"

For a moment Will hesitated - then he gave a silent sigh. If the captain was right, Tiron was risking his life to help them - and trusting in them not to reveal his assistance. His life depended on that silence - and in his trust in them to keep it.

How much less then, Will thought, could they trust in Tiron?

He hesitated, then decided.

"The ship's computer interface was destroyed, Ambassador," Will told him bluntly. "The replicator aside, we have one functioning system - the communications you just help rebuild."

"By all the gods..." Tiron whispered, aghast.

"We know who one of the saboteurs was - but she was killed in the computer core fire. Unfortunately, we have reason to presume she had an accomplice - and equally unfortunately, we have no idea who that is - nor do we know who they were working with. But we suspect it is the Breen," he added grimly.

Tiron stared at him, stunned. "The Breen? Why?"

Will shook his head. "We don't know. To acquire our technology?"

Tiron shook his head. "The Breen rarely buy or trade for technology on the black market." He thought for a moment. "Nor for captives. They're not slavers..." He hesitated a moment longer, then met Will's gaze. "And not for ransom," he added grimly. "You are aware, of course, that no one has ever escaped from the Breen - rather," he corrected himself, "no one that the Breen did not want to escape. Many Romulans have been lost to the Breen," he added soberly.

Will shook his head. "I knew you had lost some battles to the Dominion and the Breen..." he began.

Tiron shook his head. "Some, yes. But more, earlier. Before the war. Long before the war. Our spaces once bordered each other," he added.

"Romulan space and Breen space bordered each other?" Will repeated. "When? What happened?"

Tiron forced a smile. "Long ago. They were bordering our space when we first learned to leave our planet. Then... they were not there. If you ask the Senate, they will tell you that the Breen were defeated in mighty battles, proving the supremacy of the Romulan Empire. If you ask the historians, then the Breen simply... left. They were there - and then they were gone. A thousand years have gone - and we still don't know what happened," Tiron sighed,

Great, Will thought to himself; the Breen were inscrutable then, they're inscrutable now - and in both times, we're no closer to understanding them.

And even if we did, we don't have the time, he reminded himself.

"We do have one advantage, Ambassador; when the damage occurred, we think we weren't at the interception point. If we're right, we have some time - but how much, we're not certain," he added.

"Then we are wasting what time we do have talking," Tiron corrected him. "You say the captain wants to use the escape pods to provide remote sensor data; what, then do you need me to do?"

Will smiled, then gestured at the rear exit to the yacht, talking as he guided the hefty Romulan out of the bay.

A few moments later, as the two exited the turbo lift, Tiron was gaping, wide-eyed at Will. "And you want me to calculate the placement of all seven hundred escape pods?" he repeated. "Without the computer on line, the calculations alone will take hours..."

"Cmdr. Data will make the calculations," Will assured him.

"Data? Ah, your android. The Tal Shiar was very interested in him - he would make an excellent a prototype for a warrior caste..."

Will checked the frown the threatened. "Cmdr. Data is not... warrior material," he said impassively, expecting a protest that an android could be programmed to do anything - and was a little surprised when Tiron only smiled... approvingly.

But this wasn't the time to pursue the matter, Will reminded himself. "I'll have the Commander join you as soon as he's finished where he is. In the interim, if you would begin to align the escape pods sensors to the same frequency, we can program the shuttles to pick up and relay that information back to the ship. It will be slower than using our usual sensors..."

"But it will be better than none," Tiron agreed. "And perhaps, better than any," he added mysteriously.

Will looked at him, the question in his eyes.

"While your escape pods' sensor signals will the Breen visible to you, weakly, and only when they come close - it will also make your presence detectable to them. However, that signal will not appear as a Federation ship. The pattern will be wrong, far too diffuse and far too large for a Starfleet vessel, and the signal strength lower than your lowest setting. You will be detectable - but not as a Federation ship. If this is an incursion of the Breen, they may not wish to advertise their presence by coming to investigate the signal - at least, not until every other possibility had been eliminated. And," he added with a smile, "with luck, we will be gone before they return."

"I thought Romulans didn't believe in luck," Will countered.

"We don't," the Romulan agreed. "But, perhaps, luck continues to believe in us."


	104. Chapter 104

**Chapter 104**

If the interior of the captain's yacht had been astoundingly disorganized when Geordi left it a few minutes before, the Engineering Bay was even more astounding.

Not because of the disorganization - Geordi had expected that; the butchering and disposing of the temporal warp engines was a messy project, and panels, optical cables, plasma chambers should have been sprawled everywhere in the spacious area - but astounding - because there was no mess.

Geordi shook his head, dumbfounded. Not even Biji was this efficient, he thought to himself; not even she could have dismantled and disposed of that much equipment in so short a time.

At least he didn't think she could, he added, no longer quite as ready as he once had been to decide what Beej could - and could not - do.

Looking around the immense room, he searched for the tiny engineer - then smiled. He hadn't found her, of course - but then again, he hadn't been trying to - at least, not directly. That was a task he had given up on months before. She was too short, too small to be easily found in a large room filled with equipment that dwarfed all but the largest of species.

However, while he might not be able to find her directly, that didn't mean he couldn't discover where she was. Try as she might, somehow Beej was always the center of activity when she was in engineering - and today was no exception.

As he watched, a steady stream of technicians moved in and out of one of the smaller side bays, and, as he approached, he heard the soft lilt of her voice as she answered the unending stream of questions.

"Yes, I know the dilithium chamber is out of alignment," heard her say as he approached, the exasperation almost - almost! - perfectly concealed. "However, a realignment for the warp engines would take at least four hours - and we'll have to reconfigure the inputs after the realignment. That would put us seventeen hours behind schedule - and we don't have seventeen hours," she was explaining as Geordi entered the bay.

"But if the chamber is unaligned, there will be a discrepancy between the plasma conduit and the prefire chamber! We could rupture the containment system!"

Andile sighed patiently. "I assure you, it won't rupture. The variance isn't that big. It's all right; we'll just be a little inefficient..."

There was a general chortle of laughter among the technicians at the remark; as Geordi watched, Andile blushed, raised her hand and nodded.

"I know, I know," she said with a smile, "Biji, the queen of efficiency, saying inefficiency's all right. You're all correct; it's not - but sometimes, it's necessary. And in this case, the variance both in the dilithium chamber output and the containment field inputs are both within range of the system tolerances. The engines will fire - and the system won't rupture. But this is not something you want to do more often than is absolutely necessary - and as soon as we're able, we'll realign the whole damned thing so that we are efficient - efficient by _my_ standards," she reminded them with mock severity. "So don't let yourself get too used to this... aberration," she said, "in me - or in the engines."

There was a general good-natured chuckle from those around her, then, after a few more questions and answers, most of the techs began to funnel out, talking, discussing their directions.

As the last one passed Geordi, the Chief Engineer stepped up to the console where Andile stood, her body hunched over the display.

"We're less than a day away from a possible confrontation with the Breen, we've no engines, no weapons, no defenses - and they're laughing!" he said with a shake of his head. "Beej, I don't know how you do it."

She looked up, the smile locked in place - but no humor behind it. "I don't _do_ anything, Geordi. It's what I don't do. I don't dwell on the danger ahead of us, or the fact that, right now, time is our enemy; we all know what's ahead of us if we don't come through. I just let them hang on to the one thing they all have and need to keep: hope. As long as there is hope, we have a chance. But they're not kidding themselves," she said, her expression transforming from one of hope to one of exhaustion. "They know the situation is... dubious. They don't need me to remind them."

Though it wouldn't hurt them if I blunted just a portion of that inherent worry, she thought, reminding herself that the captain had not explicitly barred from 'pushing' others.

But that would take all my energy, she added - and we're too early in this project to risk that. No, she cautioned herself, the captain was right: this was not the time.

But the time might come - and soon.

"Beej? You all right?"

Geordi's voice cut through her thoughts, startling her back into awareness.

"Um-hmm," she murmured ambiguously.

"You sure? You look a little... tired," he said; actually, she looked like hell - but he was not about to say that - at least, not to her face.

"I am," Andile replied, forcing a smile to her face, hoping that some blood would follow it and give her a little more color. "I didn't design these to be uninstalled in less than twenty-four hours. Hell, I didn't design them to be uninstalled at all. I thought they would be the wave of the future - not of the moment."

Geordi nodded sympathetically. "I know - but once we're done, we'll reinstall them..."

"Maybe," she countered soberly, "and maybe not. Starfleet wasn't entirely sanguine about their installation; now that they know the computer interface is more difficult to re-establish with the temporal warp engines than with traditional warp engines, there will be another reason not to use them again," she argued.

"Beej, the odds that anyone will ever have to do a redesign of a complete computer system in mid-mission are a million to one!" he pointed out. "More importantly, though, is the fact that there is increasing evidence of subspace instabilities throughout Federation space," Geordi reminded her. "Starfleet has to accept that if we continue to use warp engines, the day may - no, will! - come when we have to have an alternative - or see the end of the FTL flight - and with it, the end of the Federation."

"But that day is a long way away," she countered soberly, "and Starfleet can - and has and will - continue to hide its head in the sand until there is no other option. And in the meantime, mine is but one option - one they don't like."

Correction, Geordi thought; they liked the engines: they existed, they worked - what they didn't like was Andile.

And they certainly weren't going to be any more fond of her when they learned what she had done to the engines here.

Which, come to think of it, was...?

He sighed, looked around engineering once more time, but, finding nothing more than its typical neat and tidy façade, faced her.

"Okay, Beej," Geordi said, "where'd you put 'em?"

She grinned and straightened - then reached her with hand to her left arm, unstrapped the personal transporter she was wearing and held it up.

Geordi shook his head. "Beej, the transporters aren't functioning," he reminded her.

"The _ship's_ transporters may not be - but the ones on the shuttlecraft and the captain's yacht are. Remember?" she said. "You suggested routing the comm units through them because their computers are independent of the main system. Well, if that holds for communications, it would also hold for transporters. So I had the crew cut them into hundred kilo pieces - a personal transporter can handle a load up to about one hundred twenty-five k's - stick a personal transporter on each piece - and beamed them out. It was a lot neater - and faster - than chopping them into scrap and carrying them out, a few kilos at a time."

It was, he admitted, both faster and neater - but no less sad, he added, relegating all those years of work to the endless void of space - only to see a sheepish grin forming on the woman's face.

"You did say you were going to beam them into space, didn't you?" he asked.

"Well... yes, I did," she admitted. "But it seemed like such a waste - especially when I realized I didn't have to."

"Well, where else could you put them?" he asked, a part of him relishing the inventive answer he knew he was about to get - and the other part dreading it. "The cargo holds aren't big enough to handle a complete engine - even when it's been carved into dinner-sized portions."

"No," she agreed. "Of course, there's a lot more space on this ship than just in the holds," she said shyly, almost coyly.

"Yeah - but not storage space," he agreed. "There's astrometrics, navigation, Ten Forward, the crew quarters..." He stopped suddenly - then began to shake his head as she began to grin. "No," he muttered, "you didn't. Damn it, Beej, tell me you didn't do that!" he begged her, then groaned as he realized the truth. "You did, didn't you? You put them in my quarters!"

"Yours - and a lot of others," she admitted. "There were too many pieces to fit in one room. Don't worry; I transported the contaminated pieces to the far aft hold; I didn't want to risk any crew exposure to the residual radiation - and the hold was designed for quick decontamination," she reminded him.

"I appreciate that - but just where am I supposed to sleep in the meantime?" he said.

"Sleep, my dear Chief Engineer, is highly over-rated," she replied - the relented. "I've got Erzhen and Liam working with Counselor Troi to arrange temporary quarters for the rest of the engineering staff; they're doubling up with other crew members for the time being. They all agreed to this, you know," she added quietly, "that is, once they knew that you, their commanding officer, had been the first to volunteer his space."

Second, Geordi thought to himself, knowing she had used her own quarters first - but knowing equally well that such a sacrifice, so inherent in her nature, so _expected_ from Andile, would have less impact than coming from him.

He sighed, knowing there was no way he could protest - and, he admitted, knowing he didn't want to. The temporal engines were a dream, a promise, a hope for the future - and the thought of abandoning them to the depths of space, to be lost, possibly forever, had chewed at his heart since she had proposed the idea.

"All right - just don't expect me to share a room with Lt. Andreasson. He snores. Loudly," he added. "I had to spend two days in a shuttle with him, going to a convention on Vanova Three; I thought the shuttle was going to tear itself apart from the vibrations."

"I'll make sure the counselor knows," she said, smiling - then met Geordi's eyes.

"Good work, Beej," he said softly.

"Thanks, Geordi," she replied. "I designed these engines for this ship; it took me too damned long to get them here to give them up so easily."

"Just as long as the Breen don't get them," he reminded her, gesturing at the console. "So, what's the status of the warp engine implementation?"

The two were still talking intently, poring over the displays of schematics when Picard and Riker entered the bay a few minutes later.

"Report, Mr. LaForge," the ship's captain ordered.

"Lt. Andile has already completed the demolition and removal of the temporal engines," Geordi said. "That puts us over an hour ahead of the schedule. Re-integration of the standard warp engines is proceeding smoothly; we should be done with the final calibrations in just over two hours. Then all we have to do is wait for the interface between the computer memories to be re-established, run a baseline diagnostic to ensure the program is intact, verify the program for the inertial dampeners is functioning and confirm that the deflectors are functioning and we're ready," Geordi said easily.

That's _all_, Picard echoed silently, dubiously.

"Sir, I told you we could have the engines up and running in nineteen and a half hours," Andile reminded him, "and we will be. It might not be pretty or glamorous, and it might be a bit of a rough ride - but we'll go. I promise," she added.

Picard studied her, still uncertain... then nodded. Deanna was right; if he was ever going to trust in Andile, he was going to have to trust in himself first.

He drew a deep breath, pushing away his doubt, and turned his attention back to the engineers.

"Define 'rough'," he said.

"The inertial dampeners are - were - aligned with the temporal warp engines. In normal circumstances, we'd realign the engines to the dampeners so changes in speed and vector are instantly fed into the dampener program and compensated for..."

Picard raised a hand, silencing the engineer. "I understand how the dampeners function, Geordi," he reminded the man gently.

"Yes, sir," Geordi replied, slightly chagrined. "It boils down to this; we can accelerate, decelerate, turn - but we have to do so gently. The biggest hurdle is going to be our first movement; no matter how gradual it is, moving from standstill to any speed faster than thrusters means that we'll need either absolutely precise communication between the helm and the dampening circuit or..."

"Or what?" Will prompted.

"Pancake city," Andile offered.

"Unfortunately," Geordi continued, "we don't have the time to run the simulations necessary to ensure that the helm and the dampeners are properly linked."

Picard nodded. "Suggestions?"

"The best option we have is for Data to control both the helm and the dampeners," Geordi offered. "With his manual dexterity and speed, he would be able to input both sets of data nearly instantaneously."

"Nearly - but not quite," Will opined. "Even a slight delay at warp could be fatal to everyone on board."

"Hence the absolute need for care as well as precision, Commander," Andile countered. "No speed increase that would result gravimetric changes greater than two Earth g; no turns with a radius less than... well, you get the point," she concluded. "With Cmdr. Data at the helm, we can provide him with the safety parameters we'll need to maintain - then he can control the helm accordingly, and program the dampeners to reset a split second _before_ the changes are initiated. We'll get knocked around a bit - but hopefully, no one will come out of it with more than a few bruises. You'll need to do something for Tar Zumell, though. Any sudden changes - even ones that are safe for us could be too much for her. Maybe find a place for her in Sickbay?" she said hopefully, her voice softening.

Picard nodded. "I'm sure Dr. Crusher can make sure the ambassador's not injured when we begin to move, Lieutenant," he replied, welcomingly surprised by the depth of affection in the engineer's voice. Whatever others successes this mission might have, it had done something to start healing one old wound.

And for that alone, he thought, it was worth it.

"Thank you, sir," Andile said, the gratitude in her voice, deep, rich, resonating.

No, Picard thought, stunned by the sincerity in her tone, for _that_ it was worth it.

"The other problem, Captain," Geordi continued, oblivious to the two, "is sensors. As soon as we begin to move, we're going to lose our connection to the sensor ring that Ambassador Tiron is establishing. If we man the shuttlecraft, they can continue to provide us with some data - but there's no way to maintain the position of the escape pods relative to the ship once we move. We're going to lose almost all of our sensor capabilities; we'll have enough for navigation - but that's about it. We'll be operating pretty much in the dark, sir."

Picard ruminated over that fact, then looked at Andile. "Any options?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Geordi and I have discussed everything we can think of - but as long as our priorities in rebuilding the computer interface are propulsion, defense and weapons, then no."

"And you would change those priorities?" Will asked.

Picard glanced at his first officer, surprised by the question - and the suspicion in the man's voice.

Andile, however, seemed unsurprised by the tacit accusation; unsurprised, but hurt nonetheless. A look of sadness and exhaustion shadowed her face, turning her already weary expression even more tired, the pink mottling fading to grey. "No, sir," Andile replied, emptily. "I was just explaining why." She sighed, then looked at Geordi. "Sir, if you'll excuse me, I want to follow up on the dismantling..."

"Beej, the crew can handle it from here; now that the temporal engines have been removed, they can re-install the standard engines on their own," he reminded her.

She stared at the man - then nodded slowly. "Yes, sir," she replied.

Hearing the resignation and the hurt in her voice, he reached out, laying a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. "Besides that, I need you to work with Data in the computer core. We need to finish training those teams and getting the system back in place..."

Data? Andile thought, panicking. He won't... I can't...

_Andile! Filth! You are nothing! Your needs are nothing! Your desires are nothing! YOU are nothing! You will do what you are told to do!_ the voice screamed at her, echoing in her head so loudly that she drew a sharp breath and staggered back a half step.

"Beej?" Geordi said, instantly worried.

Andile stared at him blindly for a second - then shook her head, smiling weakly. "A twinge," she explained, raising a hand to her mottled face.

Geordi looked at her, raising a skeptical brow at the question. "You want to go to Sickbay?" he asked.

"For a twinge?" she scoffed. "Geordi, when was the last time you had a regenerated burn that _didn't_ twinge for the first few days?" she asked caustically.

"Never," he agreed - reluctantly.

"However," Picard interrupted, "in light of the lieutenant's injuries, it may be inadvisable for the lieutenant to work in an area where she may encounter any accidental contact."

Andile gaped at the man, stunned and hurt.

You're taking me off the project? Off duty? she thought in horror. Gods, no! I may be andile - but I can do my duty... I must do my duty...

She opened her mouth to protest - only to be silenced by the look in Picard's eyes.

"Ambassador Tiron is working on using the escape pods to form the sensor ring around the ship, Lieutenant. I was going to have Cmdr. Data to make the calculations for the placement of the escape pods - but your meta-analysis technique would work as well... if you're feeling up to it," he added, gently - but not too gently - gibing her.

She gaped at him - then closed her mouth. "No, sir... I mean, yes, sir, I'm up to it."

"No disrespect, Captain," Geordi cut in, "but doing a meta-analysis will take longer than just having Data do it..."

"But not as long," Will countered after a glance at Picard, "as having the lieutenant and Data trade places."

The Chief Engineer thought for a moment - then nodded. "I hadn't considered that. I guess I've grown a little too dependent on doing things the way we've always done them - because that's the way we've always done them," he replied lightly.

Andile gave a soft chuckle. "Geordi, from what I've read about this ship and her crew, no one here has ever grown complacent with the status quo."

He grinned back, accepting the compliment.

"But the status quo around here is going to be standing still, blind as a bat, if I don't get moving," she reminded him. "If you'll excuse me?" she said, looking at the three senior officers.

"In a moment," Picard said, then looked to Will, his eyes moving to the first officer's hip.

For a moment, the man hesitated - then reached down, removed the phaser from its holster, checked the setting, pointed it toward the engineer...

Andile's eyes widened in stunned shock - then narrowed in relief as Will reversed the weapons, handing it to her, handle first.

"We're in a yellow alert situation, Lieutenant," he reminded her. "Crew will carry sidearms."

She stared at the weapon, then raised her eyes to meet the tall man's - and shook her head. "I don't do weapons, sir."

"You do now," he corrected her.

"Sir..." Andile began to protest.

"Lieutenant," Picard interrupted, "you will carry a sidearm - or you be removed from duty and confined to your quarters - under guard," he said tersely.

She stared at him, stunned - then reached out, taking the weapon from the first officer. "I'm not good with these," she said under her breath. "I'll probably shoot myself in the foot..."

"It's not hard, Lieutenant," Will replied, trying to lighten the tension that had suddenly built in the room. "Just point and fire."

"Yeah, but at who?" she replied, still staring at the weapon.

"At the bad guys."

She raised her eyes to study him. "And who decides who's bad - and who's good?"

"That, Lieutenant" Picard interrupted, "is - and has always been - the difficult part."

She turned to him, then looked at the weapon again - then nodded. "Yes, sir. May I go now?"

"Certainly," Picard replied.

She looked at him, their eyes meeting -

- and Picard felt a whisper of... hurt? Relief? Thankfulness? All of them? And... something more?

Or perhaps he had felt nothing, he added, watching as she hurried past the three, wondering if the sensation had been a lingering connection from their contact in Sickbay, or simply a figment of his imagination.

Either way, the sensation left him feeling chilled.

Chilled, because he had not had such an insight - fleeting as it was - into another person since his misadventure with Beverly on KesPrytt - and chilled, because he knew there was every chance the insight was reciprocated.

She knew him, knew them all - and it was within her abilities to mold them, change them, craft them into thinking and doing what she wanted...

He shook his head, instantly dismissing the idea. Yes, she was a telepath with remarkable abilities - but not so remarkable that she could... What did she call it? 'Pushing'? ... not so remarkable that she could 'push' fourteen hundred of them.

At least, he added, cautioning himself, he didn't think she could. Not today. Another day, when she was well and healthy... well, he admitted, they'd see. For the moment, all that really mattered was trying to ensure that they would all live to see that day.

He turned to his first officer and saw Will shaking his head. "Are you sure you can trust her, Captain?"

Picard stared after the tiny engineer for a moment - then, as Will's words registered, echoing his own concerns, turned to face his first officer. "At some point, Number One, you have to act on faith. Faith that she's going to work with us - or faith that she's not. I'd rather believe in the first."

Nonetheless, he continued silently.

Nonetheless, Will echoed, it was better to have her focusing on developing the sensor web than on rebuilding the computer. Having the web sabotaged would make travel difficult, and leave them blind to attack - but having her destroy the computer now would make them easy prey for the Breen.

And if she wasn't the saboteur? Will asked himself.

If she wasn't the saboteur, there would be hurt feelings to soothe, bruised egos to heal... but later, when they were safe.

Later.

For now, there was work to be done.

He turned to the Chief Engineer. "What's next, Geordi?"


	105. Chapter 105

**Chapter 105**

Jean-Luc Picard drew a deep breath as he rode in the turbo lift - then let it out in a frustrated sigh.

Too many questions, he thought to himself.

Too many ifs.

Too many questions, too many ifs, too many maybes - and not enough answers.

Did Sandra James really have a co-conspirator? he wondered.

True, she had given every appearance of being incapable of executing the elaborate destruction perpetrated upon his ship - but appearances, he reminded himself harshly, were often deceiving. After all, if she had been assisted in her destructive efforts, why had her co-conspirator made no attempt to further their plan? It had been over thirty-nine hours since the ship had stopped - and by now, even the ambassadors were realizing something was wrong. If there was a co-conspirator aboard, wouldn't he or she have acted by now? Or could it be that he - or she - was as inept as Cmdr. James had appeared?

Then again, maybe the conspirator's failure to act was due to something simpler, he thought: Maybe the appearance of their would-be captors wasn't to occur for some time - and for all the conspirator knew, everything was still going according to schedule.

Or, Picard thought, maybe nothing had happened - because nothing was going to happen.

First of all, he reminded himself, they might not come searching. They had no idea how inquisitive the Breen were; when the ship hadn't been stranded at the intended location, the Breen may have opted to wait, perhaps reasoning that the ship had been delayed for some unknown reason.

Or they may have decided something had gone wrong with the plan, and fled the area, for fear of having been caught out.

Or they may have decided to search for them, as Picard feared - but missed them. With no warp or impulse engine signatures to detect, no sensor signals broadcasting to alert another ship to their presence, the Breen could have already passed them by, he reminded himself.

Space was vast, with more empty spaces than filled ones - a one starship, adrift in the depths, millions of kilometers from where she was supposed to be... she might drift for a long time, alone, unfound.

It was an ominous notion, Picard thought - but if they failed to get the engines repaired, it could well be their fate.

Or maybe they _had_ been detected - but perhaps the Breen were not an adventurous species; perhaps the location of the ship's breakdown was too far within Federation space for the Breen to dare an incursion.

Or they simply may not have reached them yet, he added; after all, Data's time analysis was based on the android's application of a standard Federation search pattern - the most efficient one they had found - but not necessarily one the Breen would have followed. Different paradigms, he told himself; the rules that ordered their minds didn't necessarily order any other species' thoughts. How the Breen thought was something they just didn't know.

If it was the Breen, he added.

Damn! he swore silently. There were just too many ifs - and too few answers to risk his mission, his ship, his crew. He needed answers... or at least information.

Picard thought for a moment, then called out. "Computer, new destination. Deck fourteen."

He felt the slight jolt as the lift changed directions - and reminded himself without the inertial dampeners on line, that effect was going to be magnified a thousand times when they eventually went to warp. True, they could have Data take them through a slow, gradual progression from thrusters to impulse - but the transit to warp, that inescapable moment when their speed changed from sublight to faster than light speed - that transition was beyond the ability of the human - or Cardassian or Klingon or Romulan - body to endure. In that moment, their weight would be multiplied far beyond the capacity of their physical structure to tolerate. In an instant, they would be reduced to puddles of protoplasm and pulverized bone.

Pancake city, indeed.

Of course, Data would survive... maybe, he added, his thoughts growing grim. Maybe he couldn't; perhaps even Data couldn't tolerate the change in speed; even a tritanium skeleton had limits. Possibly his neural processors would survive, he conceded; a part of Data might still be there when Starfleet found the vessel - if they ever did - still functioning, still capable of telling the Federation what happened - but trapped until then in a non-functioning body.

It was not something he would wish upon his friend.

But they could also never escape their pursuers if they didn't go to warp, he reminded himself - and even the most carefully plotted acceleration pattern might not be fast enough to get them there before their pursuers caught them.

If their pursuers came after them, he added.

He shook his head; too many ifs.

As he let out a final breath of frustration, the lift came to a stop and the doors opened. Looking down the long, slightly curving corridor, he spied his destination - or, rather, he spied the guard who stood watch outside the door.

Lt. SanLing, he recalled as he approached the tall Pandrolite; one of Worf's protégés from his first tour on the Enterprise - and one who had quickly risen through the ranks after the Klingon's departure for Deep Space Nine. Possibly the one who would replace Worf as head of security when he returned to the Klingon homeworld, he added, remembering the Pandrolite's last review; he was everything Picard looked for in a Security officer... except for the look of nervousness that crossed his face as Picard approached.

"Lieutenant?" he said as he stepped up to the door.

"Captain," SanLing replied.

Picard waited a moment - then prompted the man, "Is everything all right?

SanLing fidgeted nervously, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

Picard studied the man for a moment, then began to reach for the annunciator.

"Uh, Captain?" SanLing said, his anxiety stopping the captain in mid-motion.

Picard looked at the Pandrolite. "Is something wrong, Lieutenant?"

"Um... no, sir. Not wrong. Not with the Ambassador," he replied, his light blue skin shading toward indigo.

Picard studied the Security officer for a moment, perplexed, then murmured, "Very good," then reached for the touch pad once again - only to be stopped by an uncomfortable cough.

He affixed the Pandrolite with an unflinching stare. "What is it, Lieutenant?" he said coldly.

SanLing flinched, then said, "Uh... he's not alone, sir. He's, uh... with someone."

Picard's brows raised in surprise - then lowered in confusion.

With someone? With who?

With someone from his crew - that much was obvious - and yet it bewildering as well.

Bewildering, because the ship was on yellow alert - and while that didn't require his crew to give up on their personal needs, it was rare that he found a crew member spending their personal time on personal matters - at least personal matters like this - during such an alert. More often they spent their 'down' time at their duty posts, or helping out their fellow crewmates prepare, retiring to their quarters only to catch the few brief hours of sleep their bodies required - and usually cutting that short as tension and anticipation continued to build.

They did not, as a rule, go off to sleep with visiting delegates.

But these people were not his crew, he reminded himself; many of them were whatever bodies Admiral Czymszczak could put on the ship - and their personal behaviors, while adequate for Starfleet's standards, weren't up to the ones he expected of his crew.

For a moment, he allowed his himself to indulge in the anger that roiled inside him - then shook his head, reprimanding himself harshly. These _were_ his crew, he chastised himself - young, new, new to his ship, new to his style - but they would learn.

In time - if they had time, he added.

He studied the Pandrolite, understanding now the officer's concern - not for the ambassador, whose behavior was not his to judge. Rather, the Security officer was troubled, even embarrassed, by the behavior of a fellow crewmember - and doubly troubled by the fact that his captain was about to learn it for himself.

SanLing drew a deep breath of his own - then reached for the annunciator. His function, he reminded himself, was to protect the ambassador - and to protect the ship from the ambassador, he added. It was not, however, to protect his crewmates - at least, not to protect them from any reprimand they may deserve.

"What?" came the reply, the voice muffled by the communicator speaker - but the annoyance evident.

"Ambassador Tillerman?" Picard spoke up. "It's Captain Picard. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need your assistance. If you have a moment?" he added.

A muffled groan followed, then... "All right. Give me a moment. I'm sorry, darling," he added, his voice growing fainter as he turned his attention away from the caller at the door.

It took more than a few minutes before the door opened, however, and when the doors slid open, they revealed the tall New Texan, tightening the belt of his bathrobe as he stood, barefoot and bare-legged, in the doorway. "Sorry, Johnny," he grinned, gesturing the man into the room. "Come on in. Sorry to keep you waiting. Had to... finish up. You know," he added. "A gentleman doesn't leave a lady... unsatisfied."

As he spoke, Picard caught of flash of naked skin dart from the sleeping alcove to the bathroom, the red and black of a Starfleet uniform clutched to the woman's chest.

As much as he disapproved of the timing of the liaison and of his crewman's lack of good judgment, he felt a surge of anger at the former Starfleet officer; Jay could have been tactful, could have been discreet; he could have let the woman dress first - or at least make her way to the bathroom - before admitting him. Instead, he had deliberately embarrassed the woman, exposing her both physically and emotionally, in front of her captain.

Oblivious to his faux pas - or perhaps, Picard reminded himself, completely indifferent to it - he moved to a credenza where a crystal decanter of some liquor stood. Filling a glass with ice, he poured a generous measure of amber liquid, took a long swallow - then looked at Picard and grinned. "Oh, don't worry, Johnny; it's not the real stuff. I'd offer you one - but you're probably on duty, aren't ya'?"

"Yes," Picard replied, watching as Tillerman flopped into one of the easy chairs that was placed before a low coffee table, his drink splashing over the edge of the glass and onto his hand - then watched as Tillerman lazily licked the synthehol from the back of his hand, Picard's skin crawling as he watched the languid, almost obscene motion.

Seeing Picard's expression, Tillerman grinned. "Gotta stay in practice, Johnny; the ladies have certain expectations, if you know what I mean," he said - then added, with a harsh laugh, "but knowing you, you probably don't.

"Does he?" he added, looking past Picard.

The captain turned, and was startled to identify the woman as the rookie helmsman who had served on the bridge a few days before. There, she had been nervous, but alert, aware, excited; here, standing before him, she was anything but that capable, if young, crewman, her uniform hastily pulled on, her hair tousled and messy, her expression miserable.

"I'm sorry?" she said tremulously.

Tillerman shook his head. "Never mind; you wouldn't know. Would you?" he added, looking from the humiliated woman to the repulsed man - then laughed.

"Jay..." Picard began warningly.

"Sir, may I.." she began, her head hanging in shame.

Picard turned to her, his own anger fading at her obvious discomfort, and nodded. "Of course, ensign. Please excuse me for interrupting you," he added.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, then started past him, still shaking.

Still shaking.

It took a moment before the fact settled in his mind; the woman was shaking - not that that should have been completely unexpected given the situation - but that, in conjunction with the whisper, her downcast eyes...

A sickening thought crossed his mind.

"Ensign? Are you feeling all right?" he asked worriedly.

She stopped, turned to face him - and he felt a rush of relief. There were no bruises on her face, no marks, no tears; for a moment, he had thought her reaction was one of fear - not of him, but of the man she had just been with. But there was no evidence that Jay had harmed her - at least, he added, none that he could see.

"I'm all... Actually, I feel a little funny," she admitted after a moment's hesitation.

Ah, Picard thought, beginning to put together the pieces. A rookie, new to her post, anxious, perhaps even nervous given the situation, might have accepted an offer of a few hours' pleasure - especially if that offer had been preceded by a fair amount of synthehol. While the synthehol might not have affected her thought processes as real alcohol did, it did bestow a certain level of relaxation in those who consumed it - while an excess, while certainly not toxic, was known to leave some drinkers with an upset stomach. Add to that the sudden and very unexpected arrival of one's superior officer... Picard shook his head. I'm not surprised you're not feeling well, he thought.

"Stop by Sickbay," he advised her. "Dr. Crusher can give you something to help."

She nodded.

"Better you just get some sleep," Jay countered, calling after her as she left the room, then looked at Picard. "Hope she's not on duty soon," he said with a lecherous grin. "I didn't give her much chance to get any rest."

Picard grimaced, appalled by his former roommate - then reminded himself, with some degree of difficulty, that Jay Tillerman was no longer that young man. He was an adult now - and, more to the point, an ambassador. A delegate of the Federation, chosen by them as the best possible candidate to represent them at this critical meeting. Whatever Picard might think about him, he knew he owed Tillerman the same respect and deference he had shown Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell; their cultural differences may have flown in the face of his own upbringing - but he still had to respect them.

As long as they didn't interfere with his crew, he added.

"Ambassador," Picard replied quietly, his voice respectful - but utterly resolute, "while your personal conduct at the conference is none of my business, I must ask you to restrain yourself while you're on my ship. We are at yellow alert..."

Tillerman's eyes widened; he shot up from the chair, walked to the door and stepped into the hall as the doors parted - then turned and re-entered the room. "By God! So we are!" he chortled. "I've been so damned busy I didn't even notice!" he guffawed.

Picard ignored the sound, but was unable to ignore the contempt that filled him. This ship has been stationary for over forty hours, he told the man wordlessly; we haven't moved an inch, the computers are off line, nothing's working - and you didn't even notice! You should have noticed, he chided his old roommate angrily; you are... you _were_ a Starfleet officer... once.

Tillerman must have noticed the man's stiff posture and disapproving gaze, for he turned to confront the man, a look of worry suddenly crossing his face. "Something's wrong, isn't it?" he asked, his voice growing quiet.

"Jay... Ambassador Tillerman," Picard said, feeling none of the calm that resounded in his voice - but refusing to allow Tillerman the satisfaction of seeing just how concerned her really was, "I regret to inform you that this ship has been attacked... from within. The computer has been sabotaged; almost all systems are off-line. I've lost four of my chief computer technicians; I nearly lost my first officer and my second engineer. We're under attack - from within - and we believe, from the outside. I'm here... because I need your help. This mission needs your help, Jay; my crew, my ship - we need _you_," he said urgently.

Tillerman stared at the man for a moment, stunned - then set the drink down carefully and rose to his feet, growing sober, somber and serious with each passing second.

"Jean-Luc," he said solemnly, "I didn't know. I was... distracted," he admitted, growing embarrassed. "This was the first real mission that the Federation has assigned me to in a long time - and I got was enjoying the perks a little too intensely, I guess," he said with a shamed shrug.

For a moment, neither man spoke, then Tillerman reached for his glass and took it to the replicator. Touching the disposal circuit, he watched as the synthehol-laden glass dissolved, then spoke. "Coffee, hot, black," he ordered - then looked at Picard.

"Replicators are still working," he pointed out.

Picard nodded. "That's about all that is working, though," he admitted. "Engines, sensors... all out. We've got communications back - but it's jury-rigged."

Tillerman considered the information, then nodded dully. "I need a minute Jean-Luc," he said, then, without waiting for the captain's leave, strode by him and into the bathroom.

It took more than a minute, but when Tillerman returned he was bathed, dressed and clean-shaven - more respectable looking, Picard thought - and yet, the sobriety did not set well on Tillerman's face. Somehow, the time that he had seemed to evade for so many years suddenly caught up with him, weathering his face with lines of worry and pain that Picard hadn't noted a few days before, making Tillerman look not just older, but aged.

In a way, Picard found himself feeling ashamed at the transformation - not because Tillerman had somehow been disgraced by suddenly donning a few more years, but because he had been the cause of the sudden weariness in the man. There was something saddening, sorrowful, in taking the life, the fun, the joy from a man - and all the more painful when one did it in a few minutes.

There would, however, be time for apologies - and revelry, Picard added, later. For now, they had a problem to solve.

At least I can trust in Jay to help us resolve it, Picard thought; no matter what else he may be - alcoholic, ne'er-do-well, scoundrel, sexual predator - he was, and had always been a loyal Starfleet officer.

Not a particularly good one, Picard added - but he had never doubted the man's loyalty.

"It was your Klingon, then?" Jay asked, stepping past the man to reach for the coffee he had ordered moments before.

"No," Picard replied, slightly surprised at the idea - then recalled Jay's warning words about the Klingons.

Worf was not involved, he knew - but could Data have been wrong? Could this have been the doing of the Klingons?

No, he decided; the sabotage had been done covertly, craftily, expertly - not that the Klingons couldn't be expert when they wanted to - but subtlety had never been their strong suit, he reminded himself.

And, he added, the Klingons were unlikely to have arranged to have the ship damaged so close to the Breen border; no matter how much they may have wanted to delay suspicion from themselves, they would not have chosen a location so far from their own borders - not with so many weeks of travel across Federation space necessary to reach their own territory. There would have been too many opportunities to have been espied during their attempts to move the Enterprise back to Klingon space, too many chances to have been seen or detected. If was an unnecessary risk, a risk no Klingon would take, no matter how glorious the prize might be.

No, no matter what Jay's intelligence had indicated, this was not the doing of the Klingons - but that conclusion did not absolve the other races from having participated, he thought quietly.

"Jay, we're less than one million kilometers from Breen space," he informed the ambassador. "I have to conclude they are behind this - or at least somehow involved. But we're working in the dark; we know almost nothing about them - and we can't begin to guess at their motivations or their intentions. Jay, you've had access to Federation intelligence; what can you tell me about them?"

"The Breen?" Tillerman echoed - then took a sip from the coffee cup, stared at it in surprise as he realized it wasn't his usual drink - took a second sip, then settled back into the chair - but alertly this time, his bearing and his thoughts clearly focused.

"The Breen," he repeated, then looked at Picard.

Following the silent invitation, Picard took the chair opposite the tall man and stared back.

"The Breen," he confirmed.

Tillerman thought a moment longer, then shook his head. "There's not much information available on them. Physiologically, they're still an unknown - though the fact that they wore environmental suits during their battles with us tends to lead us to believe they're from a non-class M planet. Unfortunately, we weren't able to take any prisoners; the few we tried to take as prisoners of war destroyed themselves before we could study them - and their e-suits - and their ships for that matter - defy sensor analysis. There's been some suggestions that they might not be beings as we know them, but rather multi-cellular constructs, and the suits are used to facilitate their group activities."

Seeing the skepticism in Picard's eyes, Tillerman grinned. "I agree: it's unlikely. It's one thing to get a collective to act on a single suggestion, but something completely else to get them to act as a single being."

"You said their ships defied analysis," Picard prompted the man as he fell silent after another long sip of the black coffee.

"I mis-spoke," Tillerman corrected himself. "The ships - at least the pieces of material we collected from ships that were destroyed in battle - were completely analyzed. There was nothing particularly strange in the material from which they were constructed - tritanium compounds, some interesting - but not terribly unusual - ceramic compounds, a few unusual alloys - but we only learned this when we got hold of the pieces of the ship. In space, we could not penetrate their shields to analyze their propulsion, weaponry, defenses... everything we know - and it's damned little - comes from those few pieces of debris we've picked up."

"Cloaks?" Picard hypothesized.

"No. At least, not cloaks in the sense we know them," Jay continued. "Certainly not Klingon or Romulan technology; those are detectable from the particle emissions. From the reports I've seen, it was more like the energy of the sensors was absorbed, rather than being returned to us. In fact, that's how we finally realized when they were approaching - by the sensor failures. You have to look for the empty spaces in space, Jean-Luc, to search out the areas where you should be getting some sensor feedback, but aren't getting any - and searching out emptiness in the middle of nothing is damned difficult."

"So we can't see them coming - if they are," Picard concluded. "Which begs the question, are they the ones coming?"

Tillerman shrugged. "Again, we don't really know enough about them to make any guesses about what they might or might not do. We know they've never done anything like this - if it is the Breen," he added. "We do know they're merciless to those they capture - when they capture them. From what we can determine, they rarely take prisoners - and of those they do, the only ones who escape are those they want to have escape."

Tillerman hesitated, then stared hard at the captain. "Johnny, wasn't your Klingon held by them once?" he added.

Picard stared back - then shook his head, slowly at first, then with increasing vigor as the intent behind Tillerman's words sank in. "I know what you're suggesting, Jay - but Worf has been both a faithful officer - and a good friend - for more than ten years. I can't believe he'd betray us."

"Not intentionally - but mind control has been with most races for millennia; there's no reason we should think the Breen are any less sophisticated at brutalizing the mind than we are. Given time, any mind, no matter how strong, can be broken, molded, shaped to do something that the person would have thought intolerable before."

Picard nodded; Geordi had been broken and reprogrammed by the Romulans in their attempt to kill put the Klingons and the Federation at war; the entire crew had been corrupted by the mind controlling 'game' that Will had brought back from a vacation to Risa.

And I, he added soberly, was almost broken by the Cardassians.

Almost, he repeated, knowing deep in his soul how close his captors had come; a minute more, and I...

He forced the thought away, refusing to indulge in the memory, refusing to allow himself to dwell on that thought, refusing to allow himself to feel the shame, the humiliation at the discovery of his own weakness.

Picard looked up - and saw Tillerman nodding slowly as he saw Picard accept the possibility. "You said the ship had been sabotaged," he said solemnly. "Johnny, are you sure that your Klingon..."

"Worf," Picard interrupted.

"Pardon?"

"His name is Worf," Picard said, a touch angrily, "and he's not _my_ Klingon. He is the ship's head of Security."

Tillerman smiled - but this time the expression was awkward, apologetic. "Of course. I just meant... I meant the Klingon serving on your ship," he explained. "Mr. Worf," he added, as if trying out the name for the first time - then fell silent, thinking - and met Picard's gaze once again.

"Johnny... Jean-Luc - I know he's your friend, your head of security - but if the situation is as dire as you are telling me, I need you to think: is there any chance this man's behind everything?

"Jean-Luc, could Worf be your saboteur?"


	106. Chapter 106

**Chapter 106**

"In theory, Geordi, the sensor system works," Andile informed the Chief Engineer a few hours later as the man entered the makeshift command center for the sensor system

"In theory?" he echoed anxiously.

"In theory, Commander," Tiron repeated. "The baj... Lt. Andile," he corrected himself as she cringed at the familiarity, "has installed the interlinks between the escape pods independent sensors and their communication systems; they've been launched and put in place around the ship in order to maximize your sensor range, especially toward the Breen border, and initial diagnostics have been performed successfully," he explained.

"So why is it only theoretical?" Geordi asked.

"Because we have no way of knowing if it works, Geordi," she replied. "To maximize the range, we limited the frequencies - but if there's nothing there, is it because the sensors aren't working, because there's nothing there - or because we're looking on the wrong frequencies. And if we want to change, how do we let them know?" she grumbled. "We need two-way communications, Geordi!"

Tiron smiled at the tiny woman tolerantly. "No point in complaining about what you cannot have, little one - and we cannot have two-way communications until the interface has been reestablished. Which," he added, looking at Geordi, "I do not believe it has."

Geordi shook his head in silent agreement with the ambassador. "No, sir. Internal communications are still being funneled through the yacht - but we have no external connection with the shuttlecraft. In fact," he conceded unhappily, "all the interface connections are behind schedule. Data's got two dozen people working on it - but it's taken longer than we anticipated. There have been problems with replicating the circuits..."

"There shouldn't be," Andile insisted, surprised. "The circuitry is basic; the output requirements are minimal ..."

"It's not the output, Beej," Geordi countered, "it's the replicators themselves."

"The replicators?!" she interrupted, astounded. "But they were working fine..."

"There's been some power flow problems, Beej," he replied, dismissing her worry.

"From what?" she pressed, unwilling to be placated so easily.

"We're not sure," he admitted. "They've just popped up in the last two hours - but they're transient. Probably just interruptions as the circuits are reestablished." He smiled at her. "Weren't you the one who was telling me how the bio-neural cells re-teach themselves after a pathways been damaged? That's probably what we're seeing here - the circuits fail for a moment as they re-align themselves. Nothing to worry about, Biji - but the captain has ordered that the replicators be restricted to essential use only until Data's through with the interface rebuild. Oh, that reminds me..."

Geordi dropped one shoulder, loosening the strap of the carry-all that he was bearing, and handed the small bag to Tiron. "Water and emergency rations," he explained. "Just in case you get hungry before the replicators come back on line," he added.

Ignoring Andile's shudder of revulsion, Tiron took the bag, then gave Geordi a half-bow. "Thank you captain for his thoughtfulness in remembering us," he said.

Geordi grinned. "I'll pass on the message - but have you ever had Federation e-rations, Ambassador? I'm not sure you'd be thanking us."

It was Tiron's turn to smile. "I have been a warrior for more years than you've been alive, Mr. LaForge; Federation rations can't be any worse than Romulan rations," he informed the engineer.

Still, he opened the container and raised it to his face, making a great show of taking a deep breath of the contents - and allowed himself a look of uncertainty.

"Then again..." he began.

Geordi laughed, even though he knew there was no way the hermetically sealed packages could have betrayed the bland scent of the ration bars - but there were some things, he thought to himself, that were a constant in any bureaucracy - and the dubious quality of field rations was one of them.

Andile, however, seemed to find no amusement in the moment; her face locked in a troubled frown, she breathed heavily, then shook her head. "Even with the circuits re-routing, there shouldn't be that kind of power outages..."

"Beej," Geordi interrupted, his own exhaustion and frustration showing through his normally even temperament, "we'll figure that our later. Right now, I need to get that sensor net in place - and functioning. We may not be able to do anything about who's coming after us - but at least we'll know they're on the way - if you get the system running."

"What do you mean, you can't do anything about it?" she pressed worriedly.

"I mean, we've got enough interface links in place to get rudimentary shields up - we're protected from spaceborn particles - but we're hours away from adequate links for propulsion, defenses or weapons," he explained.

Andile looked at Geordi, the anxiety on her face replaced by near-panic. "Geordi, I promised the captain I'd have the systems back within nineteen hours! That only leaves me four hours..."

"Little one," Tiron interrupted, "focus on _this_ problem first. It will not matter if we cannot move, if we do not know to where we are moving," he reminded her.

"Yes, sir..."

"Or from what," Geordi added, his own expression growing worried. "Once we know what's out there, moving may not be our priority," he reminded her.

She studied him for a moment, then nodded, understanding. "Yes, sir," she said - then looked at Tiron. "We'd better get back to work, Grandfather," she said softly.

He nodded, watching as she turned back to the open control panel - then looked back at Geordi. "I understand her worry, Commander. Without better communications with your shuttles, the information we gather is going to be limited - perhaps even useless."

"I know, Ambassador - but it's a matter of mathematics - and logistics," Geordi explained. "We've prioritized the functions we want back up - but we're also ready to change that priority if we need to. The warp engines are going to take the largest number of interface links - but what our priorities will be when we see what's out there is something else entirely. It may be," he added soberly, "that what we need is defenses - and weapons - and if that's the case, we'll use those existing links for our new priorities. Unfortunately, external comms simply aren't the highest priority - for now," he added.

Tiron nodded, understanding Andile's concern - and her need for urgency.

"I understand," he said solemnly, then hesitated for a moment. "Commander," he said hesitantly, "have you considered what this lack of communication may mean should you need to move - in haste?"

Geordi studied the man, understanding the man's concern - and finding himself surprised by that worry.

If the sensors revealed the Breen moving toward them, the ship might have to move suddenly, he thought to himself - too suddenly to have time to recall the shuttles... and perhaps, Geordi reminded himself, as they all had reminded themselves in the moments before they had launched the manned vessels into space, too suddenly to even be able to inform those pilots where they were headed.

If the Breen really were on their way, they might have to abandon the shuttles... and their pilots.

It was not, Geordi thought, an idea he liked.

Nor, he added as he studied Tiron's face, was it one that the Romulan liked.

The realization surprised him; despite the fact he knew Romulans to be intelligent and sapient beings, he still thought of them as something... less... than he was. Something lower, something crueler, something more base than humans were.

It wasn't fair, he reminded himself; for every Roumlan who had been involved in my capture and torture, I've met two who were... well, not kinder, he conceded, but at least more compassionate.

Still, he admitted, he couldn't remember ever seeing a Romulan worry about a complete stranger as much as Tiron seemed to worry about those faceless shuttle pilots.

It was a terrifying realization, Geordi admitted; if Tiron could be this... 'human', then it was going to be impossible for him to consider any other Romulan as being capable of being anything less.

Geordi glared at Andile. This is all your fault, he decided silently. 'Grandfather', my eye; you're old enough to be... he thought for a second, then realized that Romulans aged at a different rate than humans - but still, he thought, you're old enough to be his... sister.

Tiron followed his gaze to the engineer, then looked back to Geordi. As if agreeing with Geordi's unspoken thought, he nodded. "I would not have her lost, Commander - but then, no grandfather would have their grandchild lost if they could prevent it. I am here in their stead. I will worry for them, as they are not here. And, I hope, I an act for them as well."

Geordi's eyes widened. "What are you suggesting, Ambassador?"

"Only this; should the ship need to leave its pilots behind, I would suggest that I remain with them."

Geordi felt his jaw drop. "Ambassador..."

He raised his hands to silence the engineer. "I am an experienced fighter pilot, Commander; using the captain's yacht, I would be able to retrieve your pilots using the transporters. Then, together with your pilots, I believe we could defend ourselves well enough and long enough to reach the safety of the closest class M planet. Your Federation would, of course, send a rescue craft as soon as possible to retrieve us," he added with a smile.

A knowing smile; even if there was, by some remote chance, a nearby class M planet, there was no way the shuttles and the captain's yacht could defend themselves against an armed starship, whether Breen or any other species, long enough to reach that shelter. The best they could do, Geordi thought, would be to buy the ship a few more minutes or hours in which to make its escape...

As Tiron knew, Geordi realized. It would be suicide.

Geordi opened his mouth to protest - only to see Tiron smile and shake his head. "Do not think I am so anxious to give up my life, Commander. I have no intentions of sacrificing myself so easily. No. I have... some thoughts. But thoughts, I think, that should not be shared too widely. When we are done here, might I speak with your captain?"

Relieved at the realization that the ambassador wasn't further stretching his newly formed ideas of Romulan character, Geordi let out a slow breath - then shook his head. "I'm afraid he's in a meeting with Ambassador Tillerman, sir. As soon as they're finished..."

It was Tiron's turn to hesitate. "The ambassador," he mused - then shook his head. "No. Time may be of the essence, Commander. Perhaps Cmdr. Riker?"

Geordi nodded. Will was overseeing the ship's repairs repairs - but he wasn't actively involved, Geordi knew.

"I'll ask him to meet you here..." Geordi began.

"No. At the yacht, I think," Tiron said.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, then looked at Andile. "Beej! Give a estimate on time!"

"Everything's in place, Geordi; you should be getting data now..."

Geordi tapped his badge. "LaForge to Riker. Sir, sensors are in place and should be functional."

For a moment, there was silence, then... "We're not getting anything, Geordi. Are you sure everything's working?"

Geordi glanced at the woman who had turned to face him, a look of annoyance on her face. "It tested out fine, Geordi," she insisted. "It's probably what I told you: the sensors only work on those things they're looking for. Maybe the Breen aren't out there - or maybe we're not looking for the right things," she added, the idea, unsolicited, niggling at the back of her mind.

For a moment, she tried to shake it off, trying to dismiss it as a flash of unwanted intuition - then drew a deep breath, realizing the source.

I can't do this! I'm too tired! she tried to argue with her mind - but the thoughts, the ideas, continued to build, soft hints of what could be, what might be...

"We needed to increase sensor sensitivity, Commander," she informed Riker, "so we limited the frequencies. But if we're searching the wrong wavelengths, we will need to readjust the range..."

Will Riker must have heard her voice over Geordi's badge. "How do we do that, Lieutenant? We don't have communications with the shuttlecraft..."

Andile flashed Geordi a defiant glare.

"And in any case," Geordi interjected, "we don't know what we need to adjust them to."

Andile nodded, the answers, unbidden, roiling through her thoughts - and answers of her own screaming to be heard. "Sir, I have some thoughts about that - and about the comms. All we need to do is install an external light array; we can relay data back to the lead shuttle the same way they're relaying it to us."

"That requires an EVA, Lieutenant," Riker's voice, tinny and thin over the badge, reminded her.

"I'm aware of that, sir - but we're finished here; it shouldn't take me more than an hour to suit up and install it," she offered.

"That seems... unnecessary," Will replied.

For a moment, she was tempted to agree, instantly understanding - and agreeing with - his objection; it wasn't the idea he disagreed with - just the individual.

Andile smiled; for once, Riker's objection had nothing to do with her dubious status on the ship, but rather with her dubious physical condition - and he was probably right, she admitted. After all, she reminded herself, regenerated tissue did not tolerate the extremes of heat and cold well until the healing was completed - and even the best of Starfleet's extravehicular suits could not provide the thermal protection her hands were going to need. There was every chance that an hour outside the ship was going to cost her the use of her hands - and, she added, knowing the real cause of Riker's concern, risk the installation.

On the other hand... She smiled at the phrase... on the other hand, that was a problem easily solved: just take someone with, she thought - someone who could do the actual hands-on labor, so that when her hands failed her - as they would, she thought, knowing the hour in the EV suit was more than her damaged hands could tolerate - the work could still be done.

But what those others could not do was the one thing that only she could do: talk to someone inside the ship once they stepped outside. If the installation ran into trouble, there would be no way for them to ask for help, short of returning to the ship - and wasting the precious time they had left. No, once separated from the internal system, those outside would be unable to talk with anyone inside... at least, she added, by communicator.

There were, however, other ways to communicate.

And, she added regretfully, other ways to make sure she got her way.

"I don't see an alternative, sir," Andile replied, the first tinglings of the inevitable headache tightening the muscles along her neck and back as she gently 'pushed' the first officer. "If we're going to be able to adjust the sensors to look for the Breen, it's imperative to establish two-way communications - as quickly as possible. That means going out, fully prepared, with help at hand."

She glanced down, grinning at the irony of her remark. The one thing help would not be was 'at hand'. Gods, nothing was going to be 'at hand' for months after this, she sighed as she stared at her palms, remembering the months of therapy she had endured learning to use these hands. She had grown used to them, grown used to these strange fingers, so long and delicate, these unfamiliar fingerprints, so unlike the ones she once had.

But they were just hands, she reminded herself, glancing at her palms. I learned how to use these; I can learn to use another pair.

There was a moment of hesitation, both in her heart and in Will Riker's voice - then a reluctant sigh, breathed from them both at the same moment as they yielded to the inevitable. "Agreed. Geordi, assign someone to the lieutenant."

"Yes, sir - and Commander? Ambassador Tiron has requested a meeting with you - at the captain's yacht," Geordi said, eyeing Tiron, who nodded approvingly at the request.

Will sighed, obviously reluctant to be pulled away from the tasks he had at hand.

"Sir," Geordi added, "I think it's important."

"All right," Will finally sighed. "Fifteen minutes?"

Tiron nodded again.

"Yes, sir," Geordi relayed, then tapped his badge, closing the circuit, "The meeting is set up, Ambassador. And you, Beej? What do you need for the install?"

"Two EV suits, a high intensity light array - there should be one in storage," she added, explaining, "I needed it for the temporal engine installation. It should be in one of the holds. Standard vacuum tool kits for myself and... who are you going to assign?" she asked.

"Lt. Chawla," Geordi decided.

Andile nodded approvingly. "A hundred meters of external optical cabling - and two vacuum rated phase welders," she added.

Geordi's eyes widened. "Phase welders?"

She smiled at him, but without a trace of humor in the rest of her expression. "No inertial dampeners, Geordi; anything that's not welded into place isn't going to be there after we accelerate. And if we do accelerate, I want the ship to be able to stay in contact with the shuttlecraft," she added, then looked at Tiron. "I'm not going to abandon them - or you, Patchni, without a fight."

The senior Romulan looked at the tiny engineer, studying her solemnly - then nodded slowly. "You are so like her," he said softly.

She looked back at him, meeting his gaze. "I am sorry she isn't here, Grandfather," she replied, her voice equally gentle.

"No," Tiron answered. "If she was here, I would not be - and perhaps tomorrow, none of us would. No, my baj, these things work out as they should - even when we don't understand them. You will be careful?" he added.

"I'm always careful," she replied.

He gave her a skeptical look, studying the grey blotches that mottled her face, then sighed, knowing this was one battle that would not be won... today.

"Beej, I'll take the ambassador to the yacht, then I'll meet you and Chawla at..."

"The airlock on the port side of the bridge; I'm going to put the array directly over the bridge," she explained.

"It's going to make the bridge more of a target," Geordi objected, envisioning the intense, bright light highlighting that most vulnerable and vital area of the ship.

"Maybe - but only if they find us. But whether they do or not, it's going to be easier for the lead shuttle to send and receive messages - and for now, that has to be the most important thing. And in any case, Geordi," she added with a grin, "if it comes to that, the shuttle can always blast the array off the bridge."

Geordi raised a brow at that idea; miss the shot by just a few meters - and the phaser would penetrate the hull, depressurizing the hull - and sending the entire bridge crew into space.

But her idea and her logic was sound; make communications as direct and instantaneous as possible. He nodded as he thought the idea through - then gave a second more vigorous nod. "All right. I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

"We'll be waiting," she agreed, then watched as the two left.

She let out a long breath, relieved by their departure - and by her success. That, she thought, was the easy part - convincing Geordi and Will Riker.

Now comes the hard part - well, the first hard part, she conceded - the part I never thought I could do.

But without that part, the second would never happen.

Andile drew a long breath, then tapped her communications badge.

"Andile to..."

She hesitated, having sworn to herself that this was a call she would never make of her own accord - then continued.

"Andile to Dr. Crusher. Doctor, I... I need your help."


	107. Chapter 107

**Chapter 107**

"I still think this is a bad idea."

Picard looked up from his seat in the air lock changing room, confused.

"Beverly, it was _your_ idea," he reminded her.

"It was my idea - only because Lt. Andile came to me with a worse one," she replied - then looked up from her med kit and flashed him a furious glare. "She wanted me to give her a metabolic booster!" she added, her outrage flaring.

He nodded as if he understood.

Beverly glared at him, knowing he didn't, knowing he was simply patronizing her... or sympathizing with her, even though he didn't understand her worry or her anger, the more rational part of her brain reminded her.

She looked down, chagrined at letting her emotions get the better of her - again - then clicked the ampule into the base of the hypospray - and raised her eyes to his.

"Going EV is absolutely contraindicated for patients with unhealed regenerated tissue; exposure to the extreme cold can reverse the healing process, even destroy the tissue," she informed him.

"But the suits have thermal regulators..." he protested.

She gave him a skeptical look. "You're telling me you never get cold on an EVA?" she asked.

Picard hesitated, wanting to deny her point - but unable to do so. He didn't mind extravehicular activities; indeed, he found himself enthralled by the magnificence of space at that intimate level, even when he knew there was nothing more than a few layers of fabric and an ultra-sophisticated life-support system between him and the almost-instantly fatal universe that surrounded him - but even he was about to deny that the first thing he craved when he returned to the ship was a cup of hot tea - preferably enjoyed while inside a sauna, baking out the memory of the chill that had penetrated him to the depths of his bones.

Trying to repress the involuntary shiver that ran through him, he looked at Beverly - then shook his head. "No. But the life support systems..."

"Are designed to keep the body's core temperature in a livable range," she reminded him. "But even the best of suits have limitations, especially on the extremities. Metabolic boosters have become de rigueur for medical management of extravehicular activities; they increase the blood flow to the hands and feet, decreasing the damage to the tissue.

"But in unhealed regenerated tissue," she continued, "the capillaries aren't yet fully reestablished - and until they are, blood flow is limited. In Biji's case, her hands are less able to tolerate the cold of space - going EVA would have, in a matter of an hour or less, damaged the tissue so severely that I don't think I could have repaired the damage." She looked at Picard. "She would have lost her hands, Jean-Luc - and there wouldn't have been anything I could do to help her."

"Then why not give her the booster?" he asked.

"Insufficient capillary capacity," she replied. "Increasing the blood flow only works if there's a place for the blood to flow - and, as I said, Biji's hands haven't regenerated to that extent yet. If I gave her the booster, the insufficiency of the vessels would have driven up the relative pressure and forced fluid into the interstitial tissues until it ruptured. She would still have lost her hands - but it would have taken longer," she added.

"But it would have given her enough time to finish her work," Picard realized.

Beverly nodded - disapprovingly. "It would - but she would be in excruciating pain the entire time! Not that that seemed to matter to her - and she thought it wouldn't matter to me, either! Damn it, Jean-Luc, she was trying to talk me into giving her the drug so she could buy enough time to finish the assignment - and she thought I was going to do it! She honestly thought I would let her sacrifice her hands - just so she could go out and supervise the installation of those damned lights!"

"The lights are critical to establishing two way communications with the shuttles, Beverly - and in any case it's not just a matter of installing the light array," Picard reminded her.

"I know," she replied, exasperated. "I know! It's a matter of having some communication between what's happening in the ship and what's happening out there - and Biji is the only one on this ship who can do that. That's why I agreed to help her..."

"That," Picard concurred, a gentle smile on his face, "And...?"

"And because I owed her that," she admitted with a shake of her head. "Medicine in general - and Starfleet in particular - has not done right by Biji, Jean-Luc; the fact that she got up the nerve to ask this favor of me..." Beverly sighed, then looked at Picard, her expression softening. "Jean-Luc, you should have seen her, standing there in the entrance to Sickbay... I've never seen anyone so terrified of anything - and all she was doing was standing there. It must have been the hardest thing she ever did - no, the second hardest," she corrected herself, "because she did the harder thing a moment later - she came into my office. I thought she was going to fall over, she was shaking so hard; she could hardly speak... and when she did, it was to ask me to bless her sacrificing her hands.

"I couldn't do it," she said quietly. "I've seen the scars, seen the medical scans... I know what she's been through to get those hands and keep them - and there she was, asking me to let her give them up - all so she can get the ship out of here. I couldn't do it. I couldn't let her go through it again... and even if I could, even if I could let her lose her hands once again, I couldn't be sure I'd be able to replace them this time," she admitted.

"And so you thought of this?" he asked, his eyes drifting to the med kit beside him on the bench that lined the changing room wall.

Beverly smiled, a bit chagrined. "Once she explained what she had in mind, I knew I couldn't agree - but this seemed a reasonable... well, not reasonable, I guess - but at least a possible compromise. I know that Biji has conscious control of her healing abilities - but I also know that those abilities are limited by the neurotransmitters in her brain. We both know that," she reminded him, "and we both know what happens when she doesn't have enough of them," she added.

Picard nodded, the memory of the lieutenant's reflected pain still vivid in his mind. "So you've given her another injection of the neurotransmitters," he said.

"That - and a set of thermal bandages on her hands," she replied. "They should help for a brief time - but the transmitters should ensure that she's able to keep some control over the healing of her hands... unless the situation gets dire. If that happens, she's going to dedicate those transmitters to staying in touch with you, and damned be the consequences." She looked at him, their eyes meeting. "Thermal bandages or no, she'd stay out there, working for as long as she has to - and she'd lose her hands. I'm not going to let that happen, Jean-Luc. Not even to save the ship."

"I don't know that that's your choice, Beverly," he countered.

"No, it isn't," she agreed. "It's yours." She held up the hypo. "That's why I suggested this. It's not ideal - there are risks, and in any other situation, I wouldn't have even suggested it - but it's the best option I could come up with. But it's still not a good idea."

He looked at the hypo. "Preformed neurotransmitters," he said.

She nodded. "Right now the full burden of telepathic communication rests on Biji. By giving you the ability to share that with her, at least in part, it should decrease the possibility of her devoting too high a percentage of her neurotransmitters to communication, and too little to her own survival. The problem is that you're not a telepath; while you have the constituent molecules, you don't have the correct components in your brain to assemble those molecules into the final, formed neurotransmitters. I can give those to you, immediately, by injecting them directly into the cerebrospinal fluid. It won't make you a telepath in the true sense of the word, but it will facilitate your contact with Biji - and decrease the strain she might encounter," she explained.

Picard nodded - then hesitated, seeing the concern in Beverly's eyes.

"But...?"

"But..." She hesitated, then sighed. "This isn't a 'for sure' thing, Jean-Luc. I'm not an expert on telepathy; I've worked with Deanna for fifteen years - but understanding Betazoid telepathy isn't the same as understanding human telepathy. For one thing, there are so few human telepaths that the physiology behind what makes their minds work one way and ours another is still barely understood. Giving you this injection is a best guess option - and in the end, it might not work at all.

"And if it does, I don't know how quickly or how well it will work - or for how long. And if it does..."

She hesitated again, her worry almost palpable as she met his eyes - then turned away.

"Bev?" he said - then reached out, taking her hand in his.

For a moment, she stared at their joined hands - then raised her eyes once again. "If it does work, Jean-Luc, I don't know how long it will last."

He smiled at her, bemused at her over-worry. "Even a few minutes may be enough, Beverly..."

She shook her head, stopping him abruptly. "You don't understand. If it does work, I don't know that I can stop it," she said flatly.

That stopped him cold; telepathic communication with the lieutenant in order to assist in the repair and escape of the ship from the realm of the Breen was one thing - but to remain in communication with the intimate thoughts of a woman he barely knew... forever?

He shook his head, shaken. He had been in touch with Beverly's thoughts for two short days - and it had changed the man he was; the idea of that level of intimate contact with someone he barely knew - and for the rest of his life?

"I thought you said that the lieutenant's brain broke down her neurotransmitters...?" he reminded her.

Beverly shook her head angrily. "Andile's brain has the enzymes to catabolyze the transmitters. But it also can reconstruct the transmitters. You don't have that ability - so we can't assume you have the genes to construct those enzymes either!"

"But you said we were genetically related," he protested. "It's possible..."

"You had _one_ ancestor in common thirty thousand years ago, Jean-Luc!" she protested angrily. "In the meantime, Andile's people have been genetically manipulated for centuries, not to mention the fact that she's been exposed to ten thousand years worth of chemicals, viruses, bacteria and radiation - any or all of which may have affected the enzymatic make-up of her body in ways I can never determine. I can give you this compound, Jean-Luc - but there's no guarantee I can remove it. Damn it, Jean-Luc, I like Biji, I admire her for having survived all that's been done to her - but she is not completely sane! What she's been through has changed her, molded her... corrupted her. Unbreakable contact with her could affect you as well! You're gambling your mental health - maybe even your life - just to save two officers, on the off chance that something goes wrong out there! Jean-Luc, is it worth that risk?"

She fell silent, her anger and worry spent - then turned away, knowing there was no point in arguing further; his ship was in danger, and so were his people. Risking his life to save them was not even a choice; if it had to be done, it had to be done.

Angry, frustrated, she rose, the hypo still in her hand; she checked the contents again, then once more - then slowly raised her gaze to look at Picard.

"You're going to do this anyway, aren't you?" she asked, barely able to hide the tears that were welling up in her eyes.

He nodded. "I have to, Beverly. I won't risk the life of one of my crew - not when it's not necessary; not when there's a better option. And if I can't get rid of the neurotransmitter on my own... well, you may be able to synthesize the enzyme. And if not..." He smiled, displaying a confidence Beverly knew he didn't feel. "If not, then the lieutenant's learned to blunt her abilities to hear others; Deanna has said that Betazoid's can learn to shield themselves. I can learn one or the other - or both if I have to. One way or another, I'm confident that I won't be fated to listen to the lieutenant forever," he told her - then added. "I'll be fine, Beverly," he said, reaching for her hand once again.

She took it, squeezed it tightly - then let go. "All right. But it's still a bad idea," she insisted.

Picard smiled, then looked at her expectantly.

"Turn around. Put your chin on your chest - and don't flinch. I need to find a space between the vertebrae so I can inject this directly into the spinal fluid."

She palpated the bony protrusions along the back of his neck for a moment, seeking out a gap between the bones - then gave a soft groan of disappointment.

He looked up. "Problems?"

"Finding a gap in your cervical vertebrae isn't easy," she said.

"You didn't have a problem with the lieutenant," he reminded her, remembering the ease with which she had dosed the engineer in Sickbay the day before.

"She doesn't have as stiff a neck as you do, my dear captain," she countered, then planted a hand on the top of his head, pushing his chin back to his chest, and gently probing out a gap once again.

"Hold still," she repeated, then pressed the cold metal tip of the instrument to his neck. "Don't flinch; this is going to feel hot..."

Not hot: it was searing! he thought, giving an involuntary gasp as the fluid entered his neck. Despite Beverly's warning, he pulled away, one hand slapping against his neck... but there was no way to massage away the heat coursing up his spine.

He choked back a groan, wishing for an instant he hadn't agreed - hell, I insisted! he admitted to himself - on taking on this risk... but even as he was about to admit his mistake, he felt the heat beginning to subside.

No, he amended, not subside; it was still there - but fading from a sensation of burning pain into one of just tolerable heat as the neurotransmitter slowly dispersed throughout the fluid in his brain.

He turned to Beverly, surprised to see that she was crouching down beside him - and doubly surprised to realize he was panting.

"Jean-Luc?" she said worriedly.

He nodded, unable to catch his breath as he tried to accept the spreading sensation of heat throughout his head and spine - then nodded again. "I'm okay," he managed - then managed a smile. "Strange sensation," he added.

"I'm sure," she agreed. "In medical school, we had to give each other epidurals for practice. I didn't like it - and that was just normal saline." She hesitated, watching him intently. "Anything else? Any...?"

He smiled. "Any messages from the lieutenant?" he asked - then shook his head. "No. Nothing. Just... my normal thoughts."

"Damn," she grumbled. "I had hoped that being in close proximity might help. But it may be that it takes time to work... or," she admitted, "it may not work at all."

There was, Picard thought, more than a hint of relief on her voice; relief... and something else? he wondered - then smiled.

"Jealous of my sharing thoughts with another woman?" he teased her gently.

Her eyes widened in indignation - but the slight blush of red in her cheeks let him know he wasn't far from the mark.

"It won't be the same thing," she protested, quickly recovering. "Andile will be the one projecting and receiving thoughts - conscious thoughts," she added. "The neurotransmitters I gave you will simply facilitate her abilities to connect with you. And in the situation we're in, I hardly think you'll be projecting any interesting thoughts... like the ones you had that night," she added.

It was his turn to blush - and he did so with a blaze of crimson. "That was a dream!" he reminded her, "and I was hardly responsible for what my subconscious was projecting while I was asleep!"

Beverly grinned back at him, regaining her composure as he lost his - then let the grin fade to a smile - the old and familiar smile that reminded him of the deep and abiding friendship that they had settled into.

And that's what we did, he thought to himself: we settled. For friendship, for camaraderie, for an ongoing relationship that supported them both - and fulfilled neither. It wasn't what either of them really wanted... but it was all either of them were willing to risk.

And a real relationship would have been a risk, they both knew; a risk whether it succeeded or failed. Succeeded - and they both would have had to learn how to live a private life in front of fourteen hundred other people, their every action the topic for discussion - and their every lack of action equally open for debate. What did they talk about? What did they do? Were they happy? Were they fighting? Were they making love? Weren't they?

Of course, he reminded himself, their lack of a relationship had been an equally popular topic; were they lovers or not - and if not, why not?

It was awkward, this very public life of two very private people - but how much more public would it be if they tried a relationship - and it failed?

He shook his head, knowing that would be an equally open topic - but worse, one that could create a division with his crew.

So, instead, they had chosen not to decide. Hardly a suitable decision for an otherwise decisive pair - and not much of a decision for a life, he admitted - but the wrong choice would have cost them both too much; their hearts, their friendship, their shipmates, possibly their careers.

But what risks were there in not trying? he asked himself. What did they losing by never daring to find out? Was the pain of loss so much more than the pain they both felt every day?

He shivered, a sensation of unbearable loss filling him, his hands wrapping around the opposing wrists, rubbing them uncomfortably.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly said, watching him intently. "Are you all right?"

He nodded automatically - then realized that she was speaking to him. "I'm fine," he apologized. "Just cold. Cold in here," he added, shivering once again, silently wishing that the burning heat that had filled him just moments before hadn't faded so quickly.

"Air lock," she reminded him; the small passage between the inner and outer hull was always cold, warmed only when someone was using the space to change into or out of an environmental suit - and that residual warmth was fading rapidly. "We should leave so the lieutenant can re-enter as soon as they're done," she reminded him. "Can you try letting Biji know we're resealing the room?" she asked.

Picard started to nod - then realized with a start that he had no idea how to project his thoughts. Concentrate? Don't concentrate?

_It's kind of like walking, sir; if you think about it, you can't do it - and you sure as hell can't explain it. You just... do it._

He grinned - then realized Beverly was staring at him. "The lieutenant," he explained.

"Does that mean the neurotransmitters are working?" she asked.

Picard shook his head. "I don't know; I don't think so. It doesn't seem any different than before," he said - then silently repeated the thought to the engineer.

_It doesn't feel any different to me_ she agreed.

_Then don't waste your strength on this_ he ordered. _We're moving out of the air lock; we'll seal the door so you can reenter as soon as you're ready_.

For a moment, his face grew blank - then he looked at Beverly, silently gesturing for her to precede him out of the small room and into the corridor. Following her, he tapped the control to close the door - then realized she was staring at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Something happened," she said. "For a moment, when you were talking with Biji, your face went completely blank."

Picard raised a brow in surprise; he hadn't felt anything different...

Except, he realized, he had.

Or had he? he asked himself.

"It's probably just fatigue," he explained, "but for a moment, I wasn't in conscious contact with the lieutenant. When I told her we were leaving the airlock, she didn't give a verbal response. Instead there was a... sensation - a feeling - of... acknowledgment."

"The neurotransmitters?" she asked again.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe just a simpler, more basic form of communication; I did tell her to reserve her strength," he added.

Beverly nodded - then sighed. "I had hoped for something a little more definitive - but we're dealing with the unknown here."

"In more ways than one," Picard replied, guiding her down the corridor to the turbolift doors. "We're trying to find an enemy who has ways of eluding our sensors - and according to Jay, the only effective way is to analyze gaps in sensor data... if we can get any data to analyze," he added.

"You're relaying on Jay Tillerman's advice?" she said, surprised. "I thought you didn't trust him!"

"In some things, no," Picard agreed. "But he's always been a loyal Starfleet officer," he reminded her as the lift doors opened and they entered. "And he does have information about the Breen we need."

"I didn't ask if he had information, Jean-Luc; I asked if you trusted him," she reminded him.

He stared at her as they rode the lift, his eyes studying her - and his thoughts studying himself.

A moment later, the doors opened, and the two officers stepped onto the bridge.

On another ship, the entrance would have been heralded with an announcement of "Captain on the bridge," a cessation of all activities, a delay while everyone waited for him to reassume the command post and give the order for everyone to resume what they were already doing - all formalities that Picard had put an end to on his first day. His bridge officers were professionals, he had thought then and now; he assumed and expected that they would be no more - and no less - attentive to their responsibilities on the bridge whether he was present or not.

And indeed, without seeming to make any real note of his presence, he watched as Will noted his arrival on the bridge, instantly rising from the center chair to take the one situated at Picard's right, while Deanna moved from that chair to her usual place as well, the change in position as natural and easy in practice as it had been in class.

Even Jay Tillerman, hovering at the helm position, carefully scrutinizing the data being plotted there, seemed to take Picard's arrival in silent stride - though, Picard thought to himself, studying the man's demeanor, whether it was due to his rapt attention to the board, or simply as a nonchalant dismissal of the captain's arrival, he didn't know.

Ideally, it was the former, he told himself: Jay, concentrating completely on the work at hand.

Except Jay had never concentrated completely on anything in his life, he reminded himself, glancing at Beverly, who had taken a seat at the science station, wishing in part she hadn't reminded him of his inherent distrust of Jay - and simultaneously thanking her for it.

What was his game? He wondered, watching as the man looked up from the board to study the pattern of flashing lights from the lead shuttlecraft, then turn his eyes back to the helm control, pointing out another coordinate to the helm officer.

Unnecessary, Picard thought, finding himself mildly irritated by the ex-Starfleet officer's actions. The lights had indicated a null value; there was nothing out there - and his helm officer was as capable of reading that signal as Jay was - and fully capable of inputting that data without Jay's help.

What was the term? Picard asked himself as he watched the two, trying to check his own irritation as he did so.

_Micro-managing_.

_?!_

_Sorry_, Andile's thought flowed through his mind. _I wasn't eaves-dropping. I wanted to let you know I was coming back in - and I just happened to hear the question. That's what they called it: micro-managing. Trying to oversee every detail of a process. Some people did it because they needed to be in absolute control, others because they wanted to display their own abilities_.

_Ah_, he thought, thinking the latter did describe Jay - then, remembering what she had just said, added, _Finished already?_

Again, he found himself sensing no worded reply, only a feeling of denial - and then Picard smiled, understanding.

Mental shorthand, he realized; a projected feeling instead of a projected message - in this case, a mental headshake.

_The diffusion is too great; I need to add a focusing lens to the array so we can limit contact to the primary shuttlecraft_.

He frowned.

_?_

_I want the messages going only to the lead ship, sir_, she explained - but there was a sense of worry, of foreboding, that underlined the thought she was projecting.

_The other pilots know to take their orders only from the lead ship, Lieutenant_, he replied.

_It's not the other shuttles I'm worried about, sir; it's whoever else is out there, listening, watching, that has me worried. Directing the light array only at the lead shuttle should limit whoever else can see the message_, she cautioned.

He hesitated, the sense of foreboding growing - though whether it was his own or hers, he was no longer certain.

_Do you... sense... something, Lieutenant?_

Another mental headshake, then...

_No. And yes. Something's happening... but I don't know what_.

She hesitated. _Is everything okay in there?_

Alarmed, Picard ran his eyes over the control panel in the arm of his chair, only to realize, once again, that most of the ship's functions were still off-line. Still, most of the lights that were lit were green, only a few yellow, and no red or flashing lights to signal an alarm - and a quick scan of the bridge echoed that information.

There was a real threat out there, and the ship was in desperate trouble - but now, at this moment, things looked as though they were doing nothing more than progressing through repairs.

He started to prepare his mind to relay the message to the woman working only a few meters from where he sat - then felt a wave of... dismissal... wash over him.

_Don't bother_, she said, _I heard you_.

_You can do that?_, he replied, startled.

A mental nod.

_Does that mean the neurotransmitters are functioning?_

A headshake - and a smile.

_Mine, yes; I'm back inside, and the effort is a lot less, and the extras that the Doc gave me seem to be helping - so I'm picking up more information. I don't think yours are, though; it doesn't feel any different than usual. Sorry to disappoint you_, she added, the sensation of a soft laugh flowing over the thought.

He raised a brow, finding himself a little surprised at the level of flippancy in the woman's thoughts - but they were _her_ thoughts, he reminded himself; he was, after all, the interloper here - and if she chose to be flippant, casual, or even downright vulgar, he was hardly in a position to criticize.

He opened his thoughts to her once again - but this time, there was no answer, only a vague, undefined sense of urgency, of needing to work - then Picard realized she had turned her attention from communicating with him to the task at hand - getting the hell out of here.

A task he should attend to as well, he chided himself.

He tapped his commbadge. "Picard to Data. It's been nineteen hours, Mr. Data. What's the status of the repairs?"

"We are still experiencing unexplained replicator failures, sir. It has delayed the establishment of sufficient numbers of neural pathways to initiate propulsion. We do, however, have sufficient pathways to erect shields, should you choose to do so - but it would be at the cost of the propulsion systems," he added.

So we can stay and protect ourselves, Picard thought - but at the cost of having to stay... how much longer? he wondered.

"How long will that delay implementation of the warp engines?" he asked the android.

"At least fifteen more hours, sir. However, utilization of the warp engines would be inadvisable until the inertial dampeners are back on line - and that would require an additional eight hours, seventeen minutes..."

Another full day, Picard thought - and felt the sense of dread rise in him again.

"What about impulse?"

"We could add sufficient circuits to the system to have both shields and impulse power in three hours..."

"What about impulse without shields, Data?" Picard suggested.

There was a moment of silence, and Picard could almost hear the android shaking his head. "That would be... inadvisable, sir. The concentration of space-borne particles in this area is inordinately high; even at impulse speed..."

A surge of fury flowed over Picard. Damn it! he thought to himself, we've got to get out of here!

"Deflectors?" he suggested.

"Still off-line," Data answered. "Again, we can reroute the neural circuits to establish that function of the ship - but only at the cost of shields."

Picard was about to negate that suggestion, only to stop as he saw Jay Tillerman look up from the board.

"That might not be a bad idea, Jean-Luc," he informed the man. "When you raise shields, we're going to lose contact with most of the pods; in effect, you're going to drop your sensor range by fifty percent. Deflectors should give you enough protection without losing that sensor information - if you don't move too fast," he added.

And it would get them the hell out of here, Picard reminded himself.

He nodded. "Make it so, Mr. Data; let me know the moment we can move..."

"Yes, sir," Data agreed.

Jay nodded approvingly, then turned back to the helm, watching the slow plotting of data... all of it blank, Picard reminded himself.

As it would be until they managed to alert the shuttle craft to adjust the bandwidth, Picard reminded himself - which wouldn't be until the established communications with the shuttles.

_We're on it, sir_, Andile thought back to the unvoiced question.

_Listening in?_ he asked.

She nodded. _If you don't mind. It doesn't seem to be taking any more of my energy_, she added, aloud - but there was something beseeching, something begging yet unvoiced, unthought, that tickled at the back of Picard's mind.

_Lieutenant?_

She hesitated. _There's something wrong_, she finally said.

_Out there? The Breen?_

A silent headshake. _No. Nothing alien - at least, not as far as I can sense. It's something... closer_.

Picard turned to glance at Deanna - and found the first touches of worry lines creasing her brow as she studied him intently.

"Counselor? May I see you in my ready room?" he asked.

She nodded, then followed him from the bridge, entering the room that served as office and sanctuary for the man, taking a seat on one side of the desk as he settled himself into the chair on the opposite side.

"Yes, sir?" she asked.

"You're troubled," he said.

She nodded, then forced a wan smile. "As are you, sir."

"Agreed - though not for the same reasons, I believe," he replied with a degree of confidence that surprised her.

Deanna hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps not," she conceded.

"I suspect your sensing something... new... different... in me," he said.

She nodded. "Yes, sir. A presence, a duality I haven't sensed in you since..."

He smiled reassuringly. "Since I was affected by an alien species. Let me assure you, then, Counselor, that I am well, acting under my own cognition and in control of my behavior and judgment - and that Dr. Crusher had examined me, and is willing to vouch that I am not under an alien influence. However, I am not able to explain further at this time," he continued; not without betraying the lieutenant and the secret she believed too odious to reveal. He sighed - then hoped that the years of faith and trust he had developed with his officers would be enough, and looked at Deanna beseechingly. "You're going to have to take my word on this, Counselor," he told her - and hoped it would be enough.

Deanna hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea - but sensing the sincerity behind the words - finally nodded, accepting his explanation, vague as it was.

"May I ask then, Captain, if it is not this... duality... then what is troubling you?"

"That, Counselor, is why I asked you to join me," he replied, then rose from his chair, tugging down his tunic, stepping to the front of the desk, and perching on it, studying the woman intently.

"Over the last few weeks," he said as he watched her, "you have been interviewing the members of this ship, seeking out anyone who could be considered a subversive or a saboteur..."

She nodded. "As you directed, but as I reported, sir, not one of my interviews yielded any conclusive evidence."

"And you interview Sandra James?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she replied, a little surprised; she had reported all her findings to Picard in her daily reports. "In fact, she was one of the first people I talked with - as you directed; her role on the mission was too critical for her not to be cleared as early and as quickly as possible."

He nodded as if confirming her words against his own recollection - then looked at her again.

"And yet you found no indications that she was the saboteur," he asked.

Deanna thought for a moment, trying to remember both the information Sandra had provided to her - and the emotional content in which the information was revealed.

"No, sir," she concurred. "There was an extremely strong sense of self," she said - the nice way of phrasing that the young woman had been more than a bit of an egotist, she conceded, "and a strong sense of dedication to Starfleet... Not surprising, considering that her promotion and public recognition for her computer design came as a direct result of her work in Starfleet," she added. "But there was no sense of conflict, no emotional value that even hinted that she was working for another government or that she had any desire to harm the ship or the crew."

"Could she have been concealing her true feelings?" he pressed.

Deanna shook her head. "I... don't think so. Sir, I don't like to speak ill of the dead - but Biji was right: Sandra James, brilliant as she may have been in her field, was otherwise quite naïve. I don't think she had the mental wherewithal to conceal an involvement at that level."

Picard nodded, digesting the information - then met Deanna's eyes, his expression cold and hard. "Then how did we miss her involvement, Counselor? We know now that she was involved, heavily, and that she was not capable of concealing that involvement; indeed, she may well have been killed for that very reason! How, then did we miss her?" he repeated.

Meaning, she thought to herself, how did I miss her?

She shook her head. "I don't know, Captain," she admitted unhappily.

Hearing the pain in her voice, he turned to her, contrition on his face and in his voice. "That was not meant as an accusation, Counselor," he said.

"I know," she agreed, "but I should have been able to sense her duplicity," she insisted. "That I couldn't..."

"Does not necessarily reflect on you," he countered. "What I was trying to suggest was that your inability to sense Cmdr. James' involvement may suggest that there is someone - or more likely, some _thing_ - blocking your ability."

Deanna shook her head, automatically rejecting the idea. "I don't think that's likely, sir," she protested. "That type of technology is unheard of..."

"Among the Federation, yes," he agreed.

Something in his voice made Deanna look up. "You have some information sir?"

Picard shook his head. "No - just something that Jay said - about the Breen having the ability to shield themselves from sensors by what sounds like selective absorption of sensor frequencies. If they could do that..."

Deanna silenced him with a shake of her head. "Telepathy doesn't work that way. The patterns in the mind are variable, constantly changing; a machine wouldn't have the ability to respond that quickly; it would leave obvious patterns and gaps... But a person, a trained telepath, could carefully block that information through manipulation," she added soberly.

A third telepath on his ship? he thought, astounded - then discarded the possibility. No, the possibility of having three telepaths aboard, two of which were trained in the intense subtleties of emotional manipulation, was pushing the bounds of credulity. There had to be another answer, another possibility, something they were missing, something so subtle they had somehow overlooked it...

... or something so obvious they had never considered it.

He suddenly turned to Deanna, his eyes bright with realization - and saw the possibility flare into her eyes as well.

"I didn't see the treachery in Cmdr. James' mind..." she said, horrified.

"...because it wasn't there," Picard concurred. "In her mind it wasn't sabotage.

"Cmdr. James was working for Starfleet."


	108. Chapter 108

**Chapter 108**

"But... that would mean Starfleet has allied themselves with the Breen!" Deanna exclaimed. "Why would they – why would _we_ do that?"

"Why not?" Picard countered sharply. "We allied ourselves with the Sona'a two years ago, because we wanted the healing properties of the metaphasic radiation on the Ba'ku homeworld - and damned be the six hundred people who lived there.

"We did it then - and we've done it before," he reminded her, his lips tight with anger, "betraying everything we claim we stand for when expedience requires it - or when someone wants it. Section 31, the Pegasus, our abandonment of the colonies to the Cardassians... Federation history is rife with examples of our betraying everything we claim to hold dear - when there is something we want. Or need," he added.

"But what do we want - or need - from the Breen?" she replied.

Picard stared at her, rational thought fighting with his surging emotions - then shook his head. "I don't know, Counselor," he admitted with a frustrated sigh. "Peace, perhaps? The Breen withdrawal from the Dominion war has never really been explained," he suggested, "but that departure was one of the turning events in the war. If they hadn't abandoned the Dominion when they did..."

"Granted, it changed the war, sir - but if the Breen left at our request, then we're still left with the same question - why? What could Starfleet offer the Breen?"

He raised a brow at her. "This ship?"

Despite her intense concern, Deanna managed a smile. "If that was all the Breen wanted, Captain, Starfleet could have sent this ship to them anytime in the last two years - and without all this subterfuge. All they would have had to do is declare her a loss while we sere sitting at spacedock - and 'dispose' of her. No one would have thought it that unusual, considering the times."

Picard gave a grudging nod. "True," he conceded, "though these engines..."

"These engines barely made it to installation in time, Captain; if that had been the intention, wouldn't Starfleet have waited until they were installed and validated first - to prove to the Breen that they did, indeed, work?"

He gave a second, grudging nod, then sighed. "You may be right, Counselor; I don't know that the involvement of this ship is anything more than coincidental - any more than I know that Starfleet is the real culprit behind everything that's happened here. But for the first time, I've found an answer that is beginning to make sense - even if the motivation isn't obvious."

Deanna studied the man for a long moment, considering - the nodded her agreement. "It does fit. So many of the loose ends could be explained _if_ Cmdr. James' accomplice was from Starfleet... someone who could have been everything that the commander wasn't, guiding her, directing her - even writing that computer program - but operating covertly, without our knowledge or suspicion."

She hesitated, considering for a moment, then shook her head. "The problem is, sir, that it could still be anyone on the ship. If they are working for Starfleet, and in full, emotional support of the plan, there would be almost no way for me to determine who it was."

Picard smiled ruefully. "We can, however, determine who it isn't," he corrected her. "If it is a Starfleet operative, then we can be reasonably sure that Ambassadors Zumell and Tiron are above suspicion," he said - a decision he had already reached on his own.

For a moment he was silent, staring out the windows of the ready room, staring at the unmoving stars - then turned back to Deanna. "You said you don't think you'd be able to detect a conspirator in this situation - because your abilities are limited to empathic sensations?" he asked.

Deanna nodded. "What I sense are feelings and emotions - not thoughts or thought patterns. Someone who believes what they are doing is for the good of Starfleet or the Federation wouldn't generate the same feelings as someone who was working covertly against Starfleet, no matter how intensely they believed in their actions. There would be an undertone of worry, betrayal, fear of discovery... I believe that part of the reason that I couldn't sense Cmdr. James' concern was that what she had been ordered to do didn't violate her personal beliefs; that's why she could drug the other computer technicians without concern - because she was unaware of the fact that she was actually killing them. Had she known, her personal conflict would have become evident, even if she had agreed to perform the acts."

Picard nodded, understanding - but wishing he had some greater insight into the minds of his crew.

He understood his senior staff; after so many years together, he knew what drove them, what they believed in - and knew, equally well, that he could believe in them in return.

Even Worf was a known quantity, despite his being so long removed from their company; no matter what he deemed himself, Klingon, Federationist, Starfleet - the man was driven by one thing, and one thing alone - honor. He would not betray them, not even for something he believed in - or rather, Picard conceded, knowing that every man - and woman, he reminded himself solemnly - had their breaking point, the moment at which they had to decide what mattered most and what could be sacrificed to support that decision - that Worf, too was not above having to make such a necessary choice under the most dire of circumstances.

But such a choice came at a cost, he knew equally well. One's conscience could not be betrayed, even if one's allies could be.

I know my staff, he thought - but there are fourteen hundred others aboard, fourteen hundred more of whom I know so little.

There was no self-chastisement in that realization; the level of friendship needed to feel as secure in a relationship as he felt with his senior staff was borne of their years together, of their intimate and intense work with one another - and that simply was not a thing he could do with that many others.

Nor could Deanna, he added, glancing at the empath, knowing the limits of her professional abilities - and her personal ones.

But not everyone aboard was so limited - or rather, there was one person who wasn't so limited.

_Are you listening?_

He waited for a moment, unconsciously tensing against the return of the soft presence in his mind - but after a long moment, realized there was going to be no response. Either Andile was out of range - or busy, he added, reminding himself how taxing she had claimed the telepathy to be.

_Lieutenant?_

To his surprise, he felt, rather than heard the answer, a tingle of startlement across the back of his mind - then caught a hint of embarrassment as she answered - and sensed a level of underlying fatigue.

_Sorry,_ she replied. _I was focusing on getting the array installed..._

_I understand,_ Picard answered, his thought short, but not terse, trying to condense his thoughts to the briefest possible form, wanting to save her whatever energy receiving his thoughts cost her.

Once again, he felt her answer, with a projection of sensation rather than thought - this time, a 'smile-of-thanks' feeling at the back of mind as she grasped the reason for his brevity - and a smile of amusement following as she sensed his realization at how efficient this form of communication was.

Picard looked at Deanna, seated in her chair on the opposite side of the room, suddenly aware of how intimate this level of communication was - and wondering how much of himself - how much of all of those she sensed - was exposed, was available, to her at every moment. To be so open, so... revealed... to her - to anyone...

A shiver ran up his spine - and was instantly stilled.

_It's not like this for her,_ Andile replied, his thoughts as clear in her mind as they were in his own. _Not this... intimate. She can see the surface layers, see how the emotions below the surface affect the person, how they reflect their character, their actions, their words... This is more, this is deeper than she can read - deeper than she realizes anyone _can_ read..._

He felt a... thrill... a soft pulsation run through him... a telepathic laugh, he suddenly realized - slightly derogatory - but compassionate, understanding... and not directed at Deanna, he realized as well.

_No, I wasn't laughing at her,_ Andile said.

It took him a moment to understand that she had felt his defenses rise at the perceived attack - and had instantly reacted.

_But you were laughing,_ he countered.

_At those telepaths, like most Betazeds, who think their ability to read formed thoughts is so much more developed than empaths, like the Counselor, who are limited to emotion. Such hubris, such pride,_ she laughed. _The reality is that surface thought is really the more limited form of communication - restricted to formed ideas and conscious, shaped concepts. It's the emotional sub-context that gives those thoughts meaning and depth. Without being able to sense and interpret that sub-context, the words are almost meaningless._

There was a fleeting sense of regret, of shame - and of futility.

_I wish I could tell her_ Andile sighed unhappily. _I wish I could let he know how much more developed her ability is than that of other Betazoids, that her human parentage didn't diminish her abilities, but rather enriched them beyond those of other telepaths..._

Picard nodded, silently, motionlessly - but with a gentle compassion toward the empath - and a gentle chastisement toward the telepath. _Counselor Troi has accepted the cultural context of her abilities, Lieutenant. To ask her to change that now..._

_I accepted the cultural context of my abilities as andile,_ she reminded him caustically. _That didn't stop you from trying to change me._

_Touché,_ he replied. _And I'll apologize later,_ he added. _For now, however..._

He closed his eyes, letting his mind replay the conversation he had been having with Deanna - and felt Andile gasp in understanding.

_Starfleet?_ she cried softly, the sensation of betrayal as intense, as stunning painful as his own.

_Do you see any other possibilities?_ he replied.

Picard could sense her shaking her head - just as he could sense the burn of unshed tears building in her eyes, the sense of rage building in her heart - and the sense of shame at not having thought of the possibility of being betrayed by one - or all - of their own.

_I should have known,_ she cried. _By the gods, at least I should have suspected..._

_Lieutenant,_ he interrupted, needing to break her cycle of grief and self-accusation - but his mental request growing tentative, not sure how great a burden the task he was about to ask was, _Can you tell who it is?_

For a moment, there was silence, unblemished by thought or emotion, tainted only by a growing chill in the room.

He shivered, his hands automatically reaching to massage the opposite wrist against the pain building there.

_Lieutenant?_

Without realizing it, he rose up onto the balls of his feet, trying to quash the cramping in his toes, trying to wriggle them in the growing cold of the room.

_Lieutenant?_

He swallowed hard, fighting the rising sense of nausea as the pain in his face and shoulders continued to build; releasing his wrists, he raised his hands to his face, rubbing at the nagging tingling in his cheeks and nose - but finding no surcease from the growing pain no matter how hard he scratched.

"Captain!"

The voice, spoken aloud rather than shouted through the depths of his mind, startled the man. In an instant, the room warmed, then pain fled, the cramps and the nausea ceased, and he opened his eyes, sank back on his heels - and felt Deanna's hand gently moving his hands from his face, her eyes filled with terrified concern.

Confused, he looked at her - then looked down at the hands she had pried away from his face.

They were spotted with blood.

"You scratched yourself," she said as mildly as she could, her tone downplaying the terror she had felt as she watched him start to tear at his own face.

He studied his hands a moment longer, wondering where the pain and the cold had gone - then understood, all too well.

_Lieutenant?_

_By the gods, nothing!_ she railed miserably. _I hear thoughts, words, feelings - but it's all too distant..._

Too distant, he knew, muffled by the lack of familiarity with the senders - and by her own, rapidly deteriorating condition.

_You need to come in,_ he ordered Andile. _You can't do any good out there._

_I can't go,_ she protested. _Sunil... Lt. Chawla needs another fifteen minutes,_ she countered. _I can't leave her alone. It's against protocol..._

_I'll send someone..._

A shake of a head. _No time. By the time they suit up..._

He hesitated, his memory of her pain radiating through his mind - then nodded, knowing she was right. _ All right. Fifteen minutes. But no telepathy._

He felt her agree, then fade from his mind, too tired to manage even a basic, emotional response.

"Captain?" Deanna repeated, studying him, feeling the surging emotional interplay emanating from the man - but not understanding them - nor understanding the reason why they faded a moment later.

Picard raised a hand to his face, touching the bloody gash across his cheek, then smiled apologetically to the empath. "Excuse me," he said, stepping away from the woman and into the adjoining bathroom.

It wasn't much of a cut, he thought as he studied the rapidly congealing wound, probably more alarming for Deanna for seeing it done than for the actual damage he had inflicted on himself - but, he wondered as he quickly washed the scratch, how much worse would it have been if she hadn't stopped him.

And how much worse was the pain that Lt. Andile was enduring, he wondered a moment later as he patted his face dry.

Stepping out of the room, he found Deanna waiting, the worry still evident on her face.

"Are you all right?" she said.

"I'm fine, Counselor," he assured her. "I didn't even realize I had scratched myself," he added nonchalantly, casually dismissing her concern.

Deanna ignored the dismissal, considering instead his words, knowing that at one level it was true - that he hadn't realized he had cut himself - even as she understood that at another, deeper level, there was something he wasn't revealing.

And something he was not about to discuss, she knew equally well.

She nodded - then continued where their conversation had stopped only seconds before. "Captain, whoever is behind this is an expert in understanding the individuals involved, and asking them to act only in ways that conform to their personal belief structures. That really argues for the fact that this plan has been developed carefully and over time - and argues against the idea of this being a hurried plan."

"And time is something they may have had," he agreed, the fatigue and pain that had filled him seconds before gone, his energy level suddenly surging. "It's been over two years since the Breen left the war," he reminded her.

Deanna nodded hesitantly.

"And yet," he continued, "there is something of this that does intimate a rushed operation. The fact that the computer was not completely installed, the engines in their state of partial implementation..."

"A crew cobbled together from all over Earth," she agreed, shaking her head. "It wouldn't make sense that this is somehow a repayment to the Breen for something they may have done two years ago."

"Not if it's the ship - or the crew," Picard replied.

"But if not the ship or the crew, then what?" she asked.

He shook his head. "That, Counselor, is the question. The newest question," he added, knowing that, under other circumstances, he would find this interminable list of ever-changing questions and hints stimulating - indeed, exciting, he added.

Right up Dixon Hill's alley, he thought.

But if Dixon Hill couldn't resolve a mystery, he reminded himself, the worst thing to happen was that the computer reset itself - and he played the scenario again.

Would that this would be so easy in this situation, he sighed.

"If it's not us," he mused, more to himself than to the Betazoid, "and it is not the ship - then why are we here?"

"Something to do with the mission?" Deanna replied. "Perhaps the Breen don't want the mission to succeed - by capturing the ship, and more importantly, the delegates, they know that the Federation would remain fractured."

"But to what end, Counselor?" Picard countered. "To move into the power void?" He shook his head, dismissing the idea. "Nothing of what we know about the Breen suggests they're interested in taking on a position of power."

"And we've discounted the concept of black market weapon sales," she reminded him. "Which leaves...?" Deanna raised her eyes to Picard, as bewildered by the reasoning behind the mysterious aliens as he was.

He considered for a moment - then turned to the stars.

They were fascinating, he thought to himself; no matter how many times he stood here, in this place, studying the stars and the worlds that passed by him in streaks of prismatic glory, their beauty always held his rapt fascination...

And yet, he added, studying the brilliant orbs that shone, still and unmoving, beyond the windows where the ship stood, the beauty they presented as the ship passed them at warp speeds was nothing compared to their splendor as he studied them now, jewels shining against the black velvet of infinite space.

He let out a long exhalation, then shook his head. Not jewels, he reminded himself; jewels were dazzling, yes - but cold and hard. These were anything but cold - or hard - and the beauty he saw in them was anything but fixed.

They were as transient as man - though on a far grander timescale than man would ever know - born, developing into a mature state, generating heat and radiation to nurture a world to life and fruition - then growing old and cold with time - or succumbing to the destructive forces deep within them, exploding in a blaze of light and dust that would send shock waves through the galaxy, shaping and reshaping the systems around them, until there was no trace of their existence - and yet, no doubt that they had once been there.

As would the Federation, he added; in the future - indeed, perhaps in the very near future - they would cease to be, and yet... and yet, Picard thought, perhaps we, too, will have sent out enough of a shock wave so that our presence, our very existence may be forgotten - but our effect may not be.

Would that be so bad an epitaph? he wondered. Not an epitaph for a single man, or even an entire society - but the final acknowledgement that what they were, what they tried to do and what they tried to be had, indeed, affected an entire galaxy.

Or perhaps it would be enough to know they had affected a single person, he added solemnly.

He nodded to himself. It kept coming back to that, he thought - a single person.

But which one?

Did it matter? he asked himself, glancing at chronometer on his desk. As soon as Data got the impulse engines and deflectors on line, they would be able to move, to get away from here - and time would be back on their side again.

Then, he resolved firmly, they would go over the crew, one at a time, and find the saboteur, the murderer, the betrayer of the ship and her crew, and deal with him – or her - appropriately.

If Starfleet allowed it, he added, the thought sobering him. If Starfleet had indeed been behind everything they had endured, would - could - justice ever be found for those who had been lost - and those who had survived?

Or would they, like so many others, disappear once they had been turned over to Security - never to be seen again. Surgically altered and reassigned? he wondered - or would fate for being caught be something far worse, something... permanent?

Murder? he asked himself, wondering just how far Starfleet would venture from its own precepts and tenets, all to protect itself from the accusations of its own people... if those accusations could ever be made.

Certainly little had become public from the Ba'ku disaster - only enough for Starfleet to make a public apology and put on an act of very public, very obvious contrition - a few dismissals, an overly generous reparation to the Ba'ku people - but those aboard the Enterprise who had first-hand knowledge, who could have made the situation fully known - and therefore fully disastrous - had been effectively silenced by being refused transfers from the ship until the Ba'ku and their maltreatment by the Sona'a and the Federation was nothing but a faded memory.

If they made it back to the safety of the Federation and Starfleet, just how safe would the operative be? he wondered.

For that matter, how safe would any of them be? he added.

He pursed his lips at the thought - then angrily jabbed the comm button on his desk. "Picard to Data. Report."

"Final integration will be completed in one minute, Captain," the android replied. "Deflectors are coming on line... now," he added.

Picard nodded, satisfied - but not relieved. He wouldn't be fully relieved until they were out of this area of space. All of them, he added.

"Prepare to initiate impulse engines in twenty minutes, Mr. Data," he said, allowing Lt. Andile the fifteen minutes she said she needed to finish the installation of the light array and to move herself and Lt. Chawla inside the ship.

It would be close, he conceded - but the longer they waited...

He felt the shiver run up his spine again - and this time, it had nothing to do with the telepath on the other side of the hull.


	109. Chapter 109

**Chapter 109**

"Wouldn't it be advisable to shut down communications?" Deanna suggested as Picard touched the comm button again, closing down his link with the android. "If the saboteur realizes we're about to move, he might try to stop us," she continued.

Picard nodded. "I know. I'm concerned, however, that the act of shutting down communications might send the same message. More to the point, however, is that once they are shut down, we might not be able to restore them for some time - and we're facing enough handicaps at the moment without adding that problem to the situation. No," he decided, "for now, we'll address the issue the simpler way - by telling only those that need to know."

Meaning only those on the bridge, Deanna realized. And not all of them, she added; with Data, Geordi and Will in other areas of the ship, more than half of those stationed in the adjacent room were unknowns to them both. No, she thought, the captain would tell only those that absolutely had to know - and those, she realized, sensing the building concern and wariness in the man, would be watched carefully. Any overt moves, any untoward actions...

And then what? she wondered.

As if hearing her thoughts, Picard moved his hand toward the phaser on his hip, checking its position - then glancing at her, checking the same thing.

Is this what we've been reduced to? Deanna wondered. Arming ourselves - against our fellow officers?

But the saboteur, whoever he was, had shown himself to be no less ready to act, indeed, to kill, when the circumstance had necessitated it.

And when it had not, she reminded herself grimly, thinking back to the three computer technicians, brutally murdered... and with no better reason than to prevent them from saving the ship.

If it could be saved, she thought, the realization making the murder even more senseless; it had been a pre-emptive strike, an attack intended to prevent even the remotest possibility of their effecting repairs, a murder without even a direct reason.

Her own anger rising, she glanced down, confirmed that her phaser was in place and ready, then rose to her feet, following Picard as he moved from the ready room to the bridge.

A few heads turned their way when the doors opened, a few sets of eyes glanced at the two - but none, Deanna thought as she quickly evaluated the passing glances, had more than fleeting sense of curiosity about them; despite the inescapable sense of tension in the emotions of those before her, most were totally focused on their work, including, Deanna admitted with more than a little surprise, Jay Tillerman.

Well, perhaps not totally focused, she added, having caught the faint undertone of worry in his emotions as the tall human watched over the helmsman's boards - but there was something reassuring in that worry, something... humbling... that made her a little more confident in the man.

Of course, a man like Tillerman would never publicly admit such a weakness, she knew; everything in his emotional being pointed to the need to project a confidence he might not always feel, hiding his true feelings under a façade of boorish overconfidence that verged on the point of appearing overbearing - a trait, she knew, that could, and did, intimidate a lesser personality - a trait, she reminded herself sternly, that might serve the Federation well in the negotiations to come.

If they came, she reminded herself, turning her attention back to the remainder of the bridge staff.

As was Picard. Glancing over the bridge crew, he noted their actions, then settled in at his chair, looking over the display there as well - and noting the absence of all but a few tell-tale lights.

More than ninety percent of the ship's functions were still off-line, he reminded himself; they had what they needed to survive - until the Breen arrived.

After that...

Picard chased the thought from his mind, not allowing himself to dwell on the possibility; a captain, he reminded himself, needs to focus on the issue at hand - and not clutter his thoughts with mental dalliances on 'what-ifs' and 'what-might-be's. The reality of what their captors were capable of would be made real soon enough - if they didn't get out of here.

But they would, he knew equally well.

Rising from his chair, he stepped toward the helm position, glancing over the board there, then raising his eyes to Jay Tillerman, inclining his head fractionally to gesture the man away from the board - and from the possibility of being overheard.

"Report," he said quietly.

"Nothing," Jay admitted. "I've got your helmsman searching on the same wavelengths that we've used to locate the Breen during the war..."

"Which was two years ago, Jay; the Breen might have changed the resonant frequencies..."

Tillerman gave the shorter man a caustic glare. "I'm aware of that, Johnny. But it's the one thing we knew about them - and that makes it the best place to start. As soon as we've made a complete pattern analysis, we need to move on to the next frequency. But which one that is, I don't know," he added.

"I'll have Cmdr. Data create a more comprehensive search pattern," Picard replied - then looked up at his friend. "No insult to your efforts intended," he added.

Tillerman smiled back. "None taken, Johnny... Jean-Luc," he amended. "If it takes your android's brain to save our asses, then I'm all for it."

"It may," Picard replied, his voice dropping even lower. "Inertial dampeners are still off line, Jay; we're going to have to ramp up speed from thrusters to impulse - and Data is the only one aboard capable of making the calculations for speed and vector without killing us in the process."

Jay's eyes widened slightly at the news - then narrowed again. "That's going to slow us down, Jean-Luc."

"Perhaps," Picard agreed reluctantly, "but I'm gambling on the possibility that the Breen won't come any further into Federation space than they have to - and if we're on a return course when they detect us, I'm hoping they won't pursue. We may not know much about them - but what we do know indicates they won't risk a war - at least, not over something as insignificant as capturing this ship," he added.

Tillerman shook his head. "I don't know that I'd bet on that one, Johnny; if you're right, they've already gone to a lot of effort to capture her. They might not stop just because of a few million kilometers."

Picard nodded, knowing the man was speaking the truth - but if a million kilometers wasn't enough, perhaps a million and a half would be. Every second that they had to distance themselves from the Breen was just one more chance in their favor.

And every second they lost...

Picard touched his comm badge. "Cmdr. Data," he said. "Repair status."

"Impulse engines initialized, Captain," the android replied.

"Good. Turn control of the engines over to Cmdr. La Forge, then report to the bridge." He tapped his badge again, then said, "Picard to Crusher."

"Crusher here."

"Medical status?"

"Geordi's team is just completing the construction of a shock-proof chamber..."

"Chamber?" Picard replied.

"Yes, sir. Aside from Ambassador Zumell, we have nine crewmen from low-gravity planets. With inertial dampeners down, they're at a higher risk for injury than the balance of the crew. The chambers should insulate them from any excessive forces; they should be safe through acceleration up to three g. Beyond that though..." Her voice trailed off.

"Beyond that, we're all at risk, Captain," she said.

"Suggestions?" he asked.

"For the balance of the crew I've assigned triage teams throughout the ship; if we exceed structural integrity limits and sustain internal damage, at least we won't have to lose time by having the med teams climb through the decks and Jeffries tubes to get to the injured; injuries can be handled on site. A team should be reporting to the bridge any moment," she added.

And, Picard thought, it would increase the chance that at least a few of the medical crew would survive, intact - or, at least, not badly injured - the upcoming move.

Good planning, he thought - if somewhat pessimistic, he added.

Even as the idea registered, he heard the life doors opening, and turned to watch as two medical techs stepped onto the bridge, each carrying a med kit - invariably likely stocked with every medication and piece of equipment that Beverly would have deemed appropriate for the bridge crew.

Not for the first time, and, he added gruffly, hopefully not for the last time, he appreciated the wisdom and foresight of his CMO.

"Good thinking, Doctor," he said with gruff approval. "Have Tar Zumell and the others report to Sickbay immediately," he added softly.

There was a hesitation before Beverly replied as she realized what he was saying - and what he wasn't: they were getting ready to move - maybe to get out of here - but also that they were still at risk. "Yes, sir," she said, her voice still carefully neutral. "Sir, how long until Lt Andile and Lt. Chawla are finished? They've been EVA longer than recommended..."

Meaning Lt. Andile had been out too long, Picard translated instantly.

_Lieutenant?_

_Five minutes_, she replied hurriedly, her thoughts ragged, rough, the polished smoothness of their earlier contact gone from them as she fought to maintain control over the building pain in her hands and feet.

_Make it four_, he countered.

She nodded, her exhaustion washing over him - then adding as she pulled back the contact from his mind.

"They'll be in the airlock in five minutes," Picard replied.

"I'll be waiting for them," she replied.

"Waiting for who?" Tillerman interrupted.

Picard turned to the man, startled, having forgotten the tall New Texan was standing beside him. "I've an EV team installing a light array directly above the bridge, so we can establish two way communications with the shuttlecraft," he informed the ex-Starfleet officer. "It will be slower than voice communications, but we'll still be able to tell them what is happening. As soon as it's in place, we can move out of here."

Tillerman smiled. "Not going to leave your pilots behind, eh?" he said.

Picard shook his head. "No - but I'm not going to give up on the Breen either. We'll continue with sensor sweeps for as long as possible; when we report back to Starfleet Command, I want to be able to give them as much data on the Breen as possible."

"Good thinking, Jean-Luc," Tillerman replied - then glanced at the helm again. "But in that case, I better make sure we can count this frequency out," he said, pulling away from Picard and taking up his position in front of the helmsman, watching over the board as the man's hands continued to dance across the pads.

Picard looked over the bridge crew, studying the people there once again - then looked at the chronometer: five minutes, he thought.

Five minutes.

A part of him wanted to sigh with relief; after almost two days of sitting here, waiting, racing against the clock and against the Breen, having only five minutes left meant that their chances of making it out, alive and safe, were almost a certainty.

But not all of us survived, he reminded himself grimly; four of my people... He hesitated, reluctant to consider Sandra James, a traitor, a saboteur, one of his people. But she was, he reminded himself; her safety on this ship had been his responsibility - and had they found her out a little earlier, she - and the others - would still be alive - and the odds were that the ship would not be in the position it was now.

No; she was one of his - his responsibility, just as the others - and this mission - were his responsibility as well.

But if the saboteur was indeed working for Starfleet, they were facing that same responsibility - to make sure they succeeded in their mission.

At any cost, he added, thinking back on the four dead crewmen.

He looked over the bridge crew, studying each of them, wondering which one it could be... if any of them, he added. At this moment, the bridge would be the optimum place to be located - but there were other places on the ship where one could take control. Engineering, the battle bridge... Dear God, if it was someone clever enough, they could even rig a temporary command center from any location...

_Not any location_, Andile interrupted, her thoughts ragged and uneven... the mental equivalent, Picard realized, of talking through chattering teeth. _The damage to the interface..._

He nodded, understanding instantly - and not wanting her to waste her energy any further. _The damage to the interface means that someone would have had to integrate a makeshift system through the computer core - and that area had been under the strict supervision of Data_.

No, Picard thought, that was one possibility they could overrule. But the others...

He looked at Worf - then hesitated again.

It could be anyone, he reminded himself; bridge crew, Security, Engineering, medical teams... anyone! - and no way for him to know who to trust.

Except those he had always trusted.

Picard turned, stepping up to the Security board where Worf stood and carefully lowered his voice. "Mr. Worf, I need a Security detail to report to Engineering. It is possible that someone might attempt to take control of the ship from that position."

Worf's eyes widened in understanding - and anger - then carefully narrowed again. "I will have a team report..."

Picard shook his head. "No. I want _you_ - and a team of people you can trust - to see to it."

Worf nodded grimly - but hesitated. "It is possible than an attempt may be made from the battle bridge as well..."

"When you reach Engineering, have Data report to the battle bridge," Picard replied.

"I'll have a team meet him there," the Security chief said, only to stop as Picard gave a tight shake of his head.

"The more people that know the plan, the greater the risk," he countered. "Have Data lock out the doors - and have him change the environmental settings," he added.

Worf's brows raised in appreciation of the idea. "Adding anaesthezene gas..."

"Anything - but he must not tell us what he's done," he added. "If we don't know, we can't reveal the information."

Worf nodded. "The saboteur has no honor," he announced gruffly - but quietly.

"No, he doesn't, " Picard agreed. "He was willing to kill four of the crew; I have no doubt he would hesitate to torture us as well."

The Security Chief considered the idea for a moment. "Sir, if Cmdr. Data uses the environmental systems to protect himself..."

"Then the saboteur could use them against us," Picard concurred, nodding.

"As soon as my teams are in place, I..."

"Stay with your team," Picard interrupted. "I'll have Cmdr. Riker cover Environmental as soon as he reports back from his meeting with Ambassador Tiron," he added, silently wondering what was holding up his first officer. He had said Tiron wanted to meet with him...

A fleeting suspicion passed through his mind - but Tiron had had ample opportunity to sabotage the ship before now; to wait until this last moment...?

He shook the idea off, met Worf's eyes once again - then glanced at the door.

Taking the cue, Worf nodded, and stepped toward the door. He would call his select team as soon as he was free from the open space of the bridge, where no one could hear or monitor his communications - and sabotage their escape.

Picard followed the man with his eyes, then turned back to the bridge - and the chronometer.

Two minutes left.

_Lieutenant?_

_Done. I'm sending in Sunil; I'll follow as soon as I run the diagnostics..._

_No time. We'll have to trust that your work meets its usual standards_, he added.

_Yes, sir. Damn!_ she added a moment later.

_What?_

_Sunil's already inside. It'll take a minute for the airlock to recycle..._

_Two minutes, Lieutenant_, he said sharply. _I can't wait any longer_.

There was a soft laugh in Andile's thoughts. _Don't worry about me, sir. The boots on e-suits have magnetic soles_, she reminded him.

_But every magnet has its limits_, he countered.

_Yes, sir_, she replied, every hint of levity gone from her voice. _I'll get in - but don't wait for me_, she added.

Picard hesitated for a moment, then closed his eyes solemnly. _I won't_, he thought. _I can't_.

_I know_, she replied solemnly. _Do what you have to do_.

He felt the mental connection break - and for a moment, was threatened by the sense of loss at the dissolution of their contact. It had been so close, so intense, so... intimate...

Too intimate, he chided himself; he had to focus on his work.

One minute.

"Data to Picard."

"Go ahead, Data," he replied.

"I am... in position," the android replied vaguely.

Picard nodded. "Good. I will transfer control in approximately one minute. Be prepared to lock out bridge controls," he said.

"Understood, Captain," the android replied, his tone flat and unemotional.

A wise decision, Picard decided, wishing he, too, had the option of turning his emotions on and off as suited his needs. Instead, he had to settle for reigning them in, controlling them tightly lest they interfere with his work... and his life.

Not the time for such a digression, he chided himself as he glanced at the chronometer. One minute left.

Time, he thought. We go now - or we risk never going.

He stabbed a finger at the communications button on the Security board. "Picard to all crew. Now hear this. We are about to initialize impulse engines. Ship's inertial dampeners are off-line; we may be subject to unannounced or unexpected movements, possible severe. All crew are to brace themselves for unexpected movements."

He glanced at the chronometer, then looked at Deanna. "Counselor, notify the shuttlecraft that we are about to engage impulse engines; have them..."

Later, Picard would try to make sense of what happened in that split second: the flash of light from the helm position, the helmsman's body collapsing to the floor, the second flash of light that enveloped Deanna, knocking her down as well, the sight of Jay Tillerman slamming a hand onto the helm control, the sudden impact of a hundreds of pounds of weight crushing into him, knocking him back, slamming him into the science station, the sounds of bones crunching at the impact.

He would have groaned as he fell to the floor - but the weight on his chest was too much to permit him anything more than the ability to breathe - and that was granted only grudgingly, as he fought to draw in a breath to replace the one that was being squeezed out of him.

And he was not alone; managing to lift his head, he saw the others on the bridge reduced to the same condition.

His head fell back, locked into place against the floor of the bridge by the immense pressure, his eyes locked straight ahead - and watched as Jay Tillerman, his muscles bulging with effort, strained to pull himself into the helmsman's chair.

A flare of hope surged through him; Jay, born and raised in the higher gravity of New Texas, had been able to fight off the effect of the sudden surge of force - and that somehow, that added strength might be what was needed to save the ship, to save them all, Picard thought as he watched the man's hands cross the control panel...

To do what? he wondered, his mind trying to analyze what Jay was doing - and what had gone wrong. An accident? A failure in the gravity controls? Had the saboteur somehow managed to get control of the ship?

No, Picard thought; the bridge had been secured; Worf was in Engineering, Data on the battle bridge... they were just about to transfer control to Data...

Gods, it was getting hard to think - and harder to see, Picard realized; the pressure must be affecting the flow of blood to my brain... I'm blacking out... Jay, you're going to have to hurry...

He fought the incredible weight pressing him into the deck, lifting his head to try to speak to his old friend... No, not friend, he reminded himself wearily. Just roommate.

Never friends.

Why not? he asked himself, trying to remember what precisely had happened all those years ago.

They should have been friends; Jay was everything Picard had thought a friend should be - personable, outgoing, intelligent, capable...

Picard would have given a soft laugh if he could have breathed. Not that it was funny, he knew; Jay had almost gotten thrown out of the Academy because of what he had done - and gotten Picard expelled as well.

Jay had been _too_ intelligent, _too_ capable... He had found a way to access the Academy computer files, changing his own records, downloading upcoming tests, and reprogrammed them to cover his tracks - and he would have gotten away with it, except for...

He had reprogrammed the Academy computers, Picard realized with a start.

He had reprogrammed the computers.

"Jay!" he grunted, fighting against the terrible pressure and his own decreasing vision and consciousness. "You..."

As he watched, Tillerman touched a control on the console - and the unbearable pressure that held him in place suddenly relented.

He gasped, dragging in a breath - and watched as Jay turned in his chair, affixing Picard with a hard stare.

"Yes, me," he agreed - then smiled coldly. "You know, you always were a little slow, Johnny."


	110. Chapter 110

**Chapter 110**

Picard pushed himself up from the deck, a searing pain tearing through his back, the memory of the sound of bones crushing as he had been smashed into the science station echoing in his mind.

Something had broken, a part of him realized - a hip, a vertebrae, maybe a rib - while another part reminded him that since he could still move, it wasn't critical.

Getting Jay subdued was.

In an instant, his mind filled with a thousand options, a thousand possibilities - but just as quickly, he cleared them away as he dismissed some, categorized the rest, prioritized them - and came to as many decisions as he could - for the moment.

For the moment, they had to find a way of immobilizing Jay, of blocking his plans to... to what? Picard wondered. Surrender them to the Breen? Or was Jay working for someone else?

He shook his head; that was a worry for another moment. For now, whatever Jay's plans, whoever his superiors were, they needed to block his actions - and get the hell out of here! he added.

But whatever those actions would be, he realized, they were not going to originate on the bridge. What few of the crew weren't lying injured - or worse - on the deck were already under the watchful eyes and the equally vigilant point of the microphaser he held in his hand.

But Tillerman was only here, he reminded himself; he couldn't oversee what was happening elsewhere on the ship - and Data had already been sent to the battle bridge, in case this very thing happened. All he had to do, Picard thought, was buy enough time for Data to transfer command to the battle bridge and initiate the impulse engines again.

But how long that would take, Picard couldn't guess; while he had no concerns about the android's safety, that didn't mean the ship had tolerated the change in movement as well as Data had. There could be internal damage to the vessel, the engines could have been damaged, or life support, or any of a thousand other systems could have failed during those tumultuous moments.

No, getting the ship under his control and ready to move might take a little time, Picard told himself - but he could buy that time for his second officer.

Pushing himself up from the deck, Picard gave a slight groan, drawing Tillerman's attention.

"Don't move, Johnny," he said, gesturing him back to the deck with the phaser - then stepped to the first body, pulled away the phaser at the man's side, replacing his own microphaser with the larger weapon, then moved to the next crewman. This phaser was tossed to one side, out of reach of anyone except the New Texan - then was quickly followed by the next person's sidearm. Within a few moments, the bridge crew was disarmed - with Picard being the last to surrender his phaser.

"Okay; you can get up now - but slow," Tillerman added, his weapon trained on Picard.

Pushing himself to a seated position, ignoring the searing pain in his back, he met Tillerman's eyes - and plaintively asked, "Why, Jay?"

" 'Why?' " Tillerman echoed, the disappointment obvious in his expression. "Why?" he repeated, then shook his head sadly. "You know, I _knew_ that was going to be the first thing you said. Not only are you slow - but you're so predictable, Johnny," he repeated. "Some things never change - and you're one of them. You're still doing what you did fifty years ago - and what you've always done throughout your career. I thought that the captain of the flagship of the Federation would have been a little more creative, a little more inventive - but creativity never has been one of Starfleet's desired attributes, has it?" he asked the man. "Look where it got me," he added, the bitterness in his voice impossible to miss. "Fortunately, the Federation appreciates people like me, even if Starfleet doesn't have much place for us.

"I will admit, however, that you had me going for a while," Tillerman conceded. "Despite your record and your personality profile, I thought you had changed - I thought you were going to give me a real run for my money. Changing the interfaces, rewriting the circuits..." He shook his head, seemingly impressed. "You almost beat me, Johnny," he admitted, "but *almost* only counts in horseshoes and photon torpedoes. I knew you couldn't stay ahead of me forever; you're too predictable, too much a creature of habit - and when the shit really hit the fan, I knew you'd turn back to the man you were."

"And when things got bad, I knew you'd fall back on your weakest point."

He smiled. "Ironically - and I do love irony, Johnny; there I was, fifty years ago, doing everything I could to get my own ship - and you fall into your own command, straight from being a second officer - and now, here I am, in charge of your ship, taking it right out from under your nose - and there's not a damned thing you can do about it! Ironically," he began again, "what led to your downfall - the weakness that was your undoing - was the same thing you've always considered your strongest point: your faith in the people you know.

"And you thought you knew me," he added with an incredulous shake of his head. "You really believed that when all is said and done, that I would put the good of Starfleet above my personal needs - and come through for you. For old times' sake. For friendship. For Starfleet.

"Down!" he snapped, pivoting on his toes to point the microphaser at the lieutenant who had be sitting at the navigator's console moments before, and was now was trying to get to her feet.

"Ensign Brevira..." she began, pointing at the helmsman.

"Is dead," Tillerman snapped back. "Move again - and you'll join him."

"Stay where you are, Lieutenant," Picard informed the woman - then looked at the few others who seemed capable of moving. "That goes for all of you. Take no action," he ordered them all - then let his eyes drift back to the sight of the fallen helmsman, watching the young man carefully, hoping - praying! - to seem some slight movement of his chest rising or falling... and seeing nothing.

Grief surged through Picard's soul, quickly replaced with rage... and equally quickly replaced with reason. Tillerman had shown them that he would kill without hesitation - or impunity, he added, looking at Deanna's fallen body, still, unmoving, the grief welling up in him once again.

He turned his eyes back to Tillerman. "Jay, I have two medical techs up here; let them treat the wounded," he said, adding, "you've got their weapons; they can't do anything to harm you."

Tillerman considered the idea, then let his eyes roam the bridge, seeking out the two blue-coated technicians - and nodded. "Nothing stupid," he cautioned them both. "I don't want to kill anyone else - but I will do what I have to."

Interesting, Picard thought to himself; considering the position he was in - with Jay only a few feet away from him, his phaser pointed at his chest, he had half expected Jay to make a threat of killing him if anyone got out of line - and yet he hadn't.

In other circumstances - or from another man - he might have seen that omission as a weakness, an opening he could exploit: that their previous acquaintanceship meant something significant to him - but after Jay's last statement, he knew that wasn't the case.

No, he thought, there was something more behind what Jay was saying - and what he wasn't.

He didn't threaten me, Picard thought, because he couldn't. He needs me - or perhaps, he realized, the Breen - if it was the Breen behind this - need me, alive and intact - and even Jay, for all his bluster, didn't dare risk that.

He catalogued the fact, putting it away for future reference - along with the fact that Jay did have to answer to someone - someone, Picard added, that he wasn't ready or willing to face down.

Facts, he thought to himself, information. The more I can learn from Jay, the more I can use against him if - no, damn it, when! - the time came. And in the meantime...

And in the meantime, he could buy them time.

"The man I was?" Picard asked with seemingly genuine curiosity.

"What?" Tillerman replied, startled by the unexpected question, turning to face Picard again.

"You said you knew I'd revert to being the man I was," he repeated quietly.

Tillerman studied the man for a moment - then smiled coldly. "The man you were - the man who, when things gets tough - does the predictable thing - he trusts those closest to him. I knew that was what you would do - and I knew, that if I was there, that would mean me. I just had to make sure I was in the right place at the right time."

"Right place - for what?" Picard replied. "To betray us to the Breen?"

Tillerman frowned disappointedly. "It's not betrayal, Johnny; I'm acting under orders."

"Orders... from the Federation?"

Tillerman's eyes widened in surprise - then he smiled condescendingly. "Maybe you're not quite as slow as I remembered. Yes, from the Federation. An exchange - this ship and her crew..."

"In exchange for the Breen exiting the Dominion War," Picard concluded.

The surprise was clearly evident in Jay's eyes this time. "Very good! I'm impressed, Johnny; really, I am! I didn't think you'd put it together... No one else has," he added.

Picard studied the man before him, then shook his head. "No. They wouldn't have. The Federation leaked enough hints and suggestion about the reasons behind the Breen's departure that everyone was content in guessing; no one really needed - or wanted - to learn the answers. They were simply satisfied that they had left - and the balance of power had changed. But that leaves my question, Jay: why? Why should the Breen leave the war? In exchange for what? The ship? There was no need for all this! The Federation could simply have given them the technology..."

He fell silent as Tillerman began to shake his head. "It's not the ship, Johnny. You don't understand... Hell, _we_ didn't understand it, either - not for a long time. The Breen don't give a good goddamn about our technology - they've got all they want and all they need - and there so far ahead of us they could find a way to get whatever they want without having to pay an iota of attention to us ever. No, it's not the ship... it's you."

Picard started, ignoring the sharp pain that stabbed through his back as he straightened.

Tillerman smirked. "Such an ego, Johnny. If you realized how pathetic you are...No, it's not _you_, Johnny - or rather, yes, it's you - but not for the reasons you think. The Breen are..." He hesitated, mulling over the words in his mind. "I think the best word for it is psychologists; the Breen are a race of scientists, specializing in the psychology of the species around them. They want to understand what we think, how we think, how we act and react... The entered the war not because they cared about who won or lost - they are so advanced that they stopped having to worry about battles over political domination and power struggles millennia ago - but because they wanted to watch how we respond to war. They studied us - all of us - the Cardassians, the Dominion, the Jem'Hadar, the Klingons - and watched how we acted.

"And," he added, a hint of pride and deviousness coming to his face, "how we reacted. And how we reacted, Jean-Luc, was not how they expected. They expected us to fight them. And we did. But we also did something else, something they hadn't expected..."

"You sued for peace," Picard interrupted.

Tillerman snorted. "Nothing so elegant, Johnny. We were past elegance; we were desperate. We were losing the war. So we went to them - and negotiated. Whatever they wanted, in exchange for them leaving the Dominion." He forced a smile. "We were losing, Johnny - but the Dominion was losing as well. If the war didn't end soon, neither of us would have been the victors; we both would have lost - and this would be a Klingon ship now. Or a Romulan one," he conceded with a shrug. "They were the only two governments that looked as if they had a chance of surviving with any numbers - and if they did, they'd be on each other like two hyenas. We'd be at war - again. And this time, no one would survive. We'd be where we were ten thousand years ago.

"That was fine with the Breen," he continued. "They would have found that study as interesting as any other - but to watch mankind evolve again... well, they'd done that once before," he conceded, "just as they'd watched every other space-borne culture develop. They knew what would happen, the steps we'd have to make if we were to develop space craft - just as they knew the steps we'd make if we never returned to space. They've seen it all before... but they'd never seen what happens if war _didn't_ fracture us.

"They were fascinated by the idea," Tillerman admitted, his own voice, seemingly as surprised as the Federation representatives must have been, perhaps even as the Breen had been, Picard thought. "To watch cultures evolve beyond what they had been, to take the next step... It fascinated them, Johnny. To watch evolution in progress..."

"But why this ship?" Picard pressed the man.

Tillerman shook his head. "You're not listening, Johnny. I told you - it's not the ship. It's this crew."

Picard shook his own head in response. "But they're not even the regular crew..."

"No," Tillerman replied with a smile. "They're not, are they? Interesting, isn't it? The Federation has the most important mission in the history of the Federation - and they send you into it with a hodge-podge crew, cobbled together from all over the quadrant, seemingly brought in to fill vacant posts... And you didn't put it together." He shook his head, almost pityingly.

"You could have, Johnny," he added ominously - then gave a cold smile. "In fact, you should have - if you were just a bit better as a captain... and if you hadn't been so wrapped up in your own problems. You know, Johnny, if you ever sat down with your people, talked with them, _listened_ to them, you might hear more than you think. You see, everyone assigned to this ship has a unique little story to tell. A death in the family. A sudden illness to a close relative. A devastating love affair. A personal betrayal. A professional one," he added, looking at Picard knowingly. "You know, Johnny, if you listened to them, you might have begun to realize that virtually everyone who was transferred just in time for this mission has some personal history - a recent personal history - that they're trying to work through.

"And that, Jean-Luc, is what we're delivering to the Breen. Not the ship - but the people. Oh, not all of them," he added, "some of your crew were simply caught up in the hurry to get the ship launched. I'm sorry about that - but it's a sacrifice the Federation was willing to make. But they're superfluous; they're not what the Breen wanted."

"But why, Jay?" Picard pressed again. "Why them?"

"Call it... an experiment," Tillerman replied. "You see, while the war had provided them with a good number of subjects to study, most of the subjects they had were warriors - and the mindset of a warrior is, apparently, not indicative of the psychological makeup of a population as a whole. What they wanted were additional subjects that they could study - subjects who have been placed under a variety of stressors, so that they could explore the gamut of human emotions - and their reactions. They want to learn about us so that they can finally understand what makes humans what they are," he explained.

Want to learn, Picard asked himself - or need to learn? What were the Breen going to do with this information?! Start another war - one they could win - or did they have something even more insidious in their plans for humanity?

And if they did, then the Federation was playing directly into their hands!

One way or the other, Picard resolved, he could not let his people fall into the hands of the Breen. Even if it meant destroying his own ship...

But setting the autodestruct mechanism was something he couldn't do from where he was - not with Jay standing directly in front of him - and with a phaser pointing at him.

Admittedly, it could be set from two other locations on the ship - Engineering and the battle bridge - but neither of them knew what he wanted done.

If it came to that, he added, hoping - perhaps against all reason - that somehow, someone would find a solution.

And that meant time, he reminded himself.

Picard affixed Tillerman with an appalled look. "But how did the Federation find so many people with such different concerns?" he asked.

Tillerman drew in a laugh. "_Find_ them? You think we just somehow managed to _find _ five hundred crewmen, who were starship qualified - and just happened to have some tremendous change in their personal lives - all in the right moment of time?! Oh, Johnny, you are so innocent," he said derisively.

"The Federation didn't _find_ people in those positions - we _put_ them there! Oh, yes, some were coincidentally placed - your adventures with the Sona'a and the Ba'ku and your personally debacle with that woman - that was pure serendipity - but Riker's 'demotion' from the captain's list..."

Picard's eyes widened in astonishment; Will? Removed from the captain's list? Suddenly the man's actions - and the terrible pain he must have been carrying for the last few weeks - sank in - as did an overwhelming sense of failure.

I didn't realize, he thought to himself. Will is my friend as well as my first officer - and I didn't realize.

"... miscarriage, the deaths of Lt. Rowen's parents..."

Stunned, sickened, Picard continued to stare at Tillerman as the litany of horrors continued, rolling off the man's lips with a practiced eased that disgusted the captain.

The Federation did this? To its own people? Not just once - but five hundred times?

"... murder of her brother... it goes on," Tillerman was continuing. "The Breen wanted to see as many reactions to the 'human experiences' as they could find."

"You've destroyed five hundred lives - sacrificed fifteen hundred - just so an alien race can study us?" Picard seethed, interrupting Tillerman in mid-recitation.

"Fifteen hundred - to save fifteen billion?" Tillerman scoffed. "To end a war we were losing?! Of course the Federation agreed to it! Tell me you wouldn't have done it in the same circumstances."

"I wouldn't have done it," Picard countered immediately. "I have too much respect for life..."

"Respect for life? Tell me, Johnny, if you respect life so much, how many people have you killed?" Tillerman replied instantly. "Not just as Locutus - I'm not counting about the ten thousand people who died because you allowed yourself to be taken and used by the Borg - but how many others? How many Sona'a died by your command? How many Romulans? How many Cardassians? How many died at your hand - and how many more at your order?"

"The circumstances were different..."

Tillerman snorted derisively. "Of course it was different; it's _always_ different when _you're_ the one giving the order. But you can rationalize it in your own mind because it served the ends you needed served. Well, these ends serve the needs of the Federation - and all her people. It's fifteen hundred lives lost, Jean-Luc - but it's fifteen billion... no it's a hundred billion... who survive. Not just the Federation - but everyone of every race who didn't die, and won't have to worry about dying, because the war that would have killed them is over," he reminded the captain.

"That doesn't justify what you're doing!" Picard protested. "Risking lives - my own, those of my crew - and those of the people against whom we fought... You're right - I gave those orders - because I had to! But I never wanted those people to die! What sane person would?

"But we all knew what was at risk when we joined the service," he reminded the man, "both on their side and ours; in war and in peace, lives are always at risk - and sometimes, lives are lost. But not like this, Jay! This isn't a battle, this isn't duty - this is nothing more than the sale of a thousand souls!"

"Yes," Tillerman agreed soberly. "That was the cost of saving the balance of lives in the Federation. The Federation felt it was a price it could pay; unhappily, perhaps - and certainly not publicly, but one that, in the end, meant the survival of the Federation."

A groan of metal-on-metal creaked through the ship, followed by the sound of metal shearing free, startling the two men.

Tillerman's eyes widened; without lowering the phaser in his hand, he glanced behind him at the helm control - then turned back, his eyes bright, a smile on his face. "Perhaps the study isn't going to be as complete as the Breen would have liked. Someone - one of your brave and loyal crew," he added with a cold laugh, "just stole the captain's yacht, Johnny. A quick escape - and I suspect it would have been more - except you launched your escape pods to form a sensor net. "

His eyes widened slightly. "I have to give you credit for that, Johnny. Using the pods to form a net was something neither the Federation or the Breen would have anticipated. Not only would you have increased you sensor range - but the configuration would have been so different that the Breen would never have approached Federation space. You were right there too; the Breen are a rather reclusive race; they would rather not have anyone find out they'd been in Federation space. It was hard enough trying to convince them to come in to the intended rendezvous point; when the ship stopped so much deeper in Federation space, they were ready to abandon the plan. It took me a long time to convince them they had to act now - that it might be a long time before we could maneuver a ship into the right area at the right time."

"You've been talking with them?" he asked, stunned.

Tillerman nodded. "Of course. I admit I wasn't sure exactly where we were - but your ensign was more than cooperative in providing our exact location," he added with a smirk.

Picard's eyes widened as understanding sank in. The young ensign he had found in Jay's quarters hadn't been suffering from a synthehol overdose as he had suspected.

"You drugged her!" he hissed angrily.

"A little solamine in her wine glass," Tillerman conceded. "Not enough to harm her, certainly not enough for her to realize that anything untoward had happened - but enough to let her share a little knowledge with the captain's old - and trusted - friend." He gave a low, cold laugh that chilled Picard to the bone.

Deanna was right, he thought, stealing a glance at the fallen Betazoid, watching her body for a sign she was still alive; whoever had been Sandra James' superior in this mission had been a master of manipulating people, getting what he wanted out of them - but not letting them act against their normal behavior. No wonder Deanna hadn't been able to detect anything abnormal in the hundreds she had interviewed - there was nothing abnormal to find! They had been acting as they normally did, conforming to their norms and morés without thinking anything of it - only to have their actions used against them.

By a master, he added, seeing at once how Jay had used him as well, first by conforming to the old memories he had had of his roommate - and then by fitting himself into a convenient, but not too convenient, place in Picard's current world - until he had maneuvered himself onto the bridge - and to the precise spot he needed to be.

That explained Jay's place here - but the mission, their real reason for having come out here was another matter entirely... Wasn't it?

"And the dissolution of the Council?" he asked. "All pretense?"

Tillerman shrugged. "Irony again, Johnny. The reason for this mission is completely legitimate. There was a problem at the last meeting of the Council - and this was the solution proposed. And had you managed to somehow succeed in getting there, then I suspect a solution would have been found."

"But if we didn't make it, Jay? What then? You would have sold the future of the Federation - only to lose it when the Council broke apart," he chided the tall human.

But Tillerman only shook his head, still smiling. "Hardly. Once the ship is found to have gone missing, an investigation will be launched - and the remains of the ship will be found. Destroyed, sadly. All hands lost. And in our grief, all of our races will band together, not wanting to waste the noble efforts our people made; indeed, where the negotiations we may have had had the chance for failure, your deaths will motivate the next round of delegates to succeed." He smiled. "We _do_ know what we're doing, Jean-Luc," he added condescendingly.

"Which," he added with a glance at the chronometer, "is going to be very little for the next few minutes. Not only were we not in position when we stopped - but your sensor net trick threw the Breen ship for a loop; when they realized we weren't in place on time, then went looking - but all they found was this amorphous sphere. Not the signature they wanted - so they passed us by.

"When I realized they had missed the new rendezvous, I realized what had happened - and that's when I agreed to help you search."

"The frequency you insisted we used..." Picard began.

"I wasn't the one who insisted we use it, Johnny; you did," he reminded the captain, the ever-present smile widening. "I couldn't risk sending a message directly to them..."

"So you manipulated me into using the frequency," Picard realized, appalled at how easily Jay had maneuvered him into doing what he wanted, "then varied the signal strength and direction, claiming you were adjusting the search pattern," Picard replied.

"And in any other case, that would be exactly what I was doing - but knowing where the Breen were, they would have perceived it as directional information - a homing beacon, if you will, so that they can find us," Tillerman agreed.

"And now?"

"And now, Johnny, we wait."


	111. Chapter 111

**Chapter 111**

"Imzadi!"

Will Riker screamed the name, aloud and in his thoughts, desperately seeking the presence that he had only-so-recently allowed back in his thoughts...

...and now it - now _she_ was gone.

Gone.

For a moment, his thoughts were empty; the idea of Deanna being gone - gone! - from his life was impossible to even to conceive of - and the implication of what the silence meant...

She wasn't dead! he told himself angrily. If she was dead... I would know it! he added emphatically.

But don't I know that? he wondered, heartsick; isn't that what it means when I can't hear her?

No, he insisted to himself, there had to be another reason, another explanation for why I can't hear her, why I can't feel her in my mind... Maybe she's hurt, unconscious...

But I can hear her when she's asleep, he thought; hell, I can even hear her when I'm asleep! he added, remembering the omnipresent touch of her thoughts in his, the gentle fingers of her mind entwisted in his own, never intrusive, never controlling or manipulating, just always a reminder of her presence in his life, their life, together...

He fell silent for a moment, the fleeting thought registering in his conscious mind.

Our life is together, he reminded himself, forcing a calm he did not feel onto his roiling emotions; if Deanna were gone, if my Imzadi had died, I would know, he decided quietly. It would be... different.

No, he insisted - calmly - to himself; she wasn't dead. There had to be another explanation for why she was suddenly gone his thoughts, why he couldn't feel her in his mind...

Will took a deep breath, understanding in an instant why Jean-Luc Picard had never allowed himself the indulgence of a meaningful relationship since he had taken the post as captain - and felt a surge of pity for the man.

What he had given up for his career... Will shook his head. It wasn't worth it, he knew. Starfleet had been important to him, yes; it had given him a path at a time he had needed one, given him a career, even a life... but it was love, Deanna's love, that had given that life meaning.

And Jean-Luc had chosen the former, forsaking the latter - and thought it would be enough.

No, he corrected himself, finally catching both his breath and his churning emotions, pushing himself up from the corridor wall where he had been thrown, pinned down against the juncture of the deck and wall under three times his own weight, the captain had not given it all up - only some of it; he still had the loyalty of his crew as a reward - and the love and friendship of those closest to him.

It wasn't the same - but for Picard, Will added, it might have been enough.

I owe those same people a loyalty as well - and a greater one I owe the captain, Will reminded himself. Taking his first stumbling steps down the hall, his brain and body trying to re-establish the equilibrium that had been lost when...

When what? Will asked himself, his mind turning from grief and worry to simply worry - about his ship, his crewmates - and the mission.

The ship had moved - that much was obvious - and equally obvious was the fact that it hadn't been at the captain's command, he added, knowing Picard would not have put so many lives at risk by engaging the engines without warning...

Unless he had had to, Will added.

Perhaps the Breen had shown up prematurely, Will thought - then dismissed the idea. Even with the limited sensor range granted by the shuttlecraft and the escape pods, the captain would have had enough notice to issue a warning to the crew to brace themselves.

Or perhaps he had, Will added, reminding himself that communications were still, at best, erratic - and that his badge had failed.

He tapped the insignia. "Riker to the bridge."

Nothing.

Then communications had failed... maybe.

"Riker to LaForge," he tried again.

"Commander!" Geordi's worried - and relieved - voice broke in, tainted by the crackle of static - or a failing circuit. "What the hell happened? We didn't get any warning! I've got dozens injured down here - a couple are really bad! DiGioia fell from the catwalk..." he began to catalog, only to be cut off by Will.

"Can you reach Sickbay?" he asked.

"No," Geordi replied, his thoughts instantly downgrading the problems, crystallizing instead on the possible solutions at hand. "Communications to half of the ship are down; we can't reach the bridge, Sickbay, computer core..."

"Send someone to Sickbay to get help," Will replied.

"And the bridge...?" Geordi began.

Will drew in another deep breath of air, forcing calm on his thoughts again. "No," he said - but didn't elaborate.

"Commander," Geordi began beseechingly.

"Geordi, I don't think anyone got a warning that the ship was about to move."

There was a brief, troubled silence. "You think the saboteur has control of the bridge?" Geordi finally asked.

Will shook his head - then stopped, instantly regretting the move as a wave of nausea gripped him. Bad idea, he thought, then gingerly he reached up to touch the spot where the bones had been so recently fractured - but felt nothing aside for a slight tenderness. At least my head's intact, he thought to himself, quickly checking for all the other signs and symptoms Beverly had warned against - and found himself suffering from nothing more than a set of nasty bruises and bumps.

"I don't have any idea what's happened on the bridge, if anything, Geordi - but until we can find out, I don't want to risk placing someone else in danger." He hesitated, collecting his thoughts, then continued speaking as he continued walking toward the lift to the Engineering levels.

"The ship did move, correct?" he asked.

"If you're thinking we might have been hit by something," Geordi replied, understanding the first officer's unsaid idea, "then the answer is no. According to my read-out... Luisa, check that display... The main bridge helm control, right?... the order came directly... someone get a first aid kit and help Amkito... the order came directly from the main bridge helm control, Commander," he finally concluded.

Will grinned as he heard Geordi slip back into his 'engineer' mode, envisioning the man as he moved from display to display to confirm what he was reporting while simultaneously directing his staff as he saw necessary.

"And you never got a warning to brace for movement?" Will pressed.

"No, sir; we heard the initial warning and everyone was getting to a safe location - then bam! We're slammed against the decks!" he said.

Will hesitated. "And when we stopped? Any sensor records of weapons fire? Phasers, disruptors...?"

Riker could hear Geordi hesitate as he tried to follow the first officer's reasoning - then could almost sense the engineer's nod as he understood. "You think the captain gave the order to move because he saw the Breen - and we stopped because we were being attacked?" he said.

Will smiled - but didn't bother to answer as Geordi continued.

"No, sir - though we lost the external sensors as soon as we moved. Internal sensors don't show any EM changes, aside from those related to the movement itself... No, wait... Commander," Geordi added, his voice growing quiet, worried, "I'm showing sensors traces of phasers having fired... on the bridge."

Will froze.

After a moment, he said, "Geordi, we have to assume that the saboteur is on the bridge. We've got to isolate controls, re-route them to Engineering..."

"Commander," a third voice interrupted, the deep bass and gruff tones the unmistakable sounds of Worf, "The captain ordered Cmdr. Data to reroute secondary command pathways to the battle bridge in the event of these circumstances. He felt that re-directing control to Engineering would pose the same risk of potential loss as it was on the bridge. Cmdr. Data has secured himself in position."

"Circuits haven't finished being rerouted, however," Geordi added. "At least as far as I can tell - and he can't enable the change in command until the paths are completed. Knowing how fast Data can work, the fact that he hasn't finished would indicate there's structural damage in some of the conduits leading to the battle bridge."

"You're going to have to help him, then, Geordi," Will advised.

"Commander, Data has flooded the battle bridge with a gaseous solution to prevent any attempts at gaining access to the bridge," Worf interrupted. "At the captain's suggestion, the type of gas was left Cmdr. Data's discretion..."

So no one could determine what it was - and thus, couldn't easily counteract it, Will realized; an idea which, in another situation, would have been irreproachable - but here, now...

"Can we communicate with him? Get him to purge the atmosphere?"

"No, sir; whether by coincidence or by intention, all command areas have had their communications links severed," Geordi answered.

Probably not by intention, Will thought, seeing as how he still had a functional communication badge - or at least, not all by intention, he added, suspecting that the bridge's loss of communication with them seemed a little more than a little fortuitous for the saboteur. "Then someone's going to have to go there and let him know we're trying to help him."

"I wouldn't recommend using the lifts until we've assessed them for structural integrity," Geordi said immediately. "Biji's re-design beefed up the supports and the locks to prevent any lift from falling - but that doesn't mean that the lifts can move. It doesn't take much to jar them out of alignment."

Will nodded to himself, glad Geordi had given him the warning now, just as he was about to enter one of the lifts - and not two seconds later, when he might find himself trapped and inaccessible, courtesy of a mangled lift guide.

He turned, hurrying to a nearby Jeffries tube. "Understood. What's your manpower status?"

"Good... Commander," Geordi interrupted himself, "four of Dr. Crusher's people just showed up."

Nice planning, Doctor, Will thought to himself, realizing that Beverly must have foreseen this very situation - and prepared for it. "Get them working on the injured, Geordi, and send teams out to start assessing structural damage. We need to find a way to the battle bridge - and if you can spare anyone, have them start checking the lift tubes for anyone who might be injured or trapped. Worf?" he added, knowing the Klingon would still be standing beside the engineer.

"Yes, Commander?"

"We need to re-establish communications - but I want to keep the bridge on communications silence. If there is a saboteur there, the less they know the better."

"Understood."

"I also want a team watching the computer core. Get a med team down there, treat any injuries - and get me a status report as soon as you can. I don't know what we've lost - if anything - but the more options I can have, the better."

"Including weapons?" Worf asked.

"Damned straight including weapons," Riker replied angrily. "I've had enough of being manipulated by some saboteur. If we have to fight our way out of here, then I'm going to be ready."

It would be easier to be ready, however, if he had an idea abou who he had to be ready for.

"Worf, who was on the bridge when you left?" he asked.

"The captain, the counselor, Ambassador Tillerman, Ensign Brevira, Lt. Kungjiwa..." Worf continued to recite names for a moment as Riker mentally checked them off.

"Anyone else?"

"No, sir," Worf replied.

"Okay; get working - and give me a sit rep as soon as you can."

Riker mulled over the list, running each name against a mental checklist. A few 'newbies', he thought to himself, a few 'regular' crew - but all of them had checked out with Deanna. Even Tillerman, Riker added, his intense dislike for the ex-Starfleet officer surging, had passed her scrutiny - though not without more than a few shudders of revulsion on Deanna's part, he remembered.

Deanna.

He closed his eyes, seeking out her mental touch - and felt a chill run up his spine when he realized, again, that she wasn't there - and reminded himself that it was possible she never would be there again.

No time for that now, he chided himself harshly - then shook his head. No, he thought, that was all there was time for, all that was now, and would ever be, important. Deanna - and the others.

His lover, his captain, his friends, his crewmates... and Jay Tillerman, he added, his dislike for the man growing.

But a man's sexual predilections and obnoxious behavior weren't enough reason to suspect him of sabotage - if they were, half the admirals in Starfleet would be spending their lives in the brig - but if it wasn't Tillerman or the crew, then who the hell was it? And how the hell did he - or she - get on the bridge?

We have to know what's happening up there, Will told himself; we have to learn who's in control, what the captain's doing... if he's doing anything, Will added as he glanced into one of the Jeffries tubes.

This deep in the ship, there had been little damage to the tube itself; the walls that lined the passage were still straight, with no obvious deformation to the alignment of the panels - but the occasional spray of sparks and the blue fingers of plasma discharges from behind those panels told a far different story.

And if it was this bad here in the bowels of the ship, where the vessel was most protected, what the devil was it like on the bridge?

Perhaps it wasn't sabotage, he considered. Perhaps there had been an accident, the ship moving to impulse through accident or a misconnected line somewhere - and under the incredible duress of the moment, someone had taken the only option they could think of to stop the ship - firing a phaser at the helm.

After all, they were armed...

But with brains as well as weapons, he reminded himself.

Destroying the helm control was not a sure solution to the problem, he realized - and no one with enough experience to serve on the bridge in a trying situation would have been so desperate to have tried it - unless every other option had been tried first.

Of course, they were under tremendous physical as well as mental stress; perhaps no one could actually reach the helm...

Ridiculous, Will decided; the helm was never left unmanned under such circumstances, except for the few seconds it took when one crewmember relieved another. For a circuit to have chosen that precise moment to fail... What did Beej say? Coincidence was for cheap novels.

Beej.

A rush of shame surged over Will, reminding him that he had not even given the engineer's condition - or location - even the briefest consideration in the last few minutes. If Beverly was right, the woman had saved his life - and in return, he had completely forgotten that she was even a member of the crew.

He tapped his badge. "Riker to LaForge. Where's Lt. Andile?"

"She and Lt. Chawla were EVA, setting up a light array to communicate with the shuttlecraft..." Geordi's voice trailed off, then returned, thin and strained. "Commander, Chawla reported back in when she came through the airlock; Biji was going to come in right after her," he added the worry in his voice unmistakable.

"And...?"

"That's when the ship moved."

Will froze, his heart growing cold. If she was on the hull when the ship accelerated...

He shook his head. Magnetic boots were designed to hold a person to the ship under constant conditions, either when the ship wasn't moving or when they were at a constant speed. Mild vector changes were acceptable - otherwise the slight jar of two people bumping into each other would have been enough to send them both off into space - but no magnetic sole was designed to take the pressure of a sudden shift to impulse. The sudden effect of what must have been close to three g's would have instantly pulled her off the hull... and in the inky blackness of space, without a communicator to call for help, no one would find her.

Beej! Riker shouted angrily - then stilled his turbulent thoughts.

If anyone could think her way out of the situation, Biji would - and he owed the same thing to his ship - and to her - to think his way out of this situation.

Which was... Get control of the ship - and thus inactivate the threat from the saboteur.

Bring weapons on line - and fight off whoever the saboteur might be working with - or for.

Get propulsion back - and get the hell out of here, before the saboteur could do anything else.

All of which, he reminded himself, required identifying the saboteur. But if it wasn't someone on the bridge... By God, that would explain the phaser fire, he thought in a blaze of comprehension. Someone had taken over control of the helm - and without any way to override it, someone had done the only thing left to do - destroy the console!

Except who could have taken over the helm control?

"Geordi, the computer shows that the input sequence to move to impulse came from the bridge helm control, correct?" he repeated, hoping that the idea that had just flashed through his mind was wrong.

"Yes, sir."

"Is there any other way to access helm control beside the helm itself?" he asked.

"If the controls had been rerouted through another site - Engineering, the battle bridge..."

"We've ruled out both of those for the moment," Will replied.

There was a moment of silence. "It's possible that someone could have rigged an external control panel," Geordi conceded, "but to do so without triggering a half-dozen alarms..."

"Except we don't have any functioning alarms," Will reminded him.

Another silence - then... "It's... possible," Geordi admitted, reluctantly.

So reluctantly, Will realized, that he knew Geordi was trying to discount an idea that came to his mind - an idea, Will realized, that he couldn't dismiss.

The same idea that he had had.

"Lt. Andile could have rigged such a panel, couldn't she?" Will asked, knowing the answer.

"Commander, Biji saved your life..." Geordi began to protest.

I know, Will replied to himself - but Worf could have been right about her all along; it could all have been an elaborate plot to worm her way into their confidence, with just enough doubt in her stories to ensure her believability.

And it worked, he added... almost.

"She could have done it, couldn't she?" Will repeated.

There was another silence, a shorter one this time as Geordi accepted the all-too-real possibility, then replied, quietly, "Yeah. She could have."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. You wouldn't need a full command panel, just a bypass junction and a preprogrammed isolinear chip. But it takes time, Commander - and she was EVA..."

"She had time before she went out, Geordi, to get everything in place - and there are more than a thousand airlocks on the hull; she could have made her way to a different lock as soon as Chawla re-entered, and initialized the procedure as soon as she was inside," Will theorized, "and we, thinking she was lost when the ship accelerated, wouldn't think to search her out."

"She wouldn't do that, Commander," Geordi insisted adamantly.

"Are you certain Geordi? Certain enough to risk the ship and the crew?"

Geordi was silent for a long time. "She wouldn't have done it," he repeated, softly this time.

"Geordi," Will countered, his own voice softer this time, offering the man the hope, the opportunity to cast aside his building doubts that he so desperately need, "aside from yourself and Data, is there anyone else on the ship who could have done the same thing?"

Another silence, then a quiet, "No. But we don't have any proof that such a junction even exists!" Geordi added defiantly.

"No, we don't. But the possibility exists, and we have to act on that possibility. Someone is controlling the ship - and if it's not someone on the bridge, then they are somewhere else - and there aren't many people with that capability," Will reminded him. "Geordi, as soon as you get communications back, have Security begin a ship-wide search for the lieutenant. Find her, get her down to Engineering. Use all reasonable force necessary - but she is to be brought in... alive. If she is the saboteur, we're going to need her to get us out of this situation."

"And if she's not the saboteur?"

Will nodded, silently agreeing with the engineer. "If she's not, then we're going to need her all the more."

And if she had indeed been lost? he added to himself, silently. Then...?

Then God help us all.


	112. Chapter 112

**Chapter 112**

Picard looked at the scene before him, letting his eyes follow the careful, measured motions of the med techs as they moved from one crewman to the next - but his thoughts were far away... but not too far, he added.

Perhaps only a few meters.

_Lieutenant?_

Even in his mind, Picard's voice was quiet, hushed, still, as if somehow his silent words could be overheard by the man before him - but no words came back to his mind.

For a moment, a wave of pain surged through his heart as he realized the engineer's magnetic boots could not possibly have withstood the enormous change in inertia.

She had been cast off the ship... No, he corrected himself, knowing that the image was wrong, reminding him that even after fifty years in space, he was, still, a creature of a gravity-bound planet and the mentality inherent in that perspective. No, she had not been cast off, but rather had simply been left in place while the ship moved away - too quickly and too suddenly for her to react, and beyond the abilities of her suit to compensate.

At least being left behind would have spared her the injuries the others had suffered, watching emotionlessly as the one of the technicians pulled out a thermal blanket from her kit and covered the body of Ensign Brevira, then pulled a second blanket out, covering Deanna - as if somehow the blanket would somehow protect her from the eternal cold of space and death.

Deanna, he thought, the grief welling up in his soul as he mourned his friend, his companion of so many years, her life extinguished so suddenly, so unexpectedly. I had thought I would dance at your wedding, perhaps even see your children born; I had dreamt I would watch you and Will share a life I never allowed myself. And now... Now, it was all over, gone before it even began.

And yet, somehow her death was unreal, unacceptable, as if she wasn't dead - even though he couldn't see her body, still and unmoving beneath the silver metallic blanket, proof against the hope that refused to die within his soul.

It had been so long, he thought, so long since I lost someone close to me. Not since René and Robert had died in the fire... and even that was unreal, he knew. Not until he had gone home and seen the fire-ravaged house could he accept the tragedy - and not until he had seen their graves and their tombstones had he been fully able to accept their deaths.

But Deanna... She was here, before him, her body only meters away - and even so, her death was unreal, unacceptable.

As were all the deaths, he added, looking at Brevira's still body - and knowing these were not the only loses the ship had experienced today.

And the day was not yet over, he added, glancing at Tillerman.

He shivered reflexively... or did I? he wondered, drawing a deep breath and opening his mind.

The shiver intensified as the room grew bone-chillingly cold, his feet and hands growing numb.

_Lieutenant?_ he called out again.

For a time there was no response, then a weak, tired and faint, _Here, sir._

_Where's 'here'?_

For a few moments there was silence; Picard could feel the woman drawing up her energy, trying to focus on where she was... for a moment, he caught a startling flicker of a image, silvery white against deep, limitless black... then the image faded.

He shook his head, stunned by the flash, wondering if he ahd somehow seen through her eyes in that moment - or simply caught a taste of her impression of where she was.

Either way, the moment had been fleeting, the image of the hull of the ship had been tenuous - but the feeling of exhaustion and pain that accompanied it unmistakable.

_You're injured._

There was a silent shake of her head - though Picard was not entirely certain he believed the tacit denial.

_Banged up a little,_ she conceded a split-second later. _I was halfway into the airlock when we moved... got thrown around a bit. Bruises mostly. The e-suit saved me from the worst of it,_ she added.

There was no accusation in her voice, no charge that he had moved the ship ahead of the moment he had told her.

She knew, then, he realized.

_Yes, I know,_ she agreed. _Tillerman was the one. He killed Sandra and the others. And now he's got control of the ship._

_For the moment._

She hesitated - then he felt the sense of comprehension as she grasped what he was saying. _You're going to try and take her back._

_If I... if we can,_ he amended.

A nod of her head, silent, but felt. _What do you want me to do?_

_Where are you?_ he asked.

_Trying to make my way back in. The outer airlock hatch was still open when the ship moved,_ she explained. _The mechanism was jammed, so I couldn't repressurize the lock. I climbed out... I'm going to try the starboard lock..._ She stopped, sensing the silent order in his mind. _No?_

_No. I don't know the status of the ship, but there had to be substantial damage to the ship's structure. I suspect you may be able to move faster out there than we can in here._

Another nod. _What do you want me to do?_

_I need you to make contact with Data..._

He could feel the sharp inhalation of air, the pain that surged through her soul, the refusal the coursed through her mind - then felt a new voice, unknown, cold, bitter, vicious... inhuman, inhumane.

(_Andile! Animal! Filth! How dare you presume to put your needs, your wants first? How dare you have wants! Andile!_)

Stunned by the unexpected sound, he glanced around the bridge, looking for the newcomer, searching for the person who could carry such cruelty, such venom, in their soul - but there was no one there who could have said such a thing aloud, no one there who was even capable of such hatred - and no one, he knew, who could have used that name - that _word_ with such fury, such knowing, malevolent anger.

No one on the bridge, he added, stunned at the depth of the poisonous self-hatred that pooled in the engineer's soul.

_Lieutenant..._ he began, aching to console the rage he had felt - but a voice cut off the thought, still half-formed.

"Looking for someone, Johnny?" Jay Tillerman asked, still watching the man intently, his phaser still trained on Picard. "Don't waste your time. No one's coming up here. Oh, they're going to try - save the bridge or die trying, and all the other propaganda that Starfleet programs into its graduates - but a jump from dead stop to impulse without inertial dampeners causes a hell of a lot of damage, Jean-Luc - and when your lift system won't work, and when you have to open every door by hand, it takes time." He glanced at the chronometer. "More time then you have," he added - then glanced at the center viewscreen and the blank panel there. "Damned shame the screen doesn't work," he said. "I would have liked you to have seen them when they get here. The Breen host ship is... impressive."

"I've seen Breen vessels," Picard replied sharply, not arguing the point - they were impressive; deadly, powerful, evil-looking ships of sharp angles and soulless efficiency - but impressive nonetheless.

Tillerman smiled again - sympathetically this time. "You've seen what the Breen want you to see, Johnny. I've told you; they're masters of human psychology... and manipulation," he added. "If you only knew..." His voice trailed off as he gave a shake of his head.

Picard looked at the man - then nodded. If I only knew so many things, he thought to himself; I could have stopped you, I could have prevented Brevira's death, The computer technician's deaths... even Sandra James' death could have been prevented... if I had known.

_But I should have known,_ came a commiserating thought. _I was capable of it,_ Andile added, the thought harsh and cold in her mind.

_As was Counselor Troi,_ Picard reminded her; his thought was firm, controlled, untinged by the compassion that had filled his soul a moment before - not because he didn't feel it anymore, but because he knew this was not the time for it. Compassion, understanding... help for the woman nearly destroyed by centuries of self-hatred... it would all come later.

If there was a later, he added, wordlessly reminding himself - and Andile - that _now_ must be their only concern.

_Cmdr. Data is on the battle bridge,_ Picard continued. _I need you to join him there._

_I'm not sure I can. I've reached the starboard airlock - but it won't depressurize either,_ she explained, another flash of image in his mind revealing her location to him, the exterior doors of the ship sealed shut against her. _There must be substantial internal damage... Can you see the engineering board from where you are?_ she asked.

Picard gave a mental nod, then raised a hand to the back of his neck as if to rub away a ache, carefully turning his head from right to left, taking a quick mental picture of the board - then jerking his head back as a spasm of pain in his back tore a low groan from him.

"Medic!" Tillerman called out, gesturing at one of the med techs with his phaser, then pointing at Picard. "Hey, you! Over here. Your captain's been hurt. Check him out."

Picard shook his head, trying to wave off the assistance. "I'm all right... See to the others," he told the tech as she approached.

Before she could follow the order, however, Tillerman pointed the phaser at her. "Treat the captain," he ordered her firmly, then looked back at Picard.

"Ah, always the Starfleet captain, eh, Johnny? Always your crew before the captain, right? Well, this time, you don't get your way. I need to make sure you're in one piece - or close to it - when the Breen get here. It's not every day they get to study someone with your years of experience," he explained.

"I thought you said they weren't interested in me," Picard countered as the technician knelt down beside him, carefully placing her tricorder before him as she began to scan him.

"What an ego, Jean-Luc!" Tillerman chided, the hint of playfulness in his voice ill-concealing the contempt in his tone. "It's not _you_, Jean-Luc Picard, that they want, it's someone - anyone! - with your years of history, your years of experiences! You see, it's not enough to study humans under a variety of stressors, you need a variety of people as well. War just doesn't provide that range; most of their subjects have been young, inexperienced... they need others as well, older, more mature, more experienced people to study, to give their studies some correlation. And that means you, Jean-Luc - or any one like you; a lifetime in Starfleet, a lifetime devoted to duty and responsibility..."

"Obviously meaning you wouldn't be a candidate," Picard replied.

Tillerman grinned, refusing the bait. "Actually, quite the contrary. The Breen see me as being someone quite similar to you; dedicated to my duty. Indeed, more so than you, since I am willing to set aside my personal morals and ethics to do what has to be done for the good of my people."

"Set them aside, Jay?" Picard retorted. "You're not setting them aside; you're selling them! And for what?"

"For the good of a billion others," Tillerman replied blithely. "After all, as you are do fond of quoting, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. Which is all well and good - unless, of course," he added with a smile, "you are the one. Which you are - and I am not."

"And you?"

"Me?" Tillerman echoed.

"You. What are you getting out of this?" Picard asked.

Jay looked at him, studying the man carefully, smiling sadly. "You don't get it, do you, Jean-Luc? You are so bound up in your version of the truth that you can not comprehend that it's not the only truth out there. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Because the Federation couldn't survive the war without making some concessions - and this was the only way out for us. Because if we're to survive, we need a strong ally - and if this is the cost, so be it. I can sleep tonight knowing I did the right thing..."

By the gods, Picard thought, it was beginning to make sense now. Of course Deanna couldn't have perceived the duplicity in the man when she read him - because there was no duplicity there. Jay believed what he was saying, and had acted on that belief, knowing, sincerely believing, that what he was doing was for the greater good of his own people!

And, at a level, it was the right thing, he added, his thoughts growing pensive. The war had ended, millions had been saved, the conference would go on...

_And all your work - fifty years of what you've done - has been for nothing?_ a sharp, chiding thought slashed through his mind.

Startled, he jerked his head up, unaware that he had let it drift down, his eyes staring unfocused on the tricorder in front of him - then gave a mental shake of his head, rejecting the thought.

_No,_ he agreed.

_Fuckin' A,_ Andile agreed emphatically.

_Lieutenant!_ he snapped back silently.

_Captain,_ she countered instantly, unflinchingly, _I will censor my mouth because you don't like the way I speak - but not my mind! Never my mind!_

He started to reply - then stopped. _No. Of course not. My apologies,_ he added.

_Accepted,_ she replied tersely, then let her tone gentle. _Tillerman and his bunch found an answer - the easy answer - and they followed it, because it was the easy answer. They didn't want, or didn't dare, or couldn't afford to spend the time, the energy - and possibly the lives - necessary for another, possibly harder, solution. But it was an answer, Captain,_ she reminded him, then instantly added, _Did you get a look at that panel?_

He nodded, surprised by the unexpected change in thought - and equally surprised at how quickly he responded to it.

_If I didn't know better, I'd think I'm beginning to think like you do,_ he gibed gently.

_That's because you are,_ she replied solemnly. _The longer we're in touch, the more intimate this gets. I become more like you - and you become more like me._

_Oh._

He could feel her smile. _Don't worry, I'll break it before I corrupt you too badly._

He smiled to himself, silently relieved - but was still startled as the image of the panel appeared in his mind.

_What are you doing?_ he thought, bristling against the touch of her fingers in his mind.

_Sorry,_ she demurred. _I wanted to see what you saw..._

_Ask!_ he snapped back.

_I said I was sorry!_ she repeated.

There was a momentary hesitation, then he replied, _I'm sorry, too. It's just... uncomfortable._

_I am sorry,_ she said a third time. _I was just... in a hurry._ She hesitated a moment, then added, _But I do need to see that panel. Can you recall what you saw?_ she asked.

Picard cleared his thoughts, trying to recollect the image he had caught, the pattern of lights, drawing his attention to the lower left quadrant of the panel and the warning lights flashing there...

_Damn!_ the two thought simultaneously. _The pressure sensor was tripped - and until the system completes the self-diagnostic, it won't reset._

_That means I'm not coming in through an airlock,_ Andile added.

For a split second, the image of the woman forever trapped in space flitted through Picard's mind - then he reminded himself that there were other ways into a starship besides an airlock.

_The shuttlebay would explosively decompress if I go in through there,_ she mused.

_It's an option,_ Picard opined in response. _I suspect the alarm system wouldn't alert anyone on the bridge._

_Yeah, but the decompression would accelerate the ship again - and I'm not sure either one of us could handle another ride like the last one. I hate to say this, but I'm probably going to have to cut my way in._

_Cut your way in?_ he repeated - then felt her smile.

_It is possible - if you know the right spots, where the hull has inherent weaknesses. And since I put those spots there - and since I do have a phase welder with me - it's an option I can take. Sorry,_ she added, _It seems I'm going to make a real mess out of your ship, Captain. But I promise I'll clean her up before we get back to dock._

_See that you do,_ he replied, smiling to himself - then groaned as the med tech helped him to sit a little more up right, her scanner continuing the long, slow appraisal of his injuries.

And it _was_ slow, he realized, his attention having been distracted by Jay and the lieutenant; despite the pain in his back, he didn't believe his injuries could be that serious. Why, then, was she taking so long?

He turned his head to ask her, but the woman instantly stopped him, turning his head back, facing forward, then gently pointed it down toward the deck. "Sir, please try not to move. You've broken several vertebrae. Back injuries can be very difficult to assess properly if the patient keeps moving. Please; it's very important that you keep looking straight ahead," she added emphatically.

More than emphatically, he realized; her tone was almost urgent.

He started to turn to her again, only to have her gently turn his head forward again. "Please, sir," she begged.

Begged.

She wants me to do something, he realized - but what?

_She wants you to... see something_, Andile answered, her mental voice strangely distant.

_You can hear her?_ Picard said, taken aback.

He could sense her nodded reply. _I can read her thoughts... all your thoughts, everyone on the bridge, on the ship... the others are vague - but the longer I stay in touch with you, the more I can hear them,_ she added - then seemed to shake her head. _I've spent most of my life blocking out other people's thoughts - then it got too hard to hear them..._

And now, with the drugs Beverly had given her and the prolonged contact with him, those abilities were coming back, Picard realized - for good... or for ill.

_She wants you to look,_ Andile continued, her concentration back on the med tech kneeling beside the starship captain. There was a hesitation, an uncertainty, then... _It's the padd, sir,_ Andile said with a startling confidence. _She wants you to look at the padd._

Picard stared ahead, finally realizing how carefully the padd has been placed before him, precisely in his line of vision.

A medical report, he realized - though why the technician had been so secretive about the report, he didn't understand; there was nothing unusual here, just a list of the injuries and casualties...

He stopped.

There were no casualties listed.

Stunned, hoping against hope that the report meant what he thought it meant, he risked looking up at the two carefully covered bodies - and still saw no sign of movement.

He started to turn to the tech once more - and this time she allowed the movement, reaching for the padd as she did so.

"You've got three fractured vertebrae, Captain," she said as she made a note on the padd - and deleting the read-out as she did so.

"How bad?" Tillerman interrupted. "Can he move?"

"Fractured vertebrae are always bad, Ambassador," the technician replied sharply. "And as for moving," she added, her voice slowing, becoming clear and concise, "the less movement the better. Less risk. Less chance of a permanent injury. If it was up to me," meeting Picard's eyes directly, "I'd completely immobilize the area, suppress all motor activity so I wouldn't risk any unforeseen movement until I could get him to Sickbay for proper treatment."

Picard's eyes widened in understanding just as Andile's thoughts rolled through his mind.

_By the gods! She's drugged them so they can't move - so Tillerman won't realize they're both still alive!_ she gasped.

_But why?_ he wondered. _Why them? He could threaten anyone..._

_No, he can't,_ Andile corrected him. _For the same reason he's worried about you; you're all on the Breen list of 'subjects', Captain, He needs you - and the others - alive, even if not unharmed,_ Andile replied, seeing into the med tech's mind, understanding instantly what the woman had realized. _But the Counselor and Ensign Brevira - they aren't human, the Breen won't care about them - so in Tillerman's mind, they are - were - 'expendable'. But if he thought they were still alive, if he decided he needed to make a point..._

Picard nodded. _He'd kill them._

_Except he already thinks they are dead. And as long as he keeps thinking that, they're safe..._ Her mental voice fell silent as the idea filled both their minds.

But the drugs would only last so long, Picard thought to himself - and after they wore off, there would be nothing to stop the two from moving, from revealing their true condition - and their lives would be at risk once again.

_Lieutenant,_ he began hesitantly, knowing what he was asking her, having seen what happened when she had done something like this before - and knowing there was no other option, _Can you keep him thinking that?_

For a long moment, the path between their minds was silent, then...

_I'm not sure it's necessary,_ she answered ominously.

He froze. _They're not... dead,_ he said, half question, half silent prayer.

_No. It's not them. It's..._ Her silent voice drifted off again.

_I don't understand, Lieutenant,_ he said, confused. _Who... What is it?...

There was a long, still moment - then she finally whispered.

_I can hear..._

He shook his head, bewildered. _Who, Lieutenant? Deanna? Ensign Brevira?_

_No,_ she answered. _The Breen, Captain. I can hear the Breen..._


	113. Chapter 113

**Chapter 113**

Picard's eyes snapped open, instantly scanning the bridge, searching out some type of confirmation - but with the sensors out, and the main viewer blank, there was nothing to confirm Andile's proclamation - not even a change in Jay Tillerman's demeanor. Surely if the Breen were close, he thought, Jay wouldn't just be sitting there, watching him, talking to the med tech.

"No immobilization," the ex-Starfleet officer was saying. "No drugs. I want him as he is when the Breen get here."

"There's a risk of paralysis..."

"Paralysis is going be the least of his concerns," Jay interrupted curtly.

The technician began a sharp reply, then stopped as she saw Picard gave a shake of his head.

"I'll be fine," he said firmly, knowing her protest was more for form's sake than for fact; if his injury had really been life-threatening, she would have treated it instantly - and dealt with Tillerman later. Beverly would have required nothing less from her people, he reminded himself.

"See what you can do for the others," he added, looking to the remaining bridge crew.

She studied the man, making sure he had understood the message in the padd, then nodded. In one swift movement, she put the scanner back in the case and rose to her feet, moving toward the others - and, Picard thought with a rush of relief, out of Jay's direct line of fire.

To his amazement, the man let her go without comment, confirming Picard's first reaction: Tillerman was not aware of the approach of the Breen. If he had been, he would have stopped her, using the opportunity to once again demonstrate his control of the situation, reaffirming his position to Picard and the bridge crew - and to himself, Picard thought.

Bravado, Picard thought, remembering the man from years before. A good show of bravery - but only a show, followed by a hasty withdrawal. Seduce thirty women - then transfer to another ship. Move up the chain of command, promising change and improvements - then leave before his inability to fulfill his promises became known.

He shook his head; the show - and the failure to follow through - had been his major downfall in Starfleet - and, he added, it may be one now.

If I can get him to realize he may have to face the consequences of what he's done, he may falter, he may back off.

But how - and how quickly? he wondered. If the Breen ship really was growing closer, time might well be running out.

If it was drawing closer, he repeated; if it really was the Breen.

_Are you sure?_ he asked silently.

_No,_ Andile replied, her mental voice quiet, her thoughts locked on the new voice in her mind. _But... I can sense something... new, something I've never felt before..._

Picard hesitated. _Lieutenant, I don't meant to dismiss your... feelings, but... could you be wrong? After all, you said you hadn't used your powers in some time..._

He felt her eyes snap open and the surge of anger rush through her mind.

_It's not a 'power', Captain! It's a skill - and one that I used to be quite adept at! And yes, I could be wrong! I haven't 'pathed this much in centuries - and by the gods, it's not easy! More than that, I've never sensed a Breen before, and I wouldn't know if it was one or not!

_But I do know two things, Captain,_ she added sharply. _I know that I've had telepathic contact with over four hundred species - and I know that what I'm feeling now isn't something I've ever felt before. And considering the situation, considering everything that Tillerman has said to you, and the conclusions your own senior staff reached, I'm going to jump to the only conclusion I can: that it is the Breen - and that they're close enough for me to sense them._

Picard nodded, accepting the information, digesting the possibilities - and giving the engineer a moment to quiet her turbulent emotions.

A moment she didn't need, he realized, feeling the engineer instantly clamping down on her reactions as a harsh voice raced through her - and his - mind, berating her viciously for the momentary lapse, leaving her completely focused on the problem, but leaving his mind - and his emotions - reeling.

But this was not the time, he - and she - thought at the same instant.

_Then we're going to have to act on that assumption,_ he said.

_And that means I've got to hurry,_ she replied.

He felt the dull ache in her shoulders, realizing for the first time that she was carrying the massive phase welder and its power pack, felt the weight shift as she repositioned equipment, shifting the power supply from one side to the other - then felt her adjust the magnetic field in her boots.

_Don't decrease it too much,_ he cautioned her. Dropping the field levels would reduce the amount of effort it took to lift each boot away from the ship's hull - but dropping it too far would mean a single mis-step could send her drifting off into space.

_I know,_ she answered, hearing both his warning and the thoughts that lay beneath it, _but I'm going to have to risk it. We don't have much time._

_Agreed._ He considered a moment, studying Tillerman, then calling out again. _Can you tell how far away they are? Jay doesn't seem to be aware of their presence, yet. I know he has some form of communication equipment he used to speak with them before - but he hasn't used it since he reached the bridge,_ he added, bits a pieces of memory flowing together, adding up: Jay's reference to speaking with the Breen, directing them here...

_I know. I can hear what he told you,_ she replied, the scenes playing in her mind as well as his - and his thoughts, his conclusions playing out as well, echoing uncomfortably back into his thoughts, all reeling back out at him, presenting themselves to be viewed, contemplated, rationalized and understood - but from her mind's eye - not his own.

As my mind is not my own, he added, shivering uncomfortably.

_No, sir,_ she answered quietly. _ It's not like that - not really. I mean... yes, I can access everything in your mind - but it's not easy and it's not simple - and it's not something I would normally do._

_You did it before,_ he countered. _The engineering read-out..._

_That was different,_ she insisted. _It's... it's as though your mind were a book; when you open it to a certain page, I can look over your shoulder and read what's there. In the case of the engineering read-out, it was as if you had turned the page - and I reached over and turned it back. But what you're thinking - that would be my taking the book away from you and starting to leaf through it on my own. It's not an efficient way to find something - especially when you don't know the book or its contents. Yes, I can do it - but I wouldn't. Not if I didn't have to._

He raised a brow, not liking the ominous sound of her words - then let it go.

_I'm going to hold you to that, Lieutenant,_ he said.

_Oh, you don't have to,_ she demurred, _because you have to remember - whatever I can do to you, you can do to me. We're using my mind as the conduit - but the contact is reciprocal._

_Indeed?_ he replied, surprised - then his eyes narrowed in thought. _Then all telepathy is two-way?_ he pressed, though the intellectual aspect that had accompanied his earlier questions about telepathy was strangely missing from this one, Andile thought to herself.

_No. A telepath can often sense a non-'path,_ she replied.

He considered the answer. _Is there any way to tell if the Breen are telepathic?_ he asked.

_You mean... if I'm hearing them - can they be hearing us?_

He nodded mentally.

_If you're asking if they can hear this conversation, as a reciprocation of what I'm hearing from them, then the answer is 'no'. At the distance, all I'm hearing are... whispers, random murmurs of mental energy, non-cohesive thoughts... It's as though I've detected an active bandwidth - but I can't tune in on it yet. And unless they're far more powerful than anyone knows, that's the most they can get from us. That is, if they are a telepathic race,_ she added. _If they are, then the best they'd be hearing from us is the same - a vague presence in space - and our thoughts, our conversation - would be muffled in the thoughts of fourteen hundred others._

_But we should take the thought under consideration; we may need to discontinue this communication as they get closer,_ he cautioned.

To his surprise, there was a sensation of reluctance, of refusal - then a nod. _Yes, sir. As soon as I can hear them clearly enough to detect single thoughts, I'll stop. But that means we need to get our plans organized now. I'm planning to cut into the hull just abaft the shuttle deck elevators._

Picard nodded to himself, approving the choice. The hull was relatively thin there due to the multiple layers of support material that lay directly beneath it, supporting and protecting the elevators that raised equipment, crew and massive shuttles into place.

_Decompression effect on the ship?_

_Minimal. There's less than a meter between the hull and the elevator support beams. When the air blows out, it will trigger an alarm - maybe,_ she added, remembering the dubious state of repairs on the ship, _but four cubic meters of air, suddenly released, isn't enough to even send a shudder through this ship._

It also wasn't going to endanger a member of the crew, Picard realized, seeing the concern in her mind, knowing that it had as much to do with her choice of location as anything else.

_No, sir,_ she added firmly, her resolve inescapable. _Don't give me credit where it isn't due. I'd drill straight into the bridge if that was the best choice - and kill the lot of you... if I had to. In that, I'm no different than Tillerman; I will do what I have to do._

He felt her mind pull away from his, memories of things she didn't want him to know, didn't want herself to remember, welling up - then fading as she fought to control them, fought to put them away once again, fought to keep her mind the only place it dared to be - on the work before her.

No, he thought to himself, staring at the man before him, but his thoughts on the woman inching her way across the hull of his - of her - ship: you are different.

Jay and his compatriots took the easy answer - and never fought to find a better way. You, he added, have always sought the better way - but when that way couldn't be found, you tried to limit the burden to as few others as possible... and carried the grief and shame of your failure as a constant reminder of what you were searching for, he thought, memories and flashes of recollections not his own trailing through his mind - and echoes of grief and shame reverberating through his soul.

No, he thought firmly, you are most definitely not the same.

_Yeah, that's me; fuckin' Saint Andile,_ she replied, disgusted and disapproving, her presence in his mind sharp and clear once again. _Captain, don't confuse efficiency and expediency with compassion and nobility. I do things for the best number, the best way - not because I care - but because, in the long run, it's the most efficient way. And sometimes that efficiency is based on the fact that writing death reports takes time that I simply don't have. But let's not kid ourselves; people have died under my command - and some of those people died because it was the only way to save the others. I will do what I have to do._

_I know,_ he countered.

Perhaps it wasn't the ability to make the hard decision that made the difference between a captain and another officer, he mused perhaps it was the fact that a captain went to hell every time he made that decision.

And then came back to do it again, he added.

Unaware - or ignoring - the digression, Andile continued. _And that's why I'm going in at the shuttlecraft elevator. Yes, there will be no one there - but more importantly, there is an accessway directly inside the hull. I can cut into it, enter the tubeway..._

_The accessway will decompress as well, Lieutenant, and every corridor thereafter,_ he pointed out.

_I know. That's why I intend to use the phase welder to melt the passage behind me, sealing it off. Life support is still functioning, so it should bring the pressure back up, and I can make my way to the battle bridge without having to cut through any more hull plates or risk depressurizing other areas._

Picard nodded. _Just take care not to rupture your suit,_ he cautioned.

_Agreed,_ she replied. _Sucking berezine - or whatever Cmdr. Data's used in the battle bridge - once per mission is my limit. Assuming I can make it intact, what are your orders once we've taken control of the ship?_

_Get control of the helm,_ he said firmly.

Andile hesitated. _We can't outrun them, Captain. At best, we have impulse - and after that last burst, I'm not even sure about the - but even if we do, you saw what happens when we move without the dampeners. I can't tell how fast the Breen are approaching - but they must have warp capability. We're not going to be able to get away._

He nodded. _I'm aware of that._

_Then...?_

_If we can't run away, then we run - toward them._

He felt Andile's eyes widen in surprise. _You're going to ram their ship?_

_If need be,_ he answered. _But, based on what Jay has said, it may not be necessary; the Breen are already uncertain about coming this far into Federation territory. I think he's managed to persuade them only because of what they may perceive as the relative ease of the capture._

_And when they discover it may not be so easy..._ she continued for him.

_I'm hoping they'll turn tail and run._

Andile nodded, then hesitated again. _And if they don't?_

It was Picard's turn to hesitate. _I'll destroy the ship._

He half expected a gasp of surprise, or a roar of protest. What he didn't expect, however, was what he heard: a soft laugh.

_You can't._

He felt his anger surging, almost uncontrollably. _I assure you, Lieutenant, I can - and I will. I will not allow my crew to be subjected to any more Breen 'experimentation'!_

_I wasn't arguing with you, Captain,_ she countered calmly. _And I'm not being sentimental or emotional. I'm being literal. You can't destroy the ship. First, I wouldn't even guarantee the mechanism is still functional, and second - and much more to the point, the self-destruct sequence requires two command officers - and Jay's not about to let you have access to the self-destruct mechanism._

_Then you're going to have to relay my command..._ he said firmly.

_Oh, yes!_ she laughed back caustically, no trace of gentleness in her voice this time. _Your crew is going to believe that you and I are in telepathic communication - and they're going to follow my order to self-destruct! Captain, half of them are still uncertain that I'm not the saboteur. The gods know they're not going to believe me when I tell them to blow up the ship!_

She was right, he realized - but there was no way he was going to allow the Breen to take control of his ship - his people!

_But if he couldn't do it himself, and if they wouldn't accept his order through her..._

He stopped, reluctant to say what he was about to say - but knowing there was no option, no other way.

_Then you're going to have to do it, Lieutenant,_ he thought at long last.

There was no hesitation in her thoughts as she answered, no pause, no moment of uncertainty as she framed an argument; in his mind, her words came to him, strong, certain, resolved.

_I know._

_You'll have access to the engineering controls from the battle bridge. Start an overload of the plasma conduits..._ he said.

There was solemn agreement in her thoughts. _I know; it'll lead to a warp core overload, and the core will breach in a matter of minutes. Short, sweet - and considering the condition of the ship, there's nothing anyone could do to stop it._

He nodded. _Except Data,_ he reminded her. _Are you going to be able to convince him that you're acting on my orders?_

Convince Data? Andile thought, anguished. Convince him I'm telling the truth - after I've told him so many lies? How could he ever believe me again? Why should he believe me?! And about this? By the gods, why should he believe me when I say we have to destroy the ship? she wailed silently.

_Because you have never lied about the ship,_ Picard advised her softly. _Whatever else has happened between the two of you, I know that you have both always placed the ship first. As you must this time as well._

She squeezed her eyes shut, nodding, then bit her lip, opened her eyes - and stopped. _You knew that?_ she said, astounded.

Picard smiled, hearing the soft emphasis on the word. _If you mean, was I aware of the specifics of your... relationship... with Data, the answer is 'no'. This contact may be reciprocal - but, to use your terminology, you haven't turned to that page in the book. I know - because I know what you've done for the good of the Federation, Starfleet, your ship - and your crew. And Data has said as much,_ he added. _Whatever issues you two may have had, he has always respected your professionalism._

_He said that?_ she replied, startled.

The captain nodded.

_Hmpf!_ Andile replied, surprised - and, Picard thought, a little pleased. _Well, then,_ she continued, _I had better go kill him - and the rest of us._

It was humor, Picard realized after a startled second; her humor, he added, strange, stilted and painful - but humor nonetheless.

_Only if can't find an alternative,_ he reminded her.

_Right,_ she murmured. _Look for alternatives first - _then_ blow up the ship. Got it,_ she added wryly.

He felt her break contact, her concentration shifting from talking with him to moving the heavy equipment - and what seemed to be the ever-increasing weight of her own boots - across the hull of the ship.

A single person, clad in an environmental suit, trudging across the expanse of the silvered hull of the ship, a single figure standing out against the black velvet expanse of the starry sky; it was always a awe-inspiring sight, Picard thought, the image of man, machine and nature, a representation of humankind's indomitable determination to survive wherever he chose.

Survive - or to make sure they didn't, he added grimly, once again seeing the lone figure - and the equipment she carried, the instruments of their salvation - or their destruction.

Providing, of course, that he couldn't save them first.

With a grunt of effort and pain, he pushed himself to his feet, grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it into place - then looked at the red-faced ex-Starfleet officer before him.

"Sit down, Johnny..." Tillerman began angrily.

"I've had quite enough sitting, Jay. If I'm going to die facing down the Breen, I want to do so on my feet," he said firmly. "But before I die, I want to know something.

"When the Breen get here, they get this ship - and her crew - and the all the answers they can find to the question of human psychology. Starfleet gets the get the peace the need - and a stronger Federation in the making," he said.

"What I want to know, Jay, is what the hell _you're_ getting out of this."


	114. Chapter 114

**Chapter 114**

"Got it, Commander!" Geordi crowed triumphantly, his chair spinning as he turned away from his control board to the cut-away display of the ship that covered one wall of his office. "It's right here, conduit oh-four-seven-J, just outside the battle bridge. We can drive a signal to that point - but no further. It must have been damaged when we accelerated - but until we can repair it, Data can't redirect bridge control to the battle bridge."

"Bypass it," Riker replied curtly.

"Tried," Geordi replied. "The bypass isn't working - and before you ask, I've tried every other way to re-route around the failure that I can dream up. The problem is that the computer doesn't have enough functioning neural circuits to let me re-route the path through the computer. We're limited to a physical path - and from what I can tell, it's damaged."

"Then repair it," the first officer ordered.

"Already got a team on the way up there, Commander," Geordi replied, "but without the lifts working..."

"I know," Will replied, sighing, remembering. "It's going to take them time to get there..."

"And time to repair it," Geordi added. "It's a well-protected conduit, Commander; the team's going to have to go up all the way up to the battle bridge level - and that's a hell of a climb, especially when you're carrying equipment. Then they've got to cross over through the Jeffries tube to get to the accessway where the conduit is located - and depending on how much damage there is to the tube, it going to take a while."

"We may not have 'a while'," Riker replied tersely.

"I hate to say this, Commander - but what we need is Beej. She could get through the accessway itself, and bypass the Jeffries tube," Geordi told him.

"Damned convenient, isn't that?" Will grumbled. "That the one person who could fix it just happens to be Lt. Andile?"

"Commander," Geordi said carefully, "it's convenient, yes - but Beej isn't the only one who can fix it. She would just make the repair faster. And before you ask, no, there's no indication that there was any sabotage. We're seeing the same type of structural damage everywhere."

"But that conduit is in the most-protected area of the ship!"

"Yes, sir - and, under normal circumstances, I would be suspicious. But these aren't normal circumstances; the ship was never intended to function without inertial dampeners, Commander," Geordi reminded him. "If there's anything surprising in what's happened, it's the fact that we're still in one piece. A few minutes more, and I think there would have been a far different outcome. As it is, we can pull ourselves back together... in time. With - or without - Biji," he added.

Will stared at the chief Engineer - then nodded slowly. What Geordi was saying made sense - but there was a saboteur aboard, he reminded himself, someone who knew how the ship operated, someone who knew its most vulnerable points, someone who was controlling the ship - and Andile was missing.

The same thought was going through Geordi's mind - though for a different reason. The engineer looked at the first officer. "And we may well have to do it without her," he added ominously.

"No indications she's re-entered the ship?"

"She would have gotten in touch with us somehow - if she could," he added.

And if she wanted to, Will thought. All she'd have to do is stay silent - and she'd have free range of the ship. Stick to the accessways and the Jeffries tubes, he added, and there'd be no one to see her, no one to stop her from doing whatever she - or her superiors - wanted done.

Seeing the wary expression in Will's eyes, Geordi, however, shook his head. "The computer records are incomplete - but there is no record of her having re-entered the ship prior to our accelerating," he informed Will. "When Chawla came in, she said Beej was going to follow her in as soon as the airlock recycled - but there wasn't time for it to have done so before we accelerated."

"There are other airlocks," Will protested.

"Not close enough for anyone to have reached before we moved," the engineer pointed out.

"But after we stopped..." Riker pressed.

Geordi silenced him with a shake of his head. "Not possible. The acceleration made the pressure sensors trip, and the airlocks won't cycle until they're reset - and that hasn't happened yet. Commander, Biji never made it back inside the ship."

Will stared at Geordi, his mind reeling with a thousand thoughts, a thousand emotions - and a thousand possibilities.

"Geordi, could she have survived out there?"

"Survived? Yes - if she wasn't killed outright, if she wasn't too badly injured; her environmental suit would keep her alive for another hour or so," he surmised. "If we could re-establish communications with the shuttlecraft, they could look for her..."

Will held up a hand, silencing the engineer. "She's not back there," he declared. "She's still here."

Geordi stared at her, mouth agape - then closed it. "How?" he said at last.

Will shook his head, not understanding it himself - but knowing it just as certainly as he knew Deanna was still alive. "I don't know, Geordi - I just know she is. She had the phase welder; maybe she welded herself to the hull. Maybe she braced herself against a structural support."

"Three g's are three g's, Commander - inside or out," Geordi reminded him. "You can't brace yourself for that amount of strain - not for that long."

"Then maybe she managed to get back inside the lock, even if it couldn't finish cycling through," Will seethed. "All I know is she wasn't lost. She's here - and we need to find her."

It wasn't logical, he knew, and it certainly wasn't reasonable - but somehow he knew, deep in his gut, that Andile was still with them.

And, he added coldly, that she was responsible for everything that had happened - to the mission, to his ship, to his crew... to Deanna.

Geordi continued to stare at Riker for a minute, then shook his head, giving in. "All right. Let's say she managed - somehow - to stay with the ship. She's still outside. The airlocks are still non-functional. How is she going to get back in?"

How indeed, Will thought.

He sighed, frustration, fury - and doubt - competing in his mind.

It had to be her, he told himself with an anger borne as much of need as intellect; she was the only one with the knowledge, the ability... and the motive.

The only one.

But what if it wasn't one? he reminded himself. What if there had been more than one? What if there had been several, each with their own areas of expertise, of knowledge, joining together on this mission...

Deanna would have seen that, he thought. That many minds, working together, trying to hide something - she would have seen the stress in their mind, seen the uncertainty, the worry - but she had seen nothing abnormal in the crew.

But one mind? One mind, trained and practiced in subterfuge, one mind, used to hiding the truth, the crimes, the duplicity of a long and troubled life - one mind might be able to hide the truth from Deanna's investigation.

And yet...

And yet she saved my life, he reminded himself. She didn't have to; she could have left me there - but she didn't.

But if not Andile, he thought, then who?

No one, Will told himself grimly.

He tapped his comm badge. "Riker to Worf. Worf, I want Security teams placed at the shuttlebay and by the docking station for the captain's yacht." If she's coming in, those would be the two most likely spots, he thought - then hesitated.

Likely, yes - practical and foreseeable, yes - but Andile was nothing if she was not unpredictable. He turned to Geordi.

"Geordi, are the ship's pressure sensors still functioning?"

Geordi nodded automatically, eyeing the control board - then stopped, understanding - and astounded. "You think she's going to try cutting her way back in?"

"She's got a phase welder," he reminded the engineer.

"A welder that masses almost as much as she does! She can't move it far - but if she's intending to cut through the hull, that's exactly what she's going to have to do! The hull plating near the bridge is extensively reinforced..."

"There are other ways into the ship, Geordi. Through a phaser port, through a viewport... More ways than we have people," he admitted. "But wherever she comes in, however she comes in, it's going to cause a change in pressure - and when it happens..."

"When it happens, we'll know - and we'll know where," Geordi said, then added, "but that doesn't mean we're going to be able to get there, Commander. The ship's in bad shape."

"Sauce for the goose, Geordi," Will reminded him. "It's going to slow her down just as much as it will slow us."

Geordi hesitated, studying the man, seeing the uncertainty in his own thoughts reflected on Will's face. "You sure about that, Commander?"

Will hesitated - then shook his head. "No. When it comes to Lt. Andile, I'm not sure about anything anymore."

"What I want to know, Jay, is what the hell _you're_ getting out of this," Picard asked the tall human standing before him.

_What are you doing?_ Andile thought curiously.

_Trying to distract him,_ Picard replied. _I need to keep his eyes off that board until you can disable that pressure sensor, or he may realize what you're doing. I just don't know how long I can keep him distracted. You're going to have to hurry._

_Doing my best, sir,_ she replied, her thoughts growing ragged with fatigue. _I'm at the aft shuttlecraft lift site... I think. Gods, it always looks so different from the outside..._

He heard the doubt in her voice, the uncertainty in her thoughts - and knew they were borne of a bone-deep exhaustion. _Lieutenant?_ he tried warningly.

_I'm all right,_ she insisted, drawing herself up sharply, her eyes turning to the power unit, watching the charge build - then suddenly, she jerked her head up.

_What? What did you say?_ she thought, startled.

_I didn't say anything,_ Picard replied, confused.

There was a moment's hesitation - and through his mind's eye, Picard could sense her scanning the black horizon.

_Lieutenant?_

_I can't see them... but they're close. They're getting louder._

_How long till they get here?_

She shook her head. _I can't tell - and I can't guess. We don't know enough about their telepathic abilities to know if they're this loud because they're next door but relatively non-telepathic - and running cloaked - or a million miles away, and louder than hell. Either way..._

_Either way, we need to hurry._

_I'll let you know when I'm close to breaking through. Just keep his attention off that gods' cursed panel._

Picard nodded, then studied the tall New Texan, his eyes cold and bitter - and determined to keep Jay's attention for the next few minutes.

"Surely they are getting something, Jay, for betraying your own kind; for sending fourteen hundred people to their deaths," Picard continued. "Gold-pressed latinum? Dilithium crystals? What was the price for selling out your fellow officers, Jay: thirty pieces of silver?"

Data ran his hand over the control panel again - and frowned.

It was a perfect frown, a flawless demonstration of the hours of practice he had invested in its crafting, with precisely the correct amount of brow furrowing and pursing of lips that the moment merited, a carefully calculated display of the exact amount of frustration that would have been coursing through his emotions - if he had had emotions.

He did not, of course; he had turned his emotions off days before, when... when things had changed, he thought quietly, dismissing the memory that threatened - and reminding himself that there were files in his memory that needed to be deleted - permanently - as soon as time permitted.

After all, he would not need them again - but more importantly, there seemed to be a defect in them, leaking random memories at inconvenient moments, sending flashes of images, scents, voices, memories of Ginger's hand in his, their fingers twining; her voice soft, low, warm; her lips pressed against his ear, breathless words whispered; her body, warm and gentle, pressed against his; the scent of her body, their bodies, together; the touch of her lips on his...

Data frowned again, checking the switch to his emotion chip.

It was off, of course - and had been so for days, ever since he had told Andile to leave, ever since he had learned what it felt like to have his heart break...

But I will no longer feel that, he told himself sharply; I will no longer feel heartbreak - or anything else. Not at this time. Perhaps later.

Yes, later, he insisted. When I have time. When I have mastered other, more important aspects of humanity. As yet, however, he rationalized, my emotions are still relatively new and not completely mastered - and at a time such as this, when the ship was in crisis and the crew was in jeopardy, a good officer would devote every iota of energy and concentration to solving the problems at hand. Emotions were a ... frivolity, a plaything, an inefficient usage of my time and energy...

And Andile did not appreciate inefficiencies.

Not that her approval mattered, he reminded himself. All that mattered, he thought, perhaps a little too insistently, was that he had a duty to perform.

He turned his attention back to that duty, running his fingers across the board before him, sending a random pulse through the circuit, searching out the point at which it failed - as he had done for the last few minutes, ever since the ship had exploded into motion - and then had stopped equally quickly.

He had surmised what happened, stringing together a logical, if not necessarily comprehensive, chain of events, building on the facts he had obtained: it did not contain the specifics, of course, but after fifteen years with this crew, he knew what they would - and would not - do.

And the captain, he knew, would not put the ship into motion - at least, not at three-quarters impulse with no inertial dampeners - without giving sufficient warning. Not when he had warned them to prepare themselves for such an event only minutes before.

Which meant that either there had been a malfunction of the engines - or someone, aside from the captain, had ordered the ship into motion.

And since the computer indicated that the order had come from the bridge, there was only one logical conclusion; the saboteur was on the bridge - and in control.

And would stay in control, Data reminded himself as he hurriedly tried to re-route the circuit - again - until he was able to move command control to the battle bridge - and lock out the saboteur.

Which might take some time, Data added, searching through his memory file for another alternative route for the command circuit to follow as the new pathway, like those before, failed.

In theory, the re-routing should have been simple; the battle bridge was designed as both a back-up command center for the Enterprise as a whole and as the command site for the drive section of the ship when she separated. To facilitate changes in command, every necessary circuit, console and display on the main bridge had a duplicate on the battle bridge - and the necessary circuits to ensure a rapid and smooth change in control from one site to the other. In theory, accessing the controls should simply have been a matter of issuing a command code, redirecting control to the battle bridge - and then issuing another code to lock out everyone else.

Simple, Data thought - in theory. When the computer worked. When there was not a saboteur on the bridge, preventing him from accessing the help that the command crew would have normally provided.

And, he added as he implemented another pathway - and watched it fail - when the ship was not damaged. Specifically, he concluded as he reviewed the circuit failures one more time, charting them against the ship's schematic that he carried in his mind, it was simple when the ODN cable in conduit oh-four-seven-J was not damaged.

He frowned once more, ignorant of - or oblivious to - the emotion his face so clearly displayed. Under other circumstances, the worry so clearly displayed there would have been trivial; repairing an ODN conduit was a routine procedure, one easily done by even a first year engineering cadet.

That was, Data conceded, easily done by a cadet with the right equipment, time - and, he added, with access to the Jeffries tube where the conduit was located.

Unfortunately, he had none of those things.

He searched the console before him with his eyes, his mind playing over the possibilities - and shook his head.

Without leaving the battle bridge, he could not make the repair - and if he left the bridge and the protective environment, it would be as vulnerable to the saboteur as the main bridge had become. He could not permit that; he could not permit the ship to fall under the control of the saboteur and the Breen; there had to be another option.

There were always options, Andile had said - not necessarily good ones, but options nonetheless.

Data looked over the board, hesitating, reviewing Starfleet protocols, reviewing the history of every ship of the Federation that faced a similar problem, reviewing the ship's logs and what the captain had done in the past, searching out his options on saving the ship...

But sometimes, he realized as he thought, saving the ship wasn't possible.

Sometimes, neither was saving the crew.

He hesitated.

There were always options, Andile had told him - not necessarily good ones, but options nonetheless.

He moved to the left of the console, sank to his knees, and with a smooth fluid movement that belied the strength it required, pulled the cover off the panel beneath the science console, and began to tear out the optical cables.

It was not a good option - but it was what the captain would have done; he would approve.

More importantly, Data thought, Andile would approve.

He wished he could tell her.

But that wouldn't happen now.

But perhaps...

Perhaps if she was right, if he had a soul, perhaps if there was a life after this one, he could.

"Latinum? Gold? Is that all you can think of? You know, there's more to life than material wealth, Johnny-boy," Jay replied with a smile, ignoring the jibe.

"Such as...?" Picard prompted.

"Respect," Tillerman replied. "Something Starfleet never seemed willing to give me."

"Respect is earned, Jay - not freely given, or its worth is meaningless," Picard reminded him.

"Perhaps," the New Texan conceded, "but if it's earned, it's because the opportunities were presented. Starfleet never gave me a chance to show them what I could do..."

Because you sabotaged your own career before they could give you the chances, the captain offered silently - but said only, "But selling out your own people? That's worthy of respect?"

"The Breen have different values than we do, Jean-Luc; what we're doing - fulfilling our word to them...

"What word?" Picard asked. "We promised to give them the lives of so many Starfleet officers in exchange for ending the war?" he said incredulously, unable to believe that Starfleet, despite it many excesses in the past, could sink tat low.

Tillerman shook his head condescendingly. "The agreement was... open-ended. They didn't know what they wanted then - but they would advise us in the near future. Of course, we hoped they'd never actually ask us to fulfill our end of the arrangement. But when they did... well, the price wasn't too high. They wanted us to help them in their study of human psychology. What they asked for were subjects who met certain criteria. It wasn't a pleasant idea, Johnny - and the reality of it presented us with two options: act on our word, and prove we are worthy of their respect - or deny the agreement, and face another war. A war we can't win, a war that would devastate the Federation."

"A thousand lives for a billion," Picard repeated softly. The way Jay put it, it almost seemed reasonable.

_It is reasonable, _ Andile replied, _unless you're a part of the fourteen hundred._

_Are you ready?_ he thought.

_No, I just felt like chit-chatting..._

_Lieutenant..._

_Of course I'm ready!_ she snapped back. _Just trying to catch my breath. You try burning a hole through a duranium lattice..._

He felt her catch her breath, then reach for the power control, and felt the stabs of pain running up her hands as she managed to flip the toggle, pain searing through her palms as she grasped the phase welder and turned it toward the hull again.

_Can you do it, Lieutenant?_

_Unless you have another option,_ she replied, then added, _and what happened to that field promotion?_

_Apologies... Commander,_ he replied.

_That's better. The hull's softening... I've got to make it big enough to get through at once, or I'm not going to be able to access the pressure sensors before he sees the light._

"There's more, of course," Tillerman continued.

"More lives?" Picard echoed, allowing a hint of horror to his voice - and catching a glimpse of the engineering board out of the corner of his eye. He moved slightly, giving a soft grunt of pain, and shifted his weight slightly.

"No. Not lives," Tillerman said, turning as well, keeping the man directly in front of him - and in range of his phaser. "More advantages - for the Federation and for Starfleet - for making this agreement. Once we've proven ourselves, once the Breen have come to understand us, they're going to want more formal relations - primarily with us - and through us, with the rest of the Federation. Think about it, Johnny; we'll have the strength and resources of the Breen homesphere on our side."

"Resources?" Picard scoffed. "The Breen have, what - a dozen systems? What resources can they bring?"

"A dozen?" Tillerman laughed. "Try a hundred thousand - dozen. The Breen homesphere is a thousand times older than ours - and a thousand times as vast. What they can bring to our association is beyond your understanding!" he insisted.

A hundred thousand dozen? Picard echoed silently, bewildered. A million planets? How? Yes, the amount of space they had claimed was vast, filling much of the Beta quadrant - but even the wildest estimation of the experts at Starfleet had put their domain at a thousandth of that size.

"A thousand times our size?" he repeated. "And with a thousand times the resources - and a thousand time the number of resident species as well?" Picard asked.

If that were true - if the Breen were, indeed, as large as Jay claimed, they could have easily trounced the Dominion - and the Federation, the Cardassians, and damned near everyone else - in the last war.

If they had wanted, he added.

If, he hastily added, what Jay was saying was true.

"Then why do they need us?" Picard pressed, grim suspicion dawning in his mind - along with a growing concern over how Jay would react when the possibility sank in. "With their resources, what could we possibly give them?"

A glib response started to come to Jay's lips - then the man stopped. "They're... students. Scientists. They want to learn about us..." he began - but the answer sounded weak, and Picard thought, Jay was beginning to realize it.

There was nothing in the history of the two species' encounters to suggest that research and scientific study were at the heart of the Breen's encounters with the Federation - and cultures that were as old as the Breen, as isolated, as potentially xenophobic as the Breen seemed to be... A peaceful fusion of their two societies was not likely, Picard thought.

A momentary look of panic crossed Tillerman's face as the same thought registered in his mind - only to be replaced by one of absolute - but transitory - certainty. "They don't want or need anything from us, Johnny. They're doing this - at our behest!"

"Indeed? Then why agree now? If scientific curiosity was all that mattered to them, why not approach us a hundred years ago?" Picard asked gently. "Why wait so long? Why wait until the middle of a war? Why turn down all our previous attempts to make contact? And why us, Jay? Why not approach the Cardassians, the Ferengi, the Romulans...?"

Tillerman stared at the man, his words registering - but his mind fighting the meaning - and the truth the threatened to reveal.

"The Breen..."

"Jay," Picard interrupted calmly, "they want you to sacrifice fourteen hundred of your own people. What kind of relationship can start with a request to kill fourteen hundred people?" he asked.

Tillerman shook his head, his eyes wide with denial. "You wouldn't all die. Some of you might survive... and that's all they want..."

"For now," Picard countered. "But later? A month from now, a year from now? How many people will you sell for peace, Jay? How many people will the Breen require? How many lives - and deaths - will be enough?"

The New Texan stared at him, the terrible truth of the Breen registering at last - and the terrible truth of his fate.

But even as his eyes blazed with mounting terror, the captain's voice, still calm, quiet and measured, broke through again. "Everything that's happened, everything you've done, was under orders, Jay. It doesn't excuse what you did - but the charges would be reduced..."

"No! I can't go back! I..." His eyes darted around the bridge, searching out an escape.

And when he found none, Picard realized, he would take the route he had already found.

"We'll find a way, Jay," he tried to assure the man, taking a step closer to the ambassador. "A minimum security facility on a remote planet..."

"No! You don't understand! They can't let me back. I know what they did... Hell, I know who they are! They can't afford to let me live..."

"We'll protect you, Jay!" Picard insisted. "Tell me what happened, who was behind this. As soon as what's happened is known, as soon as it becomes public knowledge, they won't be able to afford to let anything happen to you!"

"You don't know them! They've killed people, sent people to their deaths, sent entire teams one-way missions, just to ensure their careers..."

A light flashed in the recesses of Picard's memory, then dimmed, muted by the needs of the moment.

"No," Picard insisted. "I know people who can shelter you, protect you until it's time to testify... the JAG office could grant you immunity, a new identity..."

Jay began to shake his head, then started to turn away...

_Hurry, Commander!_ he shouted wordlessly, then barked aloud, "Jay!"

The tall man turned back to look at his old acquaintance.

"We can find a way – we can keep you safe..." Picard insisted.

Andile thumbed the power control to its maximum, ignoring the molten metal that was spattering back at her – then suddenly looked up, her eyes scanning the depths of space, searching out the brilliant reflection of an approaching ship over the metallic sheen of the Enterprise's hull - and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

But the voices in her head... Gods, the voices!

Strong, loud... louder...

And getting clearer.

Ignore them, she screamed at her mind, focus on your work.

But they were so loud... so clear...

_Commander!_

_A few more seconds..._

_We don't have a few more seconds..._

_Almost through..._ she told Picard, her thoughts coming across in ragged gasps. _Almost... Gods, that's it!_

He felt her drop the welder, the sudden release of weight almost as real for him as it was for her, felt the surge of heat as she dropped through the hole in the outer fabric of the hull still glowing with heat...

_I'm through..._

"No matter who is behind this, Jay, we can find a way to protect you..."

_Deactivate the alarm!_ he shouted silently.

_Doing it... got it!_

Even as he continued to talk, Picard risked a glance at the engineering console - and felt a wave of relief as he realized the pressure sensor was not illuminated. He felt the tension drop from his shoulders - then reminded himself that getting into the ship was only a small part of the battle.

_You're going to have to make your way to the battle bridge, Commander,_ he reminded her.

_On my way,_ she replied.

Picard sighed, relieved - then turned his attention to the man before him, knowing his work was still unfinished. If he could persuade Jay...

... but it was too late.

"No," Jay was saying, shaking his head, his calm returning even as Picard realized he had dismissed the possibility of betrayal - both from the Breen and his own superiors - and his resolve grew firm once more. "There aren't any other possibilities. And," he turned, looking at the viewscreen, knowing it was no better than a viewport now - and yet looking at it with certainty of the future it brought, "it wouldn't matter even if there were a way. It's over – for all of us. They'll be here soon, Johnny."

"Commander!" Geordi shouted over the voices of the dozens of engineers hurrying through Engineering. "I've got a pressure drop!"

"Where?"

"Aft shuttlebay elevators... what the hell...?" he added, staring at the board.

"What is it?" Riker asked, moving to the console where Geordi had been standing.

"It was right here - a pressure alarm - but there's nothing now," he added.

Riker studied the panel - then looked at the engineer. "Self-repair?"

Geordi shook his head. "No. Even if pressure had been re-established, the light would continue to blink until it was reset at the site. One of Biji's safeties, to make sure the problem was solved; in the case of puncture, the control has to be manually reset, to ensure that it was repaired."

Riker looked at the engineer, then tapping his badge. "Worf. Get a security detail. Meet me at the battle bridge."

"Commander?" Geordi said.

"She's got to take control of the ship, Geordi - and where better than the battle bridge?_

"But the control's aren't functioning - and Data's filled the room with something to prevent just that!" the engineer reminded him.

"But she doesn't know that, Commander. No; she'll make for the battle bridge - and try to take control from there," Will replied. "And from the shuttlecraft elevator, she can make it in a few minutes - faster than your repair team can get there."

"And faster than you can," the engineer reminded him.

Will nodded. "I know. But once she gets there, I can stop her from going anywhere else." He pulled out his phaser, checked the charge, put it back in the holster, and tapped his badge again. "Worf, tell your team to have phasers at the ready; if they see Lt. Andile, have them shoot to stun... first."

"Sir?" Worf's voice returned, distorted by the crackle of static, silently demanding clarification.

"We've lost enough crew to her already," Riker said grimly. "I'm not going to risk losing another one. If need be... shoot to kill."


	115. Chapter 115

**Chapter 115**

"Gods' cursed gravity," Andile muttered to herself as she jammed the four foot long phase welder into the narrow accessway, then, with a grunt of effort, lifted the power supply up and wedged it in beside the welder.

As she had walked the length of the ship's hull, she had only had to concern herself with the mass of the two instruments - but the moment she had lowered them back into the hole she had gouged out of the pristine shell of the ship, they had come under the influence of the ship's gravity once more - and once more, her forty kilos had barely been up to task of lifting equipment that weighed almost as much as she did.

Suddenly confronted by weight as well as mass, she had faltered halfway through the arduous task of lowering them into the opening, her failing strength and nerveless fingers losing their grip on the equipment and sending it falling; had there been air as well as gravity, they would have landed in the interior passage with a thud - and possibly they had sent a resounding echo throughout the adjacent shuttlecraft bay, she worried for a moment - but even if the bay wasn't abandoned, as it should have been, strange noises would have been the rule after the ship's brief but wild ride through space.

Her collision with the bottom of the passage was probably no less noisy - but it was equally unspectacular; like the equipment, she reminded herself, she was tough and hard to break - and after a quick check of the supply, the welder, and her own body, she reminded herself there was far more serious business awaiting her attention.

Despite the darkness in the small space, it took the engineer only a moment to find the accessway opening - and only a moment later to burn off the cover with the welder.

Pushing the power supply and the welder a few feet into the now-open corridor, she raised herself to its lip and squeezed herself in alongside the equipment, flipping on the power supply as she passed it.

This is going to be the tricky part, she thought to herself as she found a place to lay down on the accessway floor, pulling the welder atop her body, tensing her stomach muscles to form a flat surface for the welder and to support her raised head, bracing the welder's butt against her ribs, pinioning the barrel between her knees. Keep it tight, she cautioned herself; keep the beam from moving on its own - and by the gods, keep it off the power supply.

And, she added, pray the corridor melts through and collapses before the barrel melts through the suit. For that matter, she reminded herself grimly, hope the corridor doesn't collapse on top of me while I'm at it.

Unlikely, she added; admittedly, aiming a phase welder with her knees was tricky - but it wasn't the first time she had done something like it.

Looking down, she carefully maneuvered her hand to the handle, having to do it by sight since her fingers could no longer respond to any sensation, then pushed her numbed fingers inside the control handle. Her fingers were beyond being able to feel the control on their own - but there was no need for finesse this time, no intricate or delicate work; just turned the damned thing on, melt the ceiling panel until it turned to slag - then back out.

Back out - through a corridor I haven't been in in years, she reminded herself, in the dark, and with only a few minutes of air left.

No problem, she muttered caustically, jamming her hand hard against the firing mechanism - and watching as the red beam streamed from the barrel.

Red - but not red enough, she grumbled to herself; the crystals must be out of alignment. Probably happened when I dropped the damned thing, she added, not having noticed the color when they had used the welder before. When we're done here, I'll realign the crystal; maybe a redesign of the crystal's matrix, she added, wondering how often an average engineer dropped a phase welder...

She shook her head, half laughing, half-chastising herself; the ship's in trouble, the Breen are... the gods know where, but too damned close... half the crew has been hurt - and I'm redesigning a fucking welder matrix assembly.

Flexing her knees slightly, she guided the beam across the top of the panel, watching as it began to glow, then expertly lowering the focal point of the beam, moving it down slowly and letting the panel sag under its own weight, neatly closing off the corridor.

Now to seal it, she thought, straightening her legs, ignoring the growing heat between her thighs as the welder pressed against them, using her feet to maneuver the beam against the slowly closing gap, silently urging the metal to hurry its closing.

Don't rush it, she chided herself; let the opening close on its own; try to rush it, and the beam might nick the power supply - and you're going to do the ship no bloody good when you've been blasted out through a new hole in the hull - or blasted into a puree against the inside, she added.

Another inch...

She couldn't hear the sudden hiss of gas racing into the corridor, couldn't feel its cool breeze against her e-suit covered flesh - but the faint ripple of the fabric of the suit was unmistakable. The passage had sealed - and the life support system was flooding the air with fresh air.

Instantly, she slapped her benumbed hand against the inside of the control handle, terminating the beam before it melted through the wall and blasted another hole into space - a hole she might not be able to repair this time - slapping her palm against her head, opening the control vent.

Air, sweet and cool, flooded into the suit, filling her lungs with the scent of mustiness and dust - stale and yet ever-so sweet to her parched lungs - and filling her body with a bone shivering chill.

Too close to the hull, she reminded herself; this passage was never intended to be used for any repairs - and while life support might keep the air supply intact and breathable, it could do nothing about the temperature.

Regretfully, she closed the vent, then rolled onto her belly and began the long crawl to the battle bridge.

"If we're going to stop her, we're going to have to get to her before she reaches the battle bridge," Riker said to his communicator badge - and, with luck, to the Klingon Security Chief listening at the other end.

Luck was an essential part of the communication system, he knew; this deep in the bowels of the Enterprise, there was no guarantee that the jury-rigged communications system was functioning - indeed, even when the system was in full function, there were places on the ship that were silent, safe from the intrusion of command and responsibility.

Not that I ever sought them out, Riker thought to himself as he pulled himself up another level of rungs in the Jeffries tube, ignoring the safety protocols that called for him to close off each level before proceeding, climbing the levels between decks as quickly as he could, knowing safety was a transient thing, today above most days - and growing more tentative with every passing minute.

I never really cared to hide from the responsibilities of my job, he repeated; I knew these places were here - and I knew enough people who sought them out, aching for a moment or two of peace - but it was always more exciting to be working, to be the first officer, to be on the bridge - or an away mission - or even doing the damnably interminable paperwork... it didn't matter; it was who I was.

I was the first officer on the Enterprise! And, damn it, it was enough.

Or so I thought, he added, pulling himself through the next hatchway, settling himself on the firm deckplate, feeling the ache in his feet ease for a moment as he caught his breath - then reached for the next rung. But when I learned that this was all I could be - when everything that had seemed enough suddenly was also my limitation - suddenly, I wanted more, he told himself.

And not just being a captain of a freighter - even with Deanna, he thought, ignoring the pain that stabbed through his heart at the thought of her name; I wanted my own ship, my own Starfleet ship... I wanted, he admitted to himself with an honesty he had denied himself for too long, to be the captain of this ship.

Of course, it was unlikely to have happened; even in my fantasies, I could never see myself shining in the shadow cast by the captain; it would take work - hard work - and time, as master of my own crew, time to create my own legends before I could ever master this ship.

But that, he thought with a final flash of honesty, was what I have always wanted.

And if I can't have that - well, I'll be damned if I let anything happen to her. Not if I can prevent it.

"Even if she precedes us to the battle bridge, Commander, Cmdr. Data's defenses would prevent her completing any act of sabotage after her intrusion," Worf's static-crackled voice pointed out.

"Yes - and crawling through an accessway filled with berezine vapors is a sure way to kill yourself. Except she's still here, Worf. Let's not underestimate her, Worf; she hasn't survived eighty years in Starfleet without having learned to be ready for the unexpected."

"She may not, however, be prepared for the fact that there is a damaged conduit," Worf countered.

"And that may be our saving grace. By the time she's realized what's happened, she'll either have to face the issue of repairing it - which is going to take time - or trying to assume control from somewhere else on the ship - both of which present us with the possibility of reaching her before she can leave the battle bridge."

Riker heard a grunt of agreement from the Security officer - then heard a sharp string of Klingon invectives.

"Worf! What's wrong?" he barked into his communicator.

"The passage in corridor Seven Alpha is blocked by a fallen strut. The ceiling panels have fallen in on it, and there are several panels with shorted-out circuits. We're going to have to go back to the junction and try a different approach," he growled angrily, barking orders at the other men to turn around.

"If Seven Alpha is damaged, then you can bet that the levels below it are damaged as well. We can't waste the time checking them all, Worf; I'm going to move laterally until I'm past your location, then climb up the auxillary lift shaft," he announced. "With any luck, the same blockage will slow the lieutenant down, and I'll get to the bridge ahead of her."

"We will attempt to move around the blockage, Commander," Worf replied, "and meet you at the battle bridge as quickly as possible. But Commander, do not hesitate to protect yourself; she is the _Sogh veqlargh_; she capable of treachery beyond your imagining," he added bitterly.

I damned well aware of what she can do, Will thought to himself, his soul aching at the absence of his Imzadi - and knowing equally well where that ache came from.

"Don't worry, Worf; I'm not taking any chances."

Not with the ship or the crew... or the lieutenant.

She pulled herself another few feet - then lay back against the wall of the accessway, exhausted. Reaching up, she pressed her hand against the vent control, preferring a few breaths of the bitterly cold air over the increasingly damp and cloying air inside her suit - but her hand refused to work.

She stared at the gloved appendage, then pressed it against her helmet, watching in mild amusement as the fingers bent - but completely unable to sense any movement or pressure from within.

Gone, she thought; I guess I should be happy I had them this long. Got me inside, at least - but I'm not going to be able to do anything with them when I get there.

So why am I going? she asked wearily, laying her head down on the accessway floor, and closing her eyes.

_Andile! You have a job to do! People are depending on you and you are letting them down! Andile! Filth!_

Yes, she thought resignedly, exhaustedly, I am. I'm letting them down. As I always have. And maybe... maybe it's for the best. I never seem to make things better. Maybe... maybe this time they'll be better off without me.

She shivered in the damp and rapidly chilling atmosphere of her suit - and closed her eyes.

It wasn't a Breen instrument, Picard thought, as he watched Jay Tillerman draw a small device from his pocket; it couldn't be.

The Breen were a cold and brutal people, he told himself; they should make things that were representative of their coldness and brutality. They should not, he added, studying the small device Jay was handling, be responsible for designing something like that.

But he knew equally well that Starfleet hadn't designed the small instrument; Starfleet was noted for the practicality and efficiency of its designs - but not for the subtle beauty this device displayed.

Smaller than a palm phaser, it seemed specifically designed for Jay's hand, fitting easily in his palm, small indentations aligning perfectly with his fingers; with an almost unnoticeable touch, the device opened - and with equally subtle touches, Tillerman brought the device to life.

"Communicator," Picard said, not recognizing the beautiful instrument - but recognizing, instead, the way in which Jay handled the device; it wasn't that dissimilar from the old, hand-held devices that had been part and parcel of Earth's history, from the twenty-first century into the twenty-fourth.

Jay nodded. "In part, though it has other functions as well."

"Then you've been in contact with the Breen throughout this mission?" he asked.

The ambassador shook his head. "That wouldn't have been possible - at least not with this machine," he said, looking down at the delicate instrument. "When I had to talk with them earlier, I had to risk tapping into the ship's external communications network. Risky - but your crew seemed pre-occupied with other issues," he said with a smile.

"Like the explosion in the computer core?" Picard said.

"That was not the original plan," Tillerman agreed softly. "Hell, changing the computer system was not in the original plan - but we needed someone in position - and Sandra was the only operative we had available. Installing the computer on such short notice was the only way we could get her in place, but no one realized the system hadn't been fully tested - but then again, neither had she. In the end, they both failed.

"Sandra was weak," he added. "Lovely, quite brilliant - but undisciplined. She had brilliant ideas - but not the discipline to see them through. She needed someone to hold her hand, guide her, see her through every step of the way... she was the greatest flaw in this mission. And she did fail," he added quietly.

"When things began to go wrong... she panicked. I calmed her down, for a time - but I knew it wouldn't last. If she ever realized she'd been the one to kill the other technicians, she'd break - and when she did, you'd know the truth. I couldn't risk that - not so early in the plan - so I simply changed the timing mechanism on the bomb."

And killed her, Picard thought, stunned at how easily his former roommate could dismiss committing a murder. But Jay was past guilt, past shame - but not past bragging, he added.

"And used the chaos that ensued to communicate with the Breen?" Picard pressed, hoping to glean some trace of information from the man while he still could.

Tillerman nodded. "A risk - but one I had to take. I had to let them know the status of the mission - and this device, while undetectable by your ship's sensors, also has a limited range."

"Undetectable?" one of the other officers interrupted, clearly surprised. "How is that possible?"

A shadow of anger crossed Tillerman's face - then faded as he decided there was no subterfuge intended; the question was born of genuine curiosity, not guile.

"The Breen use technology far different from yours, Lieutenant. Like much of their equipment, this communicator has no power supply of its own - a technology eminently suited to space," he added, almost boastfully. "Instead of depending on a self-contained source, it draws on surrounding energy fields, automatically conforming to ambient energy patterns. Undetectable - but for a corresponding drop in the power flow. At the level of a single communicator, drawing on the power supply of a warp-capable ship, the loss is beyond detection of even the most sophisticated sensor systems. Unfortunately, that means its range is equally limited; there was no point in using it before, since the Breen homeship would have been no more able to sense it than your ship was - and, of course there was no need. After the explosion and the fire, Johnny here was more than willing to let me turn the ship's sensors into a more than adequate homing beacon."

"Which worked until you moved the ship," Picard continued for him.

Tillerman nodded. "Unfortunately, we left your shuttlecraft - and the sensors web they created - well behind. By now, I suspect they're long gone - and I know the Breen want to spend as little time in Federation space as possible. So now, I'll direct them here," he added, taking a quick glance at the device, as if to ensure that it was correctly set - then slid it back into his pocket.

"And when they get here, they'll kill us," Picard reminded him, his voice growing edgy with the anxiety. "They don't have to; Jay, you don't have to be responsible for the deaths of all these people! You still have time. You can turn off that device - and save these people!"

Tillerman look at the man - and for the first time, Picard saw compassion in the man's eyes.

"Johnny... Jean-Luc, I don't have a choice. If I don't fulfill my mission, my life is over. And... the Breen are not cruel people," he said reassuringly. "They want to study us, to understand us - but not out of cruelty or perversion. They want to know us because they want this to be a lasting peace! Once they understand us, once they know us, they can do what they need to in order to create a peace that endures between our two civilizations."

Endures - but at what price? Picard wondered. At what cost? What kind of peace, he asked Jay silently; the peace of a total subjugation - or the peace of the grave?

"They wanted five hundred subjects," Jay continued, "but they may not need them all," he added, hope - but not certainty - tingeing his voice. "After they study some, they may have the information they need - and even those who are studied... They're not cruel, Jean-Luc; they won't let anyone suffer; they're not going to torture anyone," he added.

"No," Picard conceded. "Torturing Starfleet officer seems to have been the purview of the Federation."

"It's not the first time the Federation made a hard decision, Johnny - and it won't be the last," Tillerman countered philosophically.

No, Picard replied silently - because, like so many other 'hard' decisions, no one, outside of the Federation will ever know about it. It will be kept silent - like the lieutenant's engineering mission to Cardassia was, like our journey to Celtris III, like how many other 'hard' decisions that cost God knows how many lives.

Kept silent, because silence bought them the safety to try again; kept silent, because if no one knew that who had done the actual work or what the real cost had been, the politicians who ran the Federation - and Starfleet - could claim the glory for themselves; kept silent, because, he added grimly, people did not want to admit the horrors that existed behind - and, all too often, throughout - the very fibers of the organization they revered and cherished.

Oh, yes, there had been outrage and fury when the revelation of the failed attempt to destroy the Ba'ku homeworld had become public knowledge - but that outrage would have faded quickly enough had the plan succeeded - and millions were granted health and a longer life through the manufactured metaphasic radiation the Sona'a had gathered. But the plan had failed - and worse; it had failed, and the plan itself had become public knowledge. The manipulations of the Federation and Starfleet had become known; they had been publicly shamed, criticized and rebuked... but, Picard reminded himself, they hadn't been stopped.

And they never would be, he added with a feeling of growing despair; not while some people - not while Starfleet and the Federation! - put personal power and success ahead of the survival of her people.

(_...survival..._)

The thought trickled through Andile's oxygen-starved mind, touching at her consciousness.

No, she whispered back. So tired. Let me go.

(_...survival..._)

It prodded, poked, stabbing at her, refusing to let her drift back away once again.

Let me sleep.

(_...survival of your people..._) the warm, deep voice insisted.

It's not survival, she begged. It's the final option - but it's not survival. And I can't. I can't - not again. Don't want to kill them. I've killed so many...

(_...survival... survival... survival..._)

Andile gasped, her body jerking awake with a start; desperate, she slammed her deadened hand against the control vent - and felt the rush of cold air flood through the suit.

Gasping, sucking the cold, clean air deep into her lungs, she stared around her, frantic to regain her bearings - and remembered.

Get to the battle bridge, take control, charge the Breen ship - and if that doesn't work, then overload the plasma conduits...

And die.

Die, either way, she reminded herself.

Die - and everyone loses.

This peace wasn't wrong, she thought to herself; Tillerman's way to it was - but the peace itself wasn't.

Destroy this ship, kill everyone - and we never find peace with the Breen; the wars threaten again, and more die...

(_...survival..._)

She started. _Captain?_, she gasped - then shook her head, knowing it was nothing more than the dream that had filled her mind as she began to sink into the euphoric sleep of asphyxia.

A mind no longer pre-occupied by thoughts of self-hatred and loathing, a mind that no longer put duty and responsibility ahead of everything else. A mind, she realized, that could see options she had not dreamed of before - or considered.

A mind that could see - and make - the not just the hard decision, but the unbearable ones.

As it had done before.

Forgive me, she thought - then rolled to her belly and began to squirm her way out of the frigid corridor.

"Commander...?" an uncertain voice said from the central console in Engineering.

"Yes, Ensign?" Geordi replied, turning from his own position to see whatever it was that was troubling the young engineer.

"Sir, I've been re-initializing the new computer circuits as quickly as the computer staff is bringing them on-line - and we've got enough now to bring up shields - but I can't!" he said, his voice laced with panic.

Geordi smiled tolerantly, knowing full well that rookies made mistakes, usually foolish in nature - and that the young man had invariably forgotten some basic but essential step.

After all, he thought as he ran his hand over the board as he had done a thousand times before, running the familiar sequence for bringing up the shields, it was just a matter of...

"What the..." he said, incredulous, astounded as the shields failed to rise. He looked at the board beneath his fingers, ran the sequence once more - and watched as again the shields failed to cover the ship in their protective envelope.

"Are you sure there's sufficient computer capability?" he asked the young man.

"Yes, sir! I've checked with them twice - but I still can't get the shields up!"

The Chief Engineer nodded, casting a quick glance at the available processing space read-out on the computer - and realized the rookie was quite correct - there was indeed ample computer memory available.

Another conduit failure? he asked himself - but the failed conduits were located in the main pylon that connected the saucer section to the warp drive section; trying to access the control from engineering didn't require any of the circuits that ran through that part of the ship.

And this wasn't behaving like a conduit failure, he added; the signal from the generators to the shields wasn't simply stopping at a given point; instead, it was simply fading out, as if something was soaking up the energy the ship was producing.

And maybe something was, he added; this was an uncharted region of space; there could be any number of anomalies, uncharted black holes, energy sinks...

Turning to another console, he brought up the few sensors they had - and sighed in frustration.

"There's nothing out of the ordinary here," he said to himself more than to the young man at his side. "The shuttles were only able to provide us with about ten percent of our normal data stream... and these sensors are only providing us with a tenth of that..."

One one-hundredth of the information that had grown used to receiving, Geordi thought to himself; finding the right frequency was going to be like finding a needle in a haystack.

But, he reminded himself, hearing another of his mother's adages rolling through his mind, finding the needle was only possible when you looked; the odds of winning the Starfleet annual lottery may have been only one in fifty-two million - but the odds when you didn't play were none in fifty-two million. It was the one, she had told him, that made the difference.

"So let's start with what we do have," he mumbled to himself. "If there's nothing that explain the power drain on our sensors, let's try reviewing the shuttle's logs."

"But that's only ten percent of the range," the man reminded him.

"Which means, if we don't find it, that we only have eighty-nine percent left to search. It's a process of elimination, Ensign," he countered. "But don't let yourself get too focused on the ship's technology, Ensign; we do have other sensors available."

"Sir?" the man replied, thoroughly confused.

"Go to a viewport; get everyone who isn't doing something else to a viewport," he added.

"Yes sir," the man replied - then tentatively added, "And do what?"

"Look, man; look!" Geordi countered, a little frustrated. "You've got your own built-in sensors, Ensign - your eyes! Use them!"

The man stared at Geordi as if he couldn't believe the order - then, as he realized the engineer wasn't joking, spun on his heel, quickly hurrying through the room, taping others on the shoulder and sending them off as well.

Hardly high-tech, Geordi conceded - and if we have to wait until we can see them, we're dead. But at least we won't be taken unprepared, he added, reaching down, touching his phaser, confirming he still had it. The Breen aren't going to capture us without a fight.

If, he added solemnly, a thought flickering through his mind, they had to. He stared into space for a moment - then turned back to the control console.

Data stared at the helm control, watching the sensor read-out as it showed the power flow to the battle bridge continuing to drop, his hands racing across the board, trying to seek out the source and curtail it - only to find himself a second too slow, a moment too late - and the flow continuing to drop, faster and faster, the ship's power supply flooding away in an ever swelling rush.

But... to where? he wondered, running as many internal diagnostics as the ship's limited computer could muster - and finding nothing.

If he were an emotional man, he might have lowered his head into his hands in frustration, drawing his fingers through his thick hair as worry and panic built in his soul - but, he reminded himself, he was not an emotional man.

Nonetheless, fifteen years of practicing human mannerisms had left the action as ingrained as frowning. He let his head sag, a part of him hoping the action might bring about the moment of inspiration that it had for his fellow officers - then shook it, knowing that he, unlike his fellow crewmates, was a creature that was no more than the sum of his parts; if he had no emotion, then neither could he have inspiration.

He raised his head, knowing that all he would have was his logic and his intellect - and found himself staring at the viewscreen.

He considered both the image before him and the currents rushing through his mind - and came to a conclusion.

Either my emotion chip control switch has failed -

Or my emotions are now...mine.

He studied the scene on the viewscreen a moment longer.

So this, he thought to himself calmly, is fear.

"My God! Cmdr. LaForge! Come here! Hurry!"

"Captain!"

Hearing the terrified voice of one of the younger bridge officers, Picard turned his attention away from Jay - and found himself transfixed by the image on the screen.

Seeing the dumb-struck expression on the man's face, Tillerman turned as well - then turned back, a smile on his face.

"I told you, Jean-Luc; they've let you see what they wanted you to see. Now look at them - as they really are."

Picard stared at the screen, stared at the face of his enemy's ship - and nodded.

They were...

Beautiful.


	116. Chapter 116

**Chapter 116**

"Damn her," Andile whispered angrily.

It wasn't fair, she complained to herself; the drugs should have helped her, should have made it possible for her to talk with the captain, share information back and forth, to facilitate the installation of the light array - even to extend the time she had before her hands and feet succumbed to the extreme cold of space - and they had, she reminded herself.

But they shouldn't have done this!

She had spent a lifetime - a lifetime beyond the understanding of these humans, a lifetime that had transcended the duration of entire cultures of this race - teaching herself limits, teaching herself to hear only what her ears perceived, to feel only what her heart said - and to see only through her own eyes!

But now... now it was all coming back, rushing back, racing through her consciousness without control, and all courtesy of the neurotransmitters that should have saved her - saved them all! - but had instead doomed her to return to this hell of hers, a hell she had escaped for so long: seeing through the eyes of those around her, hearing through their ears, sensing through their hands, their hearts, their loves, their losses - living in her hell - and theirs, shared vicariously, all part of her soul once again.

She closed her eyes, wishing the gods would hear her prayer to make it stop - but knowing the prayers of the andile never reached the heavens.

And the vision - and all that went with it - continued, growing stronger, more overwhelming with every second.

She closed her eyes - and gave in to it.

The ship was... exquisite, she heard Picard thought, feeling his awe at the incredible beauty of the vessel before him - and feeling the anger and the fear as well.

A delicate web of gossamer filaments stretching out thread-like tendrils toward his ship, gently offering themselves as if in invitation.

Ethereal, he thought, in all the intricate meanings of that word: otherworldly, ghostly... unearthly.

Unearthly, indeed; nothing like this had ever been born on Earth.

Humans didn't design on such ethereal terms, he knew; out ships are solid, functional, practical... beautiful in their own way, yes - but never like this ship.

We simply don't think like... that, he added, staring at the gossamer filaments.

And perhaps, he thought, that is why we don't understand them; our minds, like our ships, are too different.

"A Breen ship?" Picard said, turning to Tillerman for confirmation.

"Sir, that's not a Breen ship," one of the bridge officer's interrupted. "I know; I've studied every ship design in from the Dominion War - and there's nothing in Federation records that shows a Breen ship like this." She hesitated a moment. "In fact, there isn't anything like it... in any records, anywhere," she added tentatively.

"There isn't," Tillerman agreed, smiling at the woman - then turned to the captain. "The Breen were extremely careful in which ships they allowed to be seen before - and during - the war. This wasn't one of them. No, the Breen have a firm grasp on the human psyche; they knew that if the Federation had seen a ship like this, they wouldn't have believed them to be the potential adversary they are - and the way humans reacted would have been different."

"Then our interactions with them... it was all a test?" Picard ventured.

"Not a test. Call it... a typical scientific standardization of approach," Tillerman explained. "When the Breen first encountered other space-faring species, they were seen as an enemy; an adversary. They studied those races, came to understand them - but, like all good scientists, came to understand that the initial perception colors the long term relationship. In order to maintain a baseline of comparison, they made sure that all initial contacts thereafter were on the same footing."

Exemplary scientific protocol, Picard thought - for research. Not for dealing with sentient beings!

"And so they built the ships we saw - because in their minds, we would perceive the appearance of strength with an attitude of aggression?" Picard asked - then gestured at the viewscreen. "And these? They were designed to look like this... Why? To grant us hope where there is none, to craft an image of... gentleness?"

"Hardly," Tillerman replied, a hint of contempt in his voice. "That, Johnny, is a Breen homeship," he explained. "It wasn't designed with humans - or any other species, other than the Breen - in mind. They designed this ship long before they met humanity, before they thought to craft this vessel's design to meet our psychological needs. They designed it not for our needs - but for theirs. For their psychology - perhaps," he conceded, then added, "For practicality - unquestionably."

He lowered his hand to his pocket, drawing out the communicator once more, and held it aloft. "I told you how the communicator draws energy from the fields around it? Well, multiply that by a million times - and you see how the Breen can put that strange technology to more practical applications."

"Draining the energy from ships?" one of the med techs asked. "Captain, if they can do that, we could lose life support..."

Tillerman laughed softly, shaking his head. "If that was what they wanted, they could have done it without ever coming into view, my dear. Drawing off energy like leeches sucking up a blood meal - then sailing away, sated and unnoticed. No, their energy web is able to draw enough energy out of nearby space to power all the functions of the ship."

Picard frowned to himself.

If the Breen could drain the energy from ship's life support, he thought, then it could drain the energy from whatever shields Geordi had been able to raise just as easily. Drain it from our ship - and gain the energy for their own vessel.

And weapons would be no more effective, he realized; if Jay was telling the truth - and in his current position, he had no reason to lie - and if his understanding of Breen ship design was correct, firing phaser or photon torpedoes would simply feed their attackers.

Energy webs were not a new idea, he reminded himself; the theory had been bandied about for generations - but human technology - human physics, he amended - had never shown them to be practical.

Ambient energy in space might have been sufficient to power the basic functions of a ship - but not propulsion; not in a ship that moved a warp speed. Not unless they had a steady supply of solar winds, electromagnetic radiation - and the occasional feast from an exploding supernova.

And yet this ship had moved at warp speed, he reminded himself; the Breen might have been slow to find them, but if they'd been limited to impulse, they wouldn't have arrived for days - or weeks, he thought. No, they had warp - or something akin to it - and warp meant a separate propulsion system.

But, he added, possibly not a very good one.

How long had it taken the Breen to get here? he asked himself. Far longer than they had anticipated, he reminded himself, almost - almost! - granting them the opportunity to escape. A few more hours...

He raised a brow in silent possibility.

Had that been part of their plan as well? Were they, as Jay indicated, truly masters of human psychology - and had their delay tactic simply been but another manipulation of their minds and emotions, to be studied and catalogued later?

If so, it had been a damned foolish gamble, Picard told himself. A few more hours - and their escape would have been made good - and the Breen, rather than finding themselves facing a single, virtually defenseless ship, would have found themselves facing a border filled with angry Starfleet vessels.

No, he decided, it was not a gamble that they had played - but rather then far simpler fact that their engines were limited.

Not in their warships, he reminded himself - there, the Breen technology rivaled the Federation's - but this was, Jay had said, an older vessel. And probably, he added, with older technology. Technology where lower warp speeds were the norm - and energy webs, he added, were a necessity.

Low warp, low generator output... they would have needed the web to provide power to the basic ship's functions - possibly even to initiate the warp field itself! he thought eyeing the encroaching tendrils warily, wondering if the prolonged journey through the neutral zone between their races had drained the ship more than Jay suspected.

Indeed, the web-like fingers reaching out to their vessel may not have been doing so in some random pattern, but rather seeking them out purposefully, yearning for the power, the energy, that the Enterprise, even in her beleaguered state, exuded.

Energy, he realized in a flash of understanding and horror, that was about to be massively amplified.

Destroying the Enterprise might preserve the crew from whatever fate they were about to face - but his plan, his hope, of taking the enemy with them, of leaving sufficient physical evidence in the debris field to alert Starfleet Command - or at least those who weren't intimately involved with this abuse of his ship and crew - of their final, ultimate fate - and, more importantly, to the involvement of the Breen - would be utterly wasted.

Indeed, a matter/anti-matter detonation would do quite the opposite, providing the Breen with a wealth of energy - energy to power their engines, energy to escape - and if their webs were as efficient as Jay insinuated, possibly sufficient energy to clean the surrounding area of any trace of debris.

Blow up the ship without a trace of debris, he realized, and the fate of the Enterprise remains unknown; disappear without any indications of what had become of them - and those in the Federation use the event to bolster their own positions; destroy the ship - and risk having the Federation consign another ship, another crew, to the same fate the Breen had in mind for them.

No! he railed silently. I will not let this happen! _Commander!_

Andile lay back exhausted, bruised, pain-ridden - and nodded, relieved. She hadn't wanted to destroy the ship; she hadn't wanted to end her life with their deaths - though, she reminded herself grimly, the alternative - her alternative - wasn't much better. _I can hear you; I heard what you were thinking,_ she replied wearily. _And don't worry. I'm not going to..._

_You don't understand,_ he interrupted.

She sat up, the helmet of her e-suit cracking hard against the accessway. _What?_ she replied, startled by the anxiety in his voice.

_Data,_ he replied, his own thoughts spurred by adrenaline - but growing quieter as fatigue took its toll on him as well.

_What about Data?_ she replied cautiously.

_He's been my second officer for fifteen years. He knows the way I think. He knows..._

Her eyes widened. _He knows that if the situation is desperate, you would not allow your people to be captured,_ she said, understanding - and feeling her own sense of horror growing.

_If it comes to it,_ Picard thought, _he will destroy the ship, rather than let the crew be captured. I won't let them be used - but neither am I willing to allow the Breen to profit from this debacle!_

Nor I, she replied silently, wondering if the drugs had affected her ability to block her outgoing thoughts as effectively as it had destroyed her ability to block those coming in to her - but the silence that followed gave no indication. If he knew...

She shook her head, dismissing the thought - the fact, the inescapable truth that faced her - and opened her mind once again. _I can stop him,_ she replied.

_It won't be easy; in light of the Breen ship approaching, he'll have increased the defense systems. Force fields around the battle bridge..._

_There are other ways in,_ she countered. _I am the Pharoah's Engineer after all._

A puzzled silence greeted her.

_Ask Cmdr. Riker to explain. Let it suffice to say: I built the damned thing; I know of other ways to get in there,_ she said - only to feel another silence - this one awkward and tense.

_What now?_ she asked.

Cmdr. Riker..._ he started hesitantly - then reminded himself that he owed her the truth, unvarnished and raw. _Will may be attempting to stop you, Lieutenant,_ Picard thought hesitantly. _Counselor Troi has been injured..._

_And he'll have sensed that,_ she realized.

_He's unaware of the situation here - and in light of that..._

_He'll assume I was the saboteur after all - and he'll be gunning for me,_ she sighed. _Any other good news?_

Picard glanced at the viewscreen, studying the tendrils approaching the ship - and nodded to himself. When they touched the screens...

_I think you should limit yourself to the accessways as much as possible, Lieutenant,_ he informed her grimly. _It may render you the only person capable of free movement around the ship._

_Oh, bloody hell!_ she swore angrily. _You think they're about to board us!_

_I think we have to operate on that assumption. When we lose shields, we'll be subject to their whims. Whether that is to board us - or destroy the ship outright - or something in between, I don't know. But as long as you can remain at liberty..._

_I understand,_ she replied.

He nodded, feeling the bone-crushing weariness that filled her body - or was it his? He wondered, finding the margins between their existences fading with every passing moment.

He fought the sensation, determined to maintain his identity, his own thoughts, his own reason, his strength of purpose, separate and apart from hers. They were separate people, they needed to remain separate, to maintain their own identities, their own existences...

And, he conceded, he still had his doubts.

He pulled back - and felt a sensation at the base of his thoughts, like sticky fingers pulling away from a candy - and felt her presence loosen. Not break away completely; it was too intertwined in his thoughts, too much a part of him to be freed that easily - but less a part of him now than it had been a moment before. He took a deep breath, relishing the separation - and looked at Jay once again.

Tillerman looked back, a tired smile on his face. "They'll be in range in a few moments, Johnny. It's only going to take them a second to bring down your shields. And then?"

"And then?" Picard echoed sharply.

"How do you want to handle this?" Tillerman clarified patiently.

"How do I want to handle it?" the captain repeated. "You make it sound as if we have a choice in this, Jay."

"You do," the ambassador replied. "They can come over with a boarding party - or they can beam your people directly to the holding facilities. Quite clean, I assure you; your people will be treated well..."

"Until they're killed!" Picard snapped back.

Tillerman nodded - regretfully - though his regret seemed less for the others than for himself. "The psychological pressure of knowing the fate that awaits them could be detrimental; certainly it's going to affect the experiment's results - but having the boarding party capture them one by one, hunting them down like animals... hardly good for one's final psychological profile either. The choice is yours. Tell me what you want to do."

Picard studied the man, then looked down, silently calculating - then looked up. "Tell them... Tell them I want to negotiate."


	117. Chapter 117

**Chapter 117**

Long tendrils, so sheer, so diaphanous as to be barely visible to the human eye, drew closer to the ship, reaching out, seeking, searching, then one strand alone stretched out a bit further than the others and hesitantly, almost reluctantly, touched the ship.

For a moment, it froze as if in uncertainty - then, with what seemed to be a sigh of relief, settled more firmly against the ship, the other strands changing movement and direction to join it, rapidly adding their presence to the surface of the vessel.

"Shields going down!" Geordi barked as he watched every red light on the defense system spring into life. "I'm losing primary... secondary..." He tapped his commbadge. "Cmdr. Riker, we're losing shields!"

Riker's voice, muffled and broken by static, came back. "... cause?"

"You're breaking up, Commander," he advised the man - although he was certain his own communications were equally interrupted. "It's the Breen ship; they've got some form of energy web that's draining the shields."

"... auxiliary power..."

Geordi shook his head, knowing, even without hearing the full order, what the command was - and knowing it was pointless. "I can try - but if I'm right, those fibers are designed to soak up _any_ type of energy they encounter. The more we put into the system, the more it will take out. If we boost the shields, all we end up doing is draining our reserves faster! The only way to stop them is to break contact," he advised the distant officer, hoping he could hear - and understand - at least a portion of the advice he was giving the man "and right now, with the inertial dampeners down, we're limited to impulse - but without control..."

"Understood," came Riker's grudging, static-filled voice. "How long..."

"Not long," Geordi conceded, glancing over his board. "We hadn't restored full power yet..." He saw a meter go red, then shook his head. "That's it; they're gone," he said gruffly.

This time, there was no hesitation in Riker's response, even if half the words were missing. "Prepare... boarded... phasers... hand-to-hand... don't let... ship."

"Understood, Commander," Geordi replied, then heard the static cut off abruptly.

Another energy drain from the tendrils? He wondered - but the power display for the shuttlecraft bay showed only the same readouts as they had a few minutes before: perilously low - but unaffected.

Were the tendrils that selective, he wondered, capable of draining energy from only selected fields? Or was it simply a matter of physics: that the bays protected by their very distance from the leading edge of the ship? Or...

A thousand 'ors', Geordi reminded himself; the bane of being an engineer - and something that he did not have time for.

At least not now, he added, risking one last glance at the display board, suspecting deep in his heart, that Biji was right - as always: for every problem, there was an engineering solution.

But it would have to wait, he reminded himself, hoping he'd have time to come back to the problem. For now, he had orders to follow.

Quickly checking the charge on his own weapon, he spun in his chair, glancing around the room to make sure the others were armed as well.

"Shields are down," he informed the other crew members gathered in the room. "Internal sensors are intermittent at best; I don't know if we've been boarded - but I want everyone to proceed on the assumption that we have been - or will shortly. Dobbs, Rolanso," he barked at a human and a Pandralite, "make sure everyone's armed; I want Security stationed at every door, every Jeffries tube; if we can move around the ship that way, so can they," he reminded them.

"Li'shept, Yuengling, T'pok!" he called to three more as the first two began moving through the group, checking weapons and making assignments, "With communications the way they are, we need to make sure everyone's aware of what's happening. I want you three to make your way to the other areas of the ship; make sure everyone's armed and aware! And if you see the Breen... defend yourselves. We don't know their intentions - but they didn't bring us out to the end of nowhere without something in mind - and I for one, don't want to learn what that is!" He looked at the three, who stood, transfixed, staring back at him.

He stared back, then waved them off. "You've got your orders," he said abruptly. "Go!" he added, then turned to the remaining engineers. "Those tendrils we can see on the Breen ship are some sort of energy-absorbing web. As long as they can drain our energy, we can't use our phasers or photon torpedoes to fight them."

"Which leaves us what, Commander?" one of them asked.

Geordi grinned. "That's out job, people; to find a way to fight - and defeat - the Breen," he said enthusiastically, then felt his smile fade. "This is going to be dangerous," he continued, his voice dropping, growing serious as he focused on the tasks ahead of them. "We're going to need to analyze what those tendrils are made of, and try to determine how they're draining our power. Our external sensors are shaky at best - and whatever information they provide, we're going to have to accept it with a grain of salt. That means we need more accurate information."

"Sir, they're all over the ship; we could go outside..."

Geordi shook his head. "No. We can't risk it. We have no idea what would happen if you came into direct contact with those fibers. But if we can get to the interstitial hull space, hand sensors may be able to get some information we can use."

The looks on the remaining engineers reminded him of what he already knew; getting to - and working in - the interstitial hull space was hard work, bitterly cold, cramped, dark... what Biji would have called 'grunt' work, he reminded himself - work suitable for a plebe - and, by her own insistence, for Biji herself, he added.

Which may have been, he added grimly, why they were in this position now. She could have used all that time in the accessways and the hull to have sabotaged the ship, taking the tasks no one else wanted - and using them to destroy the ship...

No! he told himself sharply; she wouldn't have done that! She was loyal to her ship, her crew - to Starfleet... but the argument sounded weak, even to himself.

She _had_ been the one person with the knowledge and ability - and she had been in the right places, at the right times...

He shook his head, refusing to accept it... yet knowing it was probably the truth.

The others must have seen the grim look on his face; forcing it down, replacing it with a more confident, but serious expression, he clapped his hands, startling them - and himself - to attention.

"All right, let's get to it! We've got a job to do!"

Andile closed her eyes against the hot tears that threatened.

I didn't do it, Geordi, she thought, his voice as clear in her mind now as the others: Worf, Cho, Dulfer, Dr. Crusher... hundreds of voices, growing louder, more insistent with every passing moment.

She pushed them away, hearing only Geordi's voice in her thoughts, hearing his accusation, feeling the pain, the hurt he felt at having been betrayed by someone he had trusted.

I didn't do this, she repeated, silently pleading with him.

Not this.

But so many others! Another voice reminded her, hissing its venom into her head and her heart.

And more to come, she reminded herself.

Andile! the voice screamed

I know, she whispered back - then pushed even that voice from her thoughts.

Whatever wrong she had to do, she would still follow her orders.

She would save the crew... at least, she added, those that could be saved.

And the rest...

Forgive me, she prayed silently - then pushed that thought away as well; there was work to do.

The captain had said that Data would have protected the battle bridge with force fields, she remembered - but he had also flooded the bridge with a gas of some sort. The only way to do that was to tap into the ventilation system - and while he would have undoubtedly sealed it again after introducing whatever he had chosen, Andile doubted that even Data would have considered putting a force field in place for that miniscule space.

After all, who would try crawling through a ventilation duct filled with potentially lethal gas? she asked.

Humans, Andile sighed.

They are really going to have to learn a lot faster if they expected to survive.

Picard stumbled slightly as the ship shuddered, reaching out for the handrail that separated the science station from the command area - and gasped at the sharp pain of the broken bones grating against one another.

Tillerman stumbled as well, but recovered almost instantly, the phaser in his hand never wavering, He glanced over his shoulder at the viewscreen.

No tendrils touched the transparent pane, as if somehow aware that no energy emanated from the portal, but from above, below and both sides, streamers snaked back into space, joined by hundreds of others, forming a thick mass that obscured the space behind them - and, Picard realized as he studied the opalescent fibers, the ship that controlled them.

"That should be it for your shields, Johnny-boy," Tillerman said with a laugh as the ship gave another brief spasm.

Picard glanced at the engineering read-out - and realized the tall man was right; whatever the tendrils were, they had just leached every erg of power from the shield generators.

But from nowhere else, he realized equally quickly, noting the absence of other warning tell-tales on the board.

Were the tendrils limited in what they could absorb? He wondered. One tendril for any given wavelength?

He dismissed the idea instantly. Damage a specific tendril, and the Breen's ships own defenses - and seemingly weaponry - would be affected. No, one tendril, one function, was too limiting, too dangerous - and if Jay's claims about the age of the Breen as a space-faring culture were correct, too foolish.

A culture didn't survive in space for centuries with such obviously self-destructive problems.

Which meant that the tendrils were able to absorb energy on a number of frequencies - but how did they know specifically which one the ship was using for the shields, he asked himself.

It hadn't been trial and error, he knew equally well; if they had tried other frequencies, there would have been fluctuations in the ship's power levels - and there hadn't been. More importantly, Picard thought, it would have taken time - and the shields had failed within moments of the tendrils making contact with the ship.

Which meant the Breen had known the precise frequency to use to tap into the ship's shield generators and drain them dry. But from where had they gotten that information, he asked - or from whom?

Certainly not from Jay, he knew; Worf's Security precautions had limited the access the Ambassadors had had to the ship - and Jay had emphatically declined the offer to take the tour that would have given him even a passing view of Engineering, the one place he might have seen the frequency displayed - and of the two people with whom he had had extended contact, neither Sandra James nor the ensign he ahd seduced, would have known that bit of information.

Then who? he asked himself - and drew a sharp breath, knowing there was only one possibility.

He shook his head, refusing to accept the idea. He had been in her head, in he thoughts, in her very mind...

But she was a telepath, he reminded himself, a dozen times more powerful than the strongest telepath he had ever known - and she with the ability and experiences of a lifetime a hundred - or perhaps even a thousand - times as long as his own. She would have mastered the arts of manipulation, mental and emotional, long ago.

He felt his rage build; turning to Jay, seeing the triumphant grin on the man's face, he felt it threaten to burst out.

"Tell them I want to negotiate," he repeated, this time through gritted teeth.

Tillerman burst into laughter. "Negotiate? Are you serious? That's not one of the options, Johnny-boy! They don't want to talk!"

"How the hell do you know, Jay?" Picard retorted sharply. "You're their lackey - not their equal! You're doing their dirty work - but that doesn't mean you're in position to make their decisions! For all you know, this may be as much of their 'psychological profile' as any other aspect of this entire experiment! Now contact your superiors - and tell them I want to talk!"

Tillerman glared at the captain, his eyes tightening with his own ill-concealed rage - and uncertainty.

He didn't know, Picard realized; for all his posturing about his relationship with the Breen, he really didn't know their attitude - or, he realized, their true intention.

For the first time in the last hour, Picard felt a surge of real hope: if Jay didn't truly know their fate, then perhaps they had a chance to escape.

At least, a chance to escape death, he added, glancing up at the viewscreen; there would be, he thought solemnly, no escape from the Breen.

Not now. But perhaps, if he could talk to them, convince them, persuade them... beg them...

He looked at Tillerman, urgency building in his expression. "Tell them I want to talk! Now - or when they get here, I'll tell them you damaged the 'experiment'; that you tampered with the crew's emotional profile with what you've done; damaging the ship, injuring the crew... whatever results they anticipated will be skewed - because of you," he snapped. "And courtesy of the terms of their agreement with the Federation, there will be no other crews sacrificed to the Breen; whatever results they wanted will go unknown - because of you. Let's see then how valuable you are then, Jay; when they realized what's happened, do you still think they'll see you as an 'equal' - or just another subject," he added contemptuously.

Despite the threat, there was no fear in Tillerman's expression - but the anger in it was building rapidly.

I've humiliated him, he realized, suddenly worried; I've goaded him into doing what I want - but at the cost of his pride.

And that may have been a mistake, Picard thought. Jay had never been one to take his slights well or easily, he thought remembering more than a few times that the teasing that all cadets had to endure from upperclassmen had ended in violence when Jay was the victim.

Of course, none of the incidents had ever been proven, Picard reminded himself; the final-year students were as much at fault as Jay - and if there were witnesses, well, they never came forward.

But the rumors had persisted - and so had the pall they cast on Jay's evaluations. Was it any wonder then that he had moved up through the ranks so slowly? Picard wondered - and was it any wonder Jay still held Starfleet in such contempt?

And me, he reminded himself.

I was the antithesis of Jay, a success where he failed.

No wonder he seemed to be enjoying the situation so much, Picard thought; at last, he'd be getting the revenge against me that he thinks he deserves.

And perhaps, he realized, I may be able to use this to our advantage...

"Call them!" he snapped at the ex-Starfleet officer. "Tell them I want to talk - to them. Not to you," he added.

Tillerman glared at Picard, breathing through clenched teeth - then shifted the phaser to his other hand, and whipped the communicator out of his pocket.

He stabbed at the tiny controls for a moment, waited - then punched in another sequence.

No voice communication, Picard realized, surprised - then nodded to himself. Another part of the Breen mystique, he thought; the less your enemy... your 'subject', he corrected himself, knows, the greater the dread, the fear, the worry - and from fourteen hundred people, the greater the variety of responses.

But Jay wasn't a subject, he reminded himself - so why not communicate directly with him, at least?

Because overhearing even this little amount of voice communication would affect the 'experiment', Picard wondered - then shook his head. Unlikely; the Breen had spoken via communicators in their e-suits during numerous encounters during the war; there was nothing so unusual in their voices that it would affect the results of the experiment, he thought.

So why not use voice communication now? he wondered, staring at the tiny device as Jay continued to send messages and read the answers - and knowing the process wouldn't be fast - or efficient on so small a device.

Small... and weak.

He hesitated, a though nagging at the back of his mind - and his eyes widened.

The miniscule, inefficient communicator, the slow-moving vessel, the energy web... Was that it? he asked himself. Is that what this is really all about?

My God, is it that simple? he though incredulously.

Almost a century before, the Klingon had accepted an offer of peace from the Federation when they found their energy supplies dwindling, and their economic and environmental resources failing; looking at the device in Jay's hand - and seeing the ancient, inefficient ship before them...

Perhaps it wasn't a quest for understanding that was driving the Breen, Picard realized, his empathy beginning to replace the rage that filled his soul; perhaps it was a quest for survival - and all this manipulation, all these maneuverings with his people, with their lives - all nothing more than window dressing, a show of bluster to keep the Federation representatives with whom the Breen had negotiated from learning the real truth.

"Tell them we need to talk," Picard said again, his voice calm this time, the anger gone.

Jay looked back at the man, the rage and insult still flaming brightly in his eyes. "Tell them yourself," he said - then stepped to one side as a soft pink mist began to coalesce in the center of the bridge.

Data glanced up, watching as the tendrils touched the surface of the ship - and felt the slight shudder, even from his position, deep in the bowels of the huge vessel.

To be expected, he reminded himself; without inertial dampeners every action would be felt through the vessel... but to feel something meant that contact had to have taken place.

The filaments were material, then, he decided, solid, real - not simply an energy beam, as one part of his mind had proposed. Not a weapon then - at least not a weapon with which he was familiar he added as he watched the display before him.

The ship's shields were failing, he realized at once. Draining, perhaps, via the filaments? It was an unusual approach, he thought, and hardly a practical one for a war vessel; how often did two ships in space get close enough for physical contact? Certainly it was not listed in the records of weaponry detected on other Breen ships, he decided.

A new approach, then? he mused - Or an old one?

Whatever the provenance of the fibers, however, it spoke of the Breen's intentions; the shield's were draining, rapidly depleting, and then they would be utterly vulnerable to whatever the Breen had planned.

And he would not permit that to happen.

He looked at the console, confirming that the force fields were still intact, and the partial pressure of the anaesthezine gas was holding at a high enough concentration to render any organic being unconscious within a tenth of a second. A non-organic would be unaffected, he reminded himself - but the ship's complement did not currently contain any non-carbon-based lifeforms - and the Breen had been proven to be as organic as human - and, he added, as susceptible to anaesthezine gas as humans were.

Then again, he argued with himself, the Breen were noted for always being dressed in their environmental suits, rendering the anaesthezine - or any other gas - useless.

The suits would not, however, protect them from the remainder of his defenses.

Nothing would.

He hesitated.

It could be argued that destroying the Enterprise to prevent it - and the crew - from falling into the hands of the enemy was fulfilling what he knew, from experience, were the wishes of the captain: to spare his crew from a cruel fate, and to prevent the advanced technology of the Enterprise from falling into an enemy's hands.

He could understand those arguments - and yet...

And yet, destroying the Enterprise might well destroy the Breen ship as well, he knew. Certainly it would kill any Breen who transported aboard.

And that, Data knew, would be murder.

They were not at war; the war had ended some time ago - and the Breen had left it earlier yet - and since then, there had been no contact, peaceful or otherwise, between the two races. To defend themselves against boarders, to save themselves from an unwanted, unwarranted fate, was one thing; to destroy their ship, and kill an entire crew, was quite another.

And he did not want his last act as an android, a Starfleet officer, and as a sapient being to be the senseless murder of an unknown number of strangers.

There had to be a better solution, he told himself.

And in time, he continued, he would find it. For now, however...

He took the two cables he had freed and twisted them together, then, using the powerful servos in his hands, mashed the cables together at a molecular level. It was not an elegant connection, he told himself, nor would it have withstood the scrutiny of Andile's professional evaluation - but short of a phaser blast, the connection would hold together for as long as need be.

And the need would not be long, he added, setting the trigger mechanism for a one minute delay.

Unnecessarily, the logical part of his mind argued; he was the only one who knew the device would be set off; for the rest of the crew and the ship, the end would be instantaneous, taking them from life to death without a moment of fear or doubt. Why not simply set it for immediate destruction? he wondered.

Because, he explained to himself, there was always the possibility that at the last moment, something might go terribly right; something might happen - and destroying the ship might not be the right thing to do. It had happened before...

But each time, the odds of it happening again decreased - and this time, so far from the populated regions of Federation space, so close to the Breen sphere of influence, with nothing more than impulse drive, and the Breen ship's energy web sucking at the power on the ship, and with no communication within the ship to share the brilliance and innovation that had brought them success in the past - the odds were astronomically low.

No, he told himself, once he knew that there was no chance for the ship to be saved, he should simply destroy it - and yet, his hands refused to reset the detonator, a part of his mind insisting on that one minute.

Why? he asked himself.

For a moment, he was still. Even his mind slowed, letting all thoughts pass except those necessary for his existence - and those primal thoughts were pushed down, pushed back away from his conscious being as he contemplated his silent insistence on this strange act.

Because the captain had always done it, he decided; when the circumstances had presented themselves, and the situation deemed this action necessary; the captain had always granted a few moments between the initiation of the auto-destruct and the time of the detonation.

Time for hope, he knew - and time for contemplation.

Andile would have prayed, he knew.

Prayed for the souls of the people she had known and loved.

Prayed for them to find a better, more peaceful place than the one they were leaving.

She was not here, however, he reminded himself; she would not know their time was ending; she would not know that it was time to offer a final plea on their behalf.

And that, he thought, was why he must leave that minute on the timer - so that he might offer the prayers on her behalf.

And on his own.

Andile stared at the ventilator panel before her, the seal tightly shut, barring the escape of the gas from the battle bridge back into the central air system - and blocking her advancement onto that bridge.

A quarter of an inch further - and she would be minutes - perhaps only seconds from the battle bridge, seconds away from telling Data the captain's order - and stopping him from destroying the ship.

All she had to do was rip out the quarter-inch panel of tritanium that stood between her and that goal.

Easy - if she had managed to somehow carry the phase welder through the accessway with her. Easy - if she had managed to carry even her personal phaser. And while she did have her micro-welder with her, it, like the ubiquitous tool belt she always carried, was within her e-suit.

Lovely, she muttered to herself; just fucking lovely. I can get through - if I can manage to strip off the suit, pull out the welder, put the suit back on and seal it - and then burn down the panel - all without using my hands.

She shook her head, knowing at once that it was impossible. While she might be able to use a benumbed finger to brace against the control buttons of the microphaser, she knew there was no way they would be able to help her maneuver out of the suit, let alone to get it back onto her after she freed the phaser.

She studied the panel again - then shook her head once more.

The mechanical controls that would allow her to force the panel open were on the other side - another bit of brilliance she had designed into the system, to prevent an intruder from doing exactly what she was trying to do.

Racing over the design specs in her head, she tried to find another way into the bridge, routing herself through another section of ventilation - and knowing she would only find more of the same.

Back to square one, she told herself; go back to the accessways... and find the force fields. You'd need something larger than a micro-phaser to cut through those.

Same for the Jeffries tubes and the main corridors - and, she reminded herself, add to that one pissed-off Will Riker... She shook her head.

It was this way - or give up, and allow Data to blow up the ship.

Blow up the ship - and condemn himself to hell, she added soberly. Data may not have been certain of the existence of his soul - but she had no doubts - and she knew the gods did not take lightly the sacrifice of fourteen hundred others before their time. Even when that sacrifice was well meant.

They would condemn his soul to live out the rest of eternity, the cries of those he had killed unjustly echoing in his mind until his sanity was gone... just as they had condemned her to live.

Andile bit her lip, refusing to allow even a moment of pity for herself; she was andile, after all, condemned from birth to live with the pain and grief of her people, so that they might ascend after their time was through. She could do no less for Data, she told herself.

But she wasn't going to be able to help him this way, she thought.

Bracing herself on her elbows, she pushed back - and gave a short cry as something in her tool belt caught on one of the projections on the ventilator shaft and jabbed into her stomach, forcing the air out with a grunt - but not tearing through the suit, she added, relieved, a moment later, running her forearm over the spot.

Not that it was easy to tear through an e-suit, she reminded herself; the damned things were designed to work in the depths of space, the pressure of the internal atmosphere expanding with incredible force against the vacuum of space - but they had been known to fail - especially when the workers were tired - or careless, she added. A misplaced tool, a phaser misaimed, an overheated welder...

An overheated welder!

The idea igniting in her head, the possibilities racing through her mind, she reached down, using her wrists and forearms to try to maneuver the welder out of her tool belt, bucking her hips up and down in the confined space, trying to wiggle the miniature tool out of its place on her tool belt - then, in final desperation, slamming her senseless hands into the bottom of her belt, trying to jar the tool loose.

She gasped as her hands hit the bottom of the belt - and the gasp exploded into a scream as she realized her hands were not as completely numb as she thought. Rivulets of agony shot up her arms, threatening to paralyze her from shoulder to wrist.

Gods! she screamed, aloud and in her head - but the gods were not there to hear the prayer of andile, she reminded herself. The gods were there to hear the prayer of those better than me - and I...?

I'm here to do what the gods cannot.

She slammed her hands into the bottom of the belt again, ignoring the pain. If I can just...

With the fifth blow, the tiny device broke loose, slapping up against the top of her suit, then falling back onto her belly.

Turning to her side, she let it fall to the ground, trapped within her e-suit, lying beneath the curve of her waist.

Now came the tricky part; breaking the damned thing.

Not completely; break it completely and it'll stop altogether. I just need to crack the power casing, and it'll begin to overheat. Overheat it enough - and it will melt through - and out - of the suit - and, with a lot of luck, the suit will stay soft enough that I can press the fibers back together.

It wouldn't be secure enough to withstand the type of pressure experienced in space, but it should hold against standard air pressure on the battle bridge, she reminded herself.

And even with a damaged power cell, I should be able to get three - maybe four - clean shots off before it fried out completely.

If it doesn't catch on fire and burn me to death first, she added, reminding herself of that very distinct possibility.

She raised her chest slightly, letting the welder slide down the inner part of her suit, then positioned herself carefully over the tool, aiming the sharp angle of her protruding hip bone over at she thought - hoped! - was the power cell latch.

One sharp thrust between her hip and the ventilator shaft wall and...

Data stared up, the echo of... something - he was not sure what - reverberating from the central air vent on the battle bridge. It was not the first strange sound he had heard that day - nor would it be the last, he added, looking at the open panels on the bridge, their covers laying limp and twisted from having been ripped off the hinges by his incredibly strong arms, some creaking, some groaning as he walked back and forth across the bridge, re-wiring the central console as he went - but the sound had been neither a creak nor a groan.

More like the cry of a human, he thought, but that was not possible.

Perhaps one of the tools from the kit had rolled free, he thought, looking down, confirming that each piece was in its place. Satisfied, he closed the case, and set it to one side of the control panel.

He turned his attention back to console - and watched as a new energy pattern began to form itself on the read-out.

New, in the sense that the android had never seen this exact configuration of wavelength and amplitude - but not new in the sense of what the energy wave signified.

A wave of pained resignation washed over him, knowing that time had eluded him.

A transporter was being used; the Breen were boarding the ship.

No time for a more peaceful solution, then, he thought; no time to learn if these are, indeed, our enemies - or if there is any chances of creating a more peaceful relationship with the Breen.

He looked at the triggering device, drew a deep breath to steel himself for this, his final act, and...

"NO!"

The scream was muffled - but there was no mistaking the shrill and sharp tone of terror that filled it - nor was there, a second later, any mistaking from whence the cry had come.

A ventilation panel in the ceiling of the bridge fell open, crashing to the floor - and was instantly followed by a environmental-suit-covered body tumbling after it.

He stared at the body for a moment, unmoving as it lay in a heap on the floor of the battle bridge - then watched as it slowly began to move, stirring slowly - and undoubtedly painfully, Data thought - shaking off the impact of the three meter fall.

He glanced at the body, then at the triggering device, then back at the body again - and found himself enveloped in a growing sense of suspicion. Shifting the device to his other hand, he reached for his phaser, and pointed it at the body.

"Please do not attempt to move," he cautioned the figure.

"No... Don't..."

"I iterate; do not attempt to move, or I will be forced to fire," he repeated.

"Shoot me with your phaser and kill me - or blow up the ship and kill me," came the muffled voice in response. "I don't think it'll make much difference, Fred."

Data's eyes widened in astonishment. "Ginger?" he gaped, then hurriedly set down both devices and moved to help her.

"Ah!" she gasped as he reached for her hands, pulling them away awkwardly - then shook her head. "Hands... EVA too long," she explained.

"You came from outside the ship?" Data gaped as he hurriedly reached under her arms, lifting her to her feet.

"I thought I'd take the scenic route," she replied glibly, smiling weakly at him - then shook her head again. "No, it's a long story - but let it suffice to say that hull-crawling is about the only way to get here. Data..." she began - then stopped.

He was her commanding officer, she reminded herself harshly - nothing more. "Commander," she started again, "the captain ordered me to report here. He believed that you might try to re-initiate the self-destruct mechanism..."

Data glanced at the device he had created - then back at the woman.

"... and ordered me to prevent you from using it. He believes the Breen are using an energy absorbing device..."

Data's eyes widened as the implications of what she was saying sunk in. "... and utilization of the self-destruct mechanism would simply feed into that power sink," he concluded, horrified at what he had almost done. "I did not realize," he admitted.

"No, sir. The captain didn't realize the nature of the web either - until he saw the ambassador's communicator," she said

"The ambassador?" Data echoed.

"Ambassador Tillerman," Andile replied. "He's the saboteur... or rather, he's one of them... he's taken control of the bridge..." She stopped, suddenly realizing she had said too much, too quickly. "Commander, let me explain."

Data looked at her - then stepped back, reaching for the phaser and leveling it at her. "I do not require explanations, Lieutenant."

"Yes, you do," she countered hurriedly, holding her hands up, her palms wide in silent protest of her innocence. "I've been in contact with the captain intermittently for the last hour or so; we made arrangements to be able to contact one another before I went out to install the light array... you can confirm that with Dr. Crusher," she added desperately. "She helped me."

Data stared at her, suspicion and doubt fighting with his desire to believe her.

Desperately, she tapped the headpiece she wore. "That's why I have this on! I know you've flooded the room with some sort of gas! The captain told me! He told me you didn't tell him - or anyone - what it was, and that's why I haven't taken this off! If he hadn't told me, do you think I would have bothered to wear an e-suit while crawling through the ventilation ducts?!" she asked incredulously.

He stared at her, stared at the suit - then set his phaser back in its holster.

Andile sighed, relieved - but not before she cautioned herself not to speak without thinking again.

Yes, the doctor could confirm that she had injected Andile with a powerful overdose of neurotransmitters - but no one, not even Dr. Crusher herself, could have foreseen the intensity of the communication that had been established between the two. No, even with Crusher's support, there was little chance that Data would believe all the information she possessed had come from Picard.

And certainly the sheer volume of information she had couldn't have come from a standard communicator, let alone one that was functioning on a ship with such massive damage, she knew, warning herself to edit it to only the most salient points.

"Did the captain specify what he wanted done?" Data asked.

Andile shook her head. "No, sir. The link was intermittent at best, especially as I moved away from the bridge," she lied.

Data nodded, accepting that information more easily. "From my knowledge of the captain, I believe he would prefer to find a more peaceful resolution to the problem, if possible."

"Yes, sir," Andile agreed. "But until we can get more computer memory on line, both flight and fight are impossible. And if that web really is an energy absorbing system, fighting would seem to be contraindicated."

"Indeed - unless we can find a way to utilize the web against the Breen," the android suggested.

"You're thinking of some sort of negative feedback?" she said.

"It is feasible," Data replied.

Feasible, yes, Andile agreed silently, if we had a clue as to what type of energy system they have on their ship.

I need to get over there, she thought.

"Data," she said, moving toward the door, "I need to get to Engineering. We're going to need to rebuild the computer as quickly..."

He shook his head. "Impossible. I am under order to keep the battle bridge secure; the gas and the force fields must be kept in place until such time that I have been assured that command cannot be taken from this position." He sat down at the console once again, studying the fluctuating readings, analyzing it and rearranging it into an understandable pattern.

Andile gaped, astounded at his complacency. "Data, if you can't reroute control down here, no one else is going to be able to either!" she protested.

"That is not a factual statement," he replied calmly. "It appears that damage to conduit oh-four-seven-J is preventing the flow of data from the main bridge to the battle bridge; should that conduit be repaired, control could be gained from this position once again - and I cannot permit that possibility to occur," he said flatly.

She gaped at him. "And so we're just going to sit here - and wait?!"

"I have attempted to make repairs from this position," he replied, gesturing at the tool kit.

"And you're going to let it go at that?" she gaped. "An attempt? By the gods, Data, the ship is under attack! You have a duty..."

"To follow my orders," he replied. "We will continue to attempt to direct control of the ship from this location..."

"And hope like hell someone else fixes the damned conduit? What if no one else knows it's oh-four-seven J?"

"Geordi is a capable engineer; he will determine the point of transmission failure..."

"You hope!" she snapped.

"On the contrary: I believe. And in the interim, I will continue to do whatever I can - from this position, while fulfilling my existing orders. I will not betray them..."

"Even to save the crew," she retorted - then suddenly stumbled backwards.

Data jumped up, his calm demeanor instantly replaced by an expression of worry - and fear. "Andile? Are you all right?"

Andile nodded wearily, then stumbled again. "Data, you flooded the bridge with a gas?"

"I did," the android agreed, curious - and worried.

"A lethal one?" she pressed.

"I chose anaesthezine," he replied.

"Good choice," she said.

"I agree," he conceded. "While the protection of the battle bridge was of utmost importance, I did not wish to be responsible for the unnecessary deaths of others..."

"Data... Commander, let's debate the morals later. I said good because..." She hesitated, looking down at the scorched and rumpled patch of her suit that covered her left hip, "... my suit's losing integrity."

Data caught her as she began to crumple, quickly easing her to the ground, watching her face through the faceplate as she gasped for air, he face contorted in pain - then met her eyes as she opened them.

"Commander?" she managed.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

She hesitated, then weakly gasped, "Data?"

"Yes... Andile?" he pressed himself closer to her.

"Closer... Data, closer..."

He moved closer, his head drawing close to hers, his body pressing against her. "Yes, Ginger?"

She met his gaze - then jammed the phase welder she had concealed in her hand against his abdomen, pressed the triggering device - and watched as his body contorted in a paroxysm of electric energy.

A moment later, the welder gave out, the last of its power gone, drained into the now lifeless android body that collapsed against hers, pinning her to the ground.

With a groan, she pressed her arms against his chest, pushing him up, then letting him drop back to the ground with a thud as she rolled out from underneath him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she reached for the ventilation control, jamming her elbow against the switch, hurriedly purging the anaesthezine from the room - then braced her pain-ridden hands against her headpiece and pulled it off, drawing a deep breath of air - and looked at the fallen body.

"Next time, don't piss off your lover," she advised him - then reached for the tool kit.


	118. Chapter 118

**Chapter 118**

It was a gamble, Will Riker thought.

If it were anyone else, there would have been virtually no chance they'd notice that the panel covering the Jeffries tube was not properly attached - but Andile was not anyone else, Riker reminded himself.

And that was the gamble.

Yes, she was a traitor - but she was also obsessed with detail, he knew - and even in the midst of betraying the ship and the crew, there was every chance she would notice the panel wedged into place - and either realize that someone was behind it, or, more likely, secure the panel before he could stop her.

Or both, he conceded; using the Jeffries tube directly down the corridor from the battle bridge was probably the most obvious hiding location; worse, it was the only one.

But then again, it was the only corridor leading to the battle bridge - and she no matter what, she would have to pass this way, Will thought.

A few minutes before, he had thought he had heard her approach - but the soft shuffling had never materialized, fading away a few moments later without anyone, Andile, Worf and his team, or any other crewmembers appearing in the hall.

Probably air leaking through a damaged ventilation duct, he thought - then glanced down the corridor again, a new worry entering his thoughts.

If the ventilation system was leaking, then there was a possibility that whatever Data had used to fill the battle bridge could leak back down to his position. The force field that protected the battle bridge from an unwanted intruder didn't extend to the ventilation ducts, he thought, knowing that job was relegated to the louvers that provided a physical barrier. They were usually safeguard enough for keeping the different ship environments separate - but the rules that applied to the ship 'usually' did not apply now.

And if the vent was leaking...

If the vent was leaking, he argued silently, there was as much chance that it was leaking from the main body of the life support system as from the direction of the battle bridge. Still, he found himself trying to limit his breathing, drawing short, shallow breaths, wondering if he would realize he had inhaled a lungful of... whatever it was Data had used... before he hit the deck.

And Deanna would be left, unavenged.

The thought filled him with a fury so intense that every thought of possible failure fled. He would stop Andile before she could complete her scheme, before she could finish betraying the ship - and he would make sure she paid for what she had done to Deanna.

A muffled clatter of noise startled him from his anger, and he stared down the corridor, expecting to see Worf and his entourage approaching - but there was nothing - nothing! - there.

Damn it! Where are they?! he thought angrily - then tried to calm himself.

God alone knew how much damage the ship had taken in the unexpected acceleration - and the internal damage they had found earlier might have only been the tip of the iceberg, he reminded himself. They could have had to re-route themselves half a dozen times as new areas of destruction were discovered.

Or they might have found nothing else, he added; with the turbolifts running throughout the body of the ship, the sheer size of the vessel was often lost on its crew - until one had to cross the distance by foot.

The only blessing, he thought, was that whatever they were facing, so was Andile.

Unfortunately, she had designed the ship, he reminded himself; she knew her way through it better than anyone else aboard; if she wanted to move from one place to another, she could.

And unlike Worf and his team, he realized, she was not limited to the Jeffries tubes. He glanced at the ventilation panel again - and recognition dawned in his mind.

Sliding the panel open, he eased himself out - and moved down the corridor.

Andile fumbled the last tool from the tool kit, dumping it unceremoniously on the ground.

"A hundred years of telling cadets to be tidy," she muttered to herself, "and look at me now. Worse than the worst of them!" she added, glancing at the pile of equipment on the floor of the battle bridge, shaking her head.

But there was no time for tidiness, she reminded herself, doubting her fingers would work well enough to put each device back in its place. Controlling the welder in the corridor had been tricky enough - but this?

_This_ had taxed her patience - and completely consumed the last vestiges of her ability to control the pain that was coursing through her body.

Still, she managed to stuff the prize she had won into the tool kit, then fumbling with the latch, sealed the container.

Clutching it to her chest with her arms, she glanced at the door to the battle bridge - and sighed.

No way out there, she realized. Oh, the door to the corridor would open - but after that, she would find herself confronting the same force field that had stopped her entering the room in the first place - and taking down the force field, even from the inside, required the same solution that it had before: knowing the code Data had implemented.

And knowing Data, the code could be anything, from a hundred symbols in a hundred different languages, to something so simple that it could be staring her in the face - and she would never know it.

"The gods damn me," she muttered angrily, staring at the fallen body. "What was I thinking?! I should have had you drop the force field _before_ I phased you! And the gods' damn you, too! You should have dropped it without my asking!" she added, giving the body a vicious kick.

The blow sent a dagger of pain up her leg, causing her to fall, crashing to the floor in an ignominious heap beside her ex-lover, sending waves of excruciating pain through her body - and threatening a wash of hot tears as the pain raced through her, out of control.

No tears! she shouted at herself, half in chastisement, half in caution; crying in an e-suit were more than a professional hindrance; without being able to wipe them away, they could obscure vision, fog a faceplate - and worst of all, it would leave a Starfleet officer with a very unprofessional runny nose, she reminded herself.

Don't want to greet the neighbors with snot on my face, she thought, managing a weak grin at the image.

Maneuvering her feet under her, she pushed herself up, leaning against the console in lieu of the support her hands and arms would have usually provided, holding the tool kit against her chest - and looking up.

"Guess there's only one door in or out of here," she murmured, carefully stepping onto the chair that sat before the control panel - then reluctantly stepping up on the board itself.

Not that it matters, she reminded herself; the control console might well control the functions inside the small room - but as long as that conduit was damaged, nothing that happened here was going to affect any other part of the ship, even if I dance the samba on it. Still, she looked down, carefully placing the thick-soled between the critical control relays until she was directly under the vent she had used to enter the battle bridge only a few minutes before.

Mustering as much control as she could, she shifted the box to her hands, then reached up and set it inside the vent, pushing it down the passage a few inches - then set her hands against the edges of the vent, braced herself - and pulled herself up and into the vent.

Gods, gods, gods! she sobbed as the waves of pain raged through her hands, clutching them to her chest as she fell into the tiny vent - then forced the pain back.

No time, she told herself; no time - but still she kept her hands held tight to her chest. Levering her legs up and into the narrow vent, she pushed the tool kit ahead of her with the top of her helmet, working her way back down the vent - slowly.

Too slowly, she thought; at this rate, it'll take me an hour to get back to the junction - and the gods alone know how long to get to a Jeffries tube.

There had to be a faster way, she thought, the ship's schematics running through her mind - and the location of another air vent coming to her.

Closer - far closer - and it opened directly into the main corridor that led to the battle bridge. From there it would be a short jog to the main turbo shaft, then a short climb - a short climb! she laughed, her terror of heights sending her heart racing - and she'd be directly outside the forward doors to the bridge. And then...

And then her betrayal of her ship and her crewmates would begin.

She pushed the tool kit forward a few inches - then felt it catch.

The louvers, she thought, summoning the strength to snake her hand past her head, levering the kit up and over the metal edge, then felt it drop from her hands as they went numb.

They weren't going to take much more, she thought - but then again, they didn't have to, she insisted.

Except for pulling herself up a half dozen decks, Andile suddenly realized, the long climb up the narrow ladder that lined the turbo lifts still looming before her.

For a moment, grief and despair surged through her, threatening to overcome her determination - and once again, the tears, held at bay for more lifetimes than any human could know, burned beneath her lids.

No! she shouted at herself silently. I will not cry! Tears are for humans - and I am andile! And andile can not cry! Must not cry!

And will not cry! she added angrily. I have work to do - and I will do it!

I'll just have to figure it out - when I get there, she added.

And I will figure it out. I'm an engineer after all - and this is my ship! If I can't do it, it can't be done!

She smiled, knowing the words were more sham than sincerity - but there would be a way, she told herself. There always was.

There had been a way here, she reminded herself, there had been a way over the hull, there had been a way on Cardassia, on the Excalibur, on D'Brun, even on Parash - there had always been a way to get what must be done - done.

They just weren't always good ways.

And this time, the way was going to hurt - and it would cost her her hands and her feet - and it would cost this ship and her crew.

But it had to be done.

Wriggling her body over the louvers, she managed to work her way forward a few more feet, then turned sharply to her right, knowing another narrow ventilation shaft ran from this junction back to the main corridor. By now, the air in the corridor would have become contaminated with anaesthezine gas - and, if the captain was right, and Riker and his comrades were waiting for her there, the gas should have taken its effects on them.

Still, she breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the final vent cover; peeking over the top of the tool kit, she looked into the corridor, staring down it in both directions - and sighed, relieved.

The corridor was deserted - not a soul in site, conscious or not.

Thankful at the small fortune, she managed to turn herself around in the tiny passage, then braced her back against the wall, her feet against the panel, and kicked hard.

This time the blow was absorbed by the vent cover as it was sent flying across the corridor, crashing into the far wall hen tumbling to the ground.

"Subtle," she muttered to herself. "Next time I'll get a band to announce me - it'll be less obvious," she added, turning over to her stomach, easing her feet out - then grabbing the tool kit before sliding - falling! - the rest of the way to the floor.

While the vent cover and her boots had absorbed the brunt of her first kick, the fall was not as kind; pain raced up her legs, plasma fires racing through conduits in her flesh, overwhelming her, sending her falling to the floor as the blackness of her own personal night began to cut off her vision and hearing.

Not now! she screamed at herself - and refused to pass out, refused to feel the pain, refused to give in to the weaknesses of her body.

Not now!

Later!

Later, she repeated to her body, her voice growing calm, soothing; later, I'll take care of you. I'll make the pain stop. I promise, she told herself.

Pushing herself to her feet, she reached up, managing to hit the release tab of her e-suit's headpiece, and pulled at the headpiece until it came loose. Dropping it, she gasped in a lungful of cool air - then managed to pick up the kit, clutching to her chest, then she started down the corridor, turning at the first junction.

And found herself staring into a phaser.

"Going somewhere, Lieutenant?" Will Riker asked.

If every report from the Federation and every horror story from the war were true, the Breen were a ferocious, brutal and sadistic enemy.

It was, therefore, more than a little disconcerting to watch five Breen materializing out of a shimmering pale pink and silver fog, Picard thought. Something that delicate, that ephemeral, should have yielded something equally beautiful and elegant - not these soldiers, dressed in fully armored environmental suits, their faces masked by the heavily bronzed solar shields, their arms laden with lethal-looking disruptor rifles.

It was probably just another phase of the Breen's plan to manipulate the crew's emotional responses to them, he thought - a incongruous juxtaposition of beauty and delicacy with the militaristic appearance of the soldiers - though a pointless one, Picard added; what few humans were on the bridge and had witnessed the Breen soldiers' materialization were already completely numb to any additional emotional abuse.

Indeed, there was no untoward reaction as the five humanoid-shaped beings appeared - other than the two closest officers stepping out of the way as the already crowded bridge grew even more so.

The soldiers, however, didn't take the accommodating movement in stride; two of the soldiers spun on the officers, weapons at the ready - until the leader barked a command, mechanical, stilted and incomprehensible, and stopped them.

Picard frowned. Throughout the war, the Breen had rarely utilized universal translators - but then again, Picard thought, they had rarely needed them. For whatever reason, they had disdained the use of the devices, seeming to prefer the services of other species for that function, using the machines only when absolutely necessary.

But here, now? He shook his head, perplexed. If the Breen couldn't understand them - and conversely, they, the Breen - how did the Breen intend to study them?

Certainly not as Jay communicated with them, he thought, watching Tillerman tap a message into his communicator; even if a computer could translate a written message, it could not convey emotional tone and nuance - an essential component of human psychology.

And tapping out questions and answers would take time - time that would change the emotional make up of the crew, he thought to himself; whatever value the Breen placed on their subjects' experiences, such inefficient communication would alter that information, rendering the information - and, Picard realized, the subjects - worthless.

A part of him gloated at the realization; whatever information the Breen thought they would get from the investigation of his crew would be tainted by the methodology, and, in the end, earning them nothing.

But at the price of his crews' lives, he added, his triumph fading. Worse, when - or if - the Breen realized how they had damaged their own experiment, they might well try to force the Federation to send them another ship full of victims.

And yet... If the Breen were as dedicated to their research as Jay indicated, they would have developed some manner of efficient - and accurate - communication with their subjects long ago, Picard reasoned. Perhaps, then, they weren't as determined to study his crew as Jay indicated, Picard thought, hope rising in his soul; perhaps his idea - that the Breen had used the pretense to get a starship and her crew here for another, less ominous reason - was the right one all along.

"What's the leader's name?" Picard asked Tillerman, looking from the central Breen - the one who had ordered the others not to fire - to the ex-ambassador.

"Damned if I know, Johnny," Tillerman sneered back. "They all look alike in those get-ups," he added.

Picard raised a brow in surprise. "Then you've never seen a Breen in the flesh?"

Tillerman shook his head. "No one has - at least not and come back to tell about it. When they did appear - and that was damned rare; most of the discussions were through an intermediary or by sub-space message - they always were in full body armor."

Picard digested the information, adding it to what little he already knew about the Breen.

Another part of their psychological manipulation of humans? he mused. Always keeping themselves disguised with e-suits and anonymity, always keeping their subjects wondering - and perhaps worrying? Or was it something more, something built deeper into Breen psychology - or even Breen society? Know your enemy - but don't allow him to know you.

If the Breen were the militaristic society that the Federation made them out to be, it would make perfect sense - but why then maintain the pretense of being scientists? he wondered. In a martial culture, science was rarely held in such high esteem that a mission of this degree would be launched - at least, not in the name of peace.

Picard felt a shiver run up his spine at the realization - followed by a sharp spasm as the broken bones in his back grated against one another.

Time was taking its toll, he realized; the looming threat of the Breen arrival had kept his crew fueled with adrenaline for the last few hours - but adrenaline was not a chemical the body made in inexhaustible supply. Now, he realized, wondering if this were another deliberate action on the part of his enemy, or sheer bad luck, his crew would be tiring, growing less sharp, less aware, more nervous, more aware of their own injuries, more scared - and less able to fight off the boarding parties that would soon be arriving.

Whatever he did, then, he was going to have to do it now.

"Actually," Andile said slowly, staring at Riker, "I was heading for the bridge. I have to admit I'm surprised to find you here, Commander. I thought you'd be closer to the battle bridge."

"I was," he replied shortly, not about to be drawn in by her personality once again. She had charmed him the day the met, charmed him when they were in the computer core, charmed the Captain into believing she was something - someone! - she was not! She was a traitor! he reminded himself sharply.

"I was thinking Jeffries tubes, and accessways - and then I remembered your story about the Pharaoh's Engineer," Riker replied. "You had another way around this ship - one you never let on about, one only you could use: the ventilation ducts. You'd use them to get to the battle bridge - and then you'd use them to get out. All I had to do was realize which one you'd choose - and wait for you."

Andile nodded, suitably impressed. "You're good," she said.

"Damned right," he agreed. "When my ship and my crew are in danger, I'm damned good. Now put your hands up," he added angrily.

She shook her head. "I can't, Commander."

"You can," he growled back, "and you will - or I will shoot you with this phaser - and by God, I'll enjoy it!"

"I don't doubt it in the least," she countered calmly, "but that doesn't change the fact that I can't raise my hands." She lowered the arms that were clenched against her chest a few inches, revealing the bundled tool kit she was holding. "If I raise my hands, I'll drop this," she continued, drawing it against her again, raising her eyes to his - and meeting them.

He blinked.

"And I don't want to drop it," she continued, her voice, soothing, calm, her eyes locked on his.

Will tried to blink again - then realized blinking wasn't important.

"What is it?" he asked, his fury still surging through his soul - but his curiosity overwhelming it.

"It's very important," she added softly.

"Important..." he echoed, then repeated, "What is it?"

"Salvation," she whispered, her eyes melting into his.

"Salvation?" he echoed, puzzled - and curious. He was still angry, still worried about Deanna, still grieving for her... but somehow, it seemed less important than it had been. For now, all that was important was knowing what was in the tool kit - and yet, he couldn't seem to take his eyes from hers.

"Salvation," she repeated. "For the ship, for the crew, for... Deanna," she added, her voice growing even softer.

"Deanna?" he said.

"Deanna," she agreed. "She needs your help."

Will nodded dumbly, agreeing, knowing Andile was right, knowing Deanna needed his help, needed Andile's help.

That was why he was here, in this corridor, he reminded himself.

Deanna needed him.

Deanna needed Andile.

"Will you help me help her?" she whispered, her eyes boring into his soul.

He stared at her, then slowly nodded.

Picard nodded toward the Breen leader. "Can he negotiate on behalf of his people?" he asked Tillerman.

The ersatz ambassador laboriously tapped out a message on the device, then read the response. "He says he has been empowered to hear out your requests. Whether they're willing to do anything about those requests is a different story," he said with a grin, adding, "you're not exactly in a position to demand anything, Johnny-boy."

True enough, Picard thought, but I have to try.

"Tell him..." By the gods, Picard thought, I don't even know if he - it! - was a male - or if they even have males in their culture - but, he added, if I start to rethink myself on everything, from pronouns to content, we'll never be able to get these discussions under way. "Tell him that commandeering this ship and these people isn't necessary."

Tillerman stared at Picard, confused - and bemused. "The ship is already theirs, Jean-Luc," he reminded the captain. "There's not much you can do to stop them taking it."

Picard's head whipped to face the human. "You're not involved in these discussions, Jay. If you won't relay the message, as I gave it to you, give me the communicator and I will!" he snapped.

Tillerman's face turned red will fury - but he tapped the message into the device.

For a moment, the soldier stood there, immobile - then Jay nodded, reading the answer.

Answer from what? Picard wondered, realizing for the first time that the Breen wasn't carrying a communication device like Jay's. Could there be one built into his suit? Picard wondered.

A possibility - but the response hadn't been manually entered anywhere that he could see.

A vocoder? A possibility, Picard realized, translating Jay's typed messages into spoken words - and his - its - spoken response back into a text message for the human, possibly even translating it in both directions, he added.

But if his suit had those abilities, Picard thought, all their communications could be spoken aloud, unless...

Unless either the Breen felt their spoken communications would somehow affect these negotiations, perhaps betraying some aspect of their nature, or coloring the perceptions humans had of them - or because they wanted the communications delayed.

Because their devices were inefficient, perhaps, Picard thought, the idea lending additional momentum to his theory of diminishing resources in the Breen dominion.

Or, he added reluctantly, because Jay wasn't quite as high in the diplomatic hierarchy as he thought he was; there was every chance, Picard thought, that the Breen were having Jay use the device as some form of test. And if that were true, he added, then Jay was as likely to be one of the test subjects as they were.

Not that he would believe Picard if he tried to argue the point, the captain reminded himself; for his mental peace of mind, Jay had to believe in this mission, as it had been told to him.

And, Picard added, if the device were a test, then it might be to his advantage not to reveal that he had solved it. The less the Breen know about us...

"Tell him... we'd be willing to share the technology of this ship with them - freely and openly - in exchange for the release of my crew."

Tillerman opened his mouth to protest the obvious - then closed it, but for the grin. "It's not your ship, anymore, Johnny - and if you're stalling for time, it's not going to get you anything; no one's going to come to save you," he muttered - but tapped in the message nonetheless.

He nodded a moment later as what must have been a similarly worded message returned.

"This ship - and its technology - are already theirs," he announced.

"Yes - but due to the computer damage, it will take them time before they can make sense of what they have. Reverse engineering the warp engines alone would take years. Release my people - give us leave to repair the ship and we'll cooperate during the time we're here to share the technology with them," he said, trying not to let the desperation he felt show in his voice.

Tillerman relayed the message - then shook his head.

"They're not engineers, Jean-Luc, they're psychologists; they don't care about the technology..."

Bull! Picard thought, looking past the soldiers to the tendrils that tethered his vessel to their as-yet-unseen ship. Oh, yes, they might well be psychologists - not engineers - at heart, Picard thought - but there was no question in his mind that they were woefully lacking - and in need of some technological advances.

"Tell him the two aren't mutually exclusive," Picard responded. "They can study us - while we help them. Tell them... tell them that studying us - as we really are - will give them much greater insight into human psychology then by mentally torturing us."

"The preparation has already been done, Johnny," Tillerman replied a minute later. "They say they can study humans _in situ_ later, after relations have been normalized."

Damn it! Picard thought.

"However," Jay added slowly, a moment later, "they may be able to get an equally representative sample... from a smaller group of subjects."

For a moment, hope surged through Picard's heart - then faded. Even sacrificing one crewman would be one too many.

He opened his mouth to protest - and caught the slight movement of the Breen, fractionally leaning toward him, as if to more closely hear his response.

By the gods! he suddenly realized. They can hear us - and understand us! I was right - the communicator is, indeed, a test - as is this, he knew with equal certainty.

A test - but what was the correct answer? he asked himself. Indeed, is there a 'correct answer', he wondered.

There was, he decided.

"No," he told Tillerman flatly.

The taller human consulted his communicator, as if he hadn't heard Picard's answer. "They're willing to reduce the number to five hundred," he read aloud - then looked up at the captain. "Five hundred - to save almost a thousand? It's a reasonable number, Johnny; Starfleet always taught us that casualty rates of thirty to fifty percent were acceptable," he reminded the captain.

"In war, Jay," Picard replied. "In war. Not while we're negotiating for peace."

"And the five hundred are the cost of that peace, Johnny," Tillerman countered - then glanced at the communicator again. "They're firm on the five hundred - but they'd be willing to guarantee the safety of the balance of the crew. They could never return to Federation space, of course, but the Breen would find a place from them, a world where they could live their lives out, in safety and security."

"And as the on-going subjects of Breen scrutiny?" Picard seethed. "To live out what remains of their lives under the microscope of Breen psychologists?!"

Tillerman read the screen, seemingly unaware, Picard thought, that the responses were coming from the Breen without his having to enter the conversations into the device.

"They would be... observed," Tillerman admitted. "But the intrusions would be minimal. For the most part, they would be left alone."

"After they've been ripped away from their homes, their families, their lives!" the captain railed.

Tillerman looked at Picard coolly. "That, Johnny-boy, is one of the risks of a life in Starfleet. They knew it - and so did the thousands of others who have been marooned far from home. They knew it - and so do you. But they'd be alive. They would have a place to live, a society of others of their own races with whom they could start a new life, new families..."

And they would be alive, Picard reminded himself.

The thought was tempting - and for a moment he was tempted.

He looked at the others on the bridge, then at the Breen soldiers - then back at Jay.

"No," he repeated. "Not one. I will not bargain away the life of even one of my crew."

"Not one?" a voice said, echoing down strangely from the ceiling. "Not one for fifteen hundred?! That's damned strange coming from you, Captain?"

Startled, Picard and the others raised their eyes to the ceiling - and watched as the ventilation panel gave way, unceremoniously dumping a body onto the bridge floor with a loud thud.

For a moment, everyone, Federation and Breen alike, stared at the mass of body, metal and debris that lay on the floor - then watched as the body rose to its feet, a bundle held tight against its body.

"You're such a bastard, Picard," Andile said with a sneer. "You were willing to sell me out for a hell of a lot less - or does 'the good of the many outweigh the good of the one' count only when it's a stranger that's the one?"

She turned to the Breen soldier. "I'm willing to bargain; one life for the balance of the crew - but I assure you, this one life is the only one you'll ever need to know everything there is to know about humanity, now and forever."

She fumbled with the bundle - a tool kit, Picard realized as he watched her - appalled, suspecting that she was about to trade her own life for theirs - and felt his shock turn to horror as she managed to open the container and proffered the contents to the Breen soldier.

It was Data's head.


	119. Chapter 119

**Chapter 119**

"You... killed him?" Tillerman said at last, the first to manage to find his tongue.

"Killed?" Andile replied scornfully. "He's a machine, idiot! You can't _kill_ a machine! Gods, no wonder Czymszczak sent me to follow up on you!" she scoffed with a disbelieving shake of her head.

Tillerman's eyes widened at the revelation - then narrowed angrily. "You're lying. You don't really expect me to believe that Czymszczak sent you..."

Czymszczak?! Picard thought, stunned. He was the one behind this? But he couldn't be! Jay had said it was the Federation...

But it wasn't, Picard realized at once. It couldn't have been. The secrecy needed to execute a project of this magnitude could never have been achieved by any assembly with the size and diversity of the Federation - and, more to the point, with the integral checks and balances that the Federation had developed to prevent a covert operation just like this.

Even Starfleet, Picard realized, with its history of internal machinations and illicit, clandestine operations had implemented safeguards that would have prevented a group of officers from doing what had been done.

But one man, one officer, working alone, outside the structure? Picard thought. Working with a select few, loyal to him - or, he added, studying the two traitors now arguing before him, loyal to themselves - and no one else.

A few who would - and could - destroy the lives of so many others, without the slightest breach of conscience, he added, staring first at Tillerman - and then at...

Gods! he swore, refusing to even think the name of the pale-skinned woman arguing with his former friend.

And I believed in you, he thought at her, outraged, heartsick at the betrayal - and at his own naiveté.

I believed you, he thought in numbed disbelief. I believed you, and in you - but it was all a lie! Everything you said, everything you did - everything that had passed between our minds - it was all a lie!

She had used him, used them all - Will, Deanna, Geordi, Data - oh, Data! he thought mournfully, staring at the head she still held clutched against her chest - used every scrap of emotion and belief she found in their minds and their souls - and turned it against him, manipulating him into believing her - into feeling sorry for her! - and just so she could...

Could what? he asked himself, perplexed.

Jay's reasons for participating he could understand; Jay had wanted a degree of power and authority which he could never earn on his own, from his own abilities, one which Starfleet would never directly grant him, but that he could, through this atrocity, manage to acquire through Czymszczak.

But her? he added angrily. What could she get from this?

Power? Position? Revenge? he added, remembering the list of slights she had endured at the hands of Starfleet - then reminding himself harshly that if everything she had told him was a lie, her entire history could have been a lie as well.

Then why? he asked insistently, a part of him needing - burning! - to know what had driven her to do this, studying her intently as she argued with the ambassador.

"I don't give a rat's ass what you believe, Ambassador," Andile snarled back.

Tillerman stared at her - then shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "no. You're making it up, trying to trick me into believing you. If you had really been a part of this mission, Czymszczak would have told me..."

"Told you what?" she snapped back. "Told you that you weren't the only one? That not everything was riding on you? That you really weren't important to this mission? He didn't dare, Mr. Ambassador. He needed your participation – he needed your commitment." She shook her head. "The truth is you didn't mean shit to this mission. Czymszczak didn't need you, Tillerman; what he needed was your history, your past with the good captain here," she said with a sneer, jerking her head at Picard. "He needed your past, your history of unreliability and dishonor, to obscure your actions - because anyone else, acting like you did, would have sent up warning flags with a ship's captain and crew. But you, the screw-up that you are, the utterly irresponsible sack of shit that you are - Picard wouldn't have thought twice about you acting like an asshole. Hell, he would have expected it!

"But when it came to the details of the mission, Czymszczak knew better than to rely on you - which is why he pulled me from Utopia Planitia to oversee this mission," she added.

Tillerman's jaw worked for a moment as he tried to digest the information - then rejected it. "No. I've been working on this mission..."

"For six months," Andile interrupted. "Well, Czymszczak and I have been working on it for two years, Mister Ambassador," she said with a sneer. "The meetings, the planning, the organization..." She shook her head. "Gods, Tillerman, you think it was just coincidence that Sandra James happens to get promoted to Lieutenant Commander, just in time to install a new tech computer in the flagship of the fleet? It took time, Tillerman, time to put that promotion through without Starfleet getting wise, time to get the computer system approved by all the tech committees, time to get all the wrong people off the ship - and get the right ones in position so we could call them up when we were ready to go. And then to have the Breen jump the gun and put the mission in operation months ahead of time? Gods, if I hadn't been there..." She let the words trail off, shaking her head at the idea.

"If you hadn't been there, my people would not be in this position," Picard managed at last, his anger seeping through the tightly controlled words.

"If I hadn't been here, Picard, your people - your crew, your ship, your friends - would be gone," she replied angrily. "Dead. Destroyed. None of what happened was faked, none of what I did was a fraud; it took every iota of imagination and creativity I had to keep this ship together."

"So you could betray us to the Breen?" he countered.

She stared at him - then nodded slowly, a tiny smile on her face. "Yes," she replied simply. "So I could betray you. After all, that was all this was about - you. Your ship. Your crew."

She laughed softly. "By the gods, Picard, Tad Czymszczak was right; your ego is out of control," she said - then shook her head. "It was never about you. Never about this ship. It was about..." She thought for a moment, "It was about making the hard decisions. The truly hard ones. The ones about life and death - not just of one or ten or a hundred - but of thousands, millions... billions. The deaths that would have come about if the Breen hadn't left the war, if the Dominion had had the ability, the resources, to keep the war going.

"We couldn't let that happen," she continued, her voice dropping, growing softer, her eyes growing distant and unfocused. "We couldn't let so many die..." Her voice trailed off.

There was something in her expression, something in the soft dreaminess, the pained regret, the grief and anguish that filled her visage that suddenly infuriated Picard.

How dare she? How dare she grieve over the lives not lost - but not give a damn about the ones she was willing to give away now! How dare she?

Enraged beyond all reason, he didn't feel himself cross the bridge, didn't see the Breen weapons moving to cover him, didn't hear the panicked protests of his crew - and didn't feel the blow as he viciously backhanded Andile, sending her crashing to the floor; all he felt, all he knew was that that damned expression was gone from her face.

"And what about my crew?" he shouted, even as two of the Breen grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back. "Are their lives so meaningless that you can sacrifice them without a single thought for their loss?"

Andile stared up from the floor, looking at him unseeingly, then shook her head, slowly clearing her mind.

"No," she said quietly. "No. Their lives aren't meaningless, any more than those they would saved are meaningless. That's why I did this," she added, reaching for the head that had been knocked from her arms by the force of his blow, pulling it toward her with her numbed arms. "Don't you see? No one has to die."

She turned toward the Breen leader, proffering the head once again. "This is all you need. You don't need all these people - not when you have this," she insisted.

For a moment, there was silence, then Tillerman looked at his communicator, and spoke. "Explain," he said, reading the brief message.

"This is Cmdr. Data - or rather it's his head. Data is an android, a member of this crew, who has spent his entire existence learning to become human. In doing so, he has learned everything there is to learn about humanity; read every book there is, studied every treatise, examined every theory, followed every expert on what makes a human, human; studied them not only from the human point of view, but from that of every culture throughout the Federation! He knows more than your greatest expert knows - or could possibly know! In him is everything your people need and want..."

"The Breen are familiar with the objective nature of human culture. They are currently investigating the subjective portion of the human existence - and that requires human subjects," Tillerman informed her.

"It doesn't have to - not when you have Data!" Andile protested, thrusting the head out toward the soldier. "He has all the information you could ever want! Not only his own experiences, but the records of the colonists on the world where he was built, the personal histories of thousands - maybe even millions! - of others, transcribed from their own records - diaries, writings, log entries - all the experiences - subjective experiences - that he himself has used in developing his perspective of humanity. It's more information than you could ever retrieve from a mere fifteen hundred - and it's yours for the taking without the loss of another life!" she insisted.

"Data's life..." Picard growled furiously.

"Isn't lost!" she countered, equally angry. "Once they've downloaded the information, his head can be reattached! It's been done before..."

"But never without risk!" Picard replied angrily. "Never without taking a chance that something would go wrong..."

"A risk, yes. A possibility!" she agreed, "But it's only a risk - versus the certain death of all your crew! But you didn't - your couldn't - because he was your friend," she added angrily, "and when it came right down to it, Captain, when it came to choosing between your friend and your crew, you were the one who couldn't make the hard decision."

She turned back to the Breen. "Here. It's everything you need..."

The soldier didn't move.

Tillerman glanced at his communicator. "He says they don't have the technology for powering a positronic device."

Andile shook her head. "Not necessary. All of Data's systems have self contained power modules; once the effect of the stun wears off, you can access his files."

"Data won't give them access," Picard countered knowingly.

Andile looked back at him, her eyes narrowed. "He will - because he won't have a choice," she said, then looked back at the Breen. "I can access his neural net and bypass his moral and ethical settings; you'll have free access to everything in his mind."

"Damn!" Tillerman interrupted. "So that's what you're up to! You just want to get off the ship!"

"Of course I want to get off, you idiot!" she snapped back. "I've sabotaged the ship, helped you sell them out, disabled their android, killed their first officer..."

Picard gasped.

Will? Dead? he thought, staggered by the revelation.

"... of course I want to get out of here! Need I remind you, Mr. Tillerman, that that was part of the plan all along, for you and for me - and for Sandra, if you hadn't killed her first. The Breen would grant us sanctuary, separate and safe from the others! The only difference is now that sanctuary is going to be lifelong," she added, then turned from the Breen to Picard and back.

"With all the knowledge Data has," she said, "there's no reason to carry on with your existing plan! You want the knowledge these people have - but I also know that your people want an end to the unnecessary deaths. With this," she said, offering up the head once again, "you can have both."

The Breen soldier stared at her, the head, Tillerman and Picard, hesitated for several seconds - then tapped a control on his uniform.

For several moments, there was a long interchange of the mechanical, stilted voices, one emanating from the soldier's suit, the other, slightly obscured by static and delayed by a split-second, obviously coming back from the distant and unseen ship.

Then, there was a sound that could be nothing else but a frustrated sigh, and a response in a tone of voice that was filled with obvious annoyance.

Tillerman, watching the conversation, seemed as unaware of the content as the others, suddenly looked down at the communicator in his hand. Raising it up, he read it - then looked at the others.

"They're considering the offer," he said, clearly astounded. "They're sending over another representative."

Andile nodded. "I thought they would," she said, then turned to Picard. "This, Captain, is why I was sent. Not to sacrifice your people - but to see if there was another way. A way that would save them," she said softly.

"And you expect me to be grateful?" he replied bitterly.

She stared back at him, his sharp tone stabbing deep into her soul. "No more grateful than I am for the treatment I received on your ship, Captain," she countered, then turned away.

He stared at her, his rage surging, overwhelming everything else that filled his soul.

How dare she? How dare she suggest that how he had treated her somehow merited this? By the gods, he had treated her fairly - no, more than fairly! he insisted, going so far as to trust her - to give her a field promotion! - and this is how she repaid that trust? And how dare she even suggest that her betrayal of Data somehow expiated her guilt for what else she had done? How dare she even think he could or would forgive her for betraying his ship, his crew?!

Even if she somehow managed to save their lives, they would be trapped here, light years from, marooned, unable to ever return to their homes, their families...

My family, he reminded himself suddenly, looking at Deanna's covered body, then Data's head - then closing his eyes, and thinking of Will.

He opened them again a moment later at the faint sound of a transporter - and was once again confronted by the incongruous image of a heavily armored body materializing from the pink and silver shimmer of the Breen transporter.

The individual who appeared before them was clearly in authority here, Picard realized at once, watching as the five stepped back in obvious deference as he approached them.

In charge, Picard realized - and yet out of place. He moved awkwardly, the armored suit he wore obviously not a familiar piece of apparel, as it was with the others, looking down as he walked, as if not entirely sure where the suit's boot were in comparison to the rest of his body.

He fumbled for a control on his uniform - and for several minutes, he stood in silent discussion with the first Breen soldier, discussing... what? Picard wondered.

Me, he knew, watching as the Breen turned to him: Data, obviously, Picard added, watching as the soldiers pointed at the decapitated head. They barely seemed to notice Jay, he realized a moment later - but An... _she_, he thought, still refusing to even think her name, _she_ seemed to be a major focus of the conversation.

After a long time, the senior Breen finally turned, bent down, and took the proffered head. A second guard moved to Andile's side, pulling her roughly to her feet, holding her there.

The senior studied them all, then raised the head.

"This is a machine," he said in perfect, unaccented Federation. "While the contents may be as you say, the sum total of all human psychology, utilizing it would not be in conformation with our methodology. In would invalidate all our previous work. Therefore, we reject your proposal," he said, casually tossing away the severed head.

One of the bridge crew jumped forward, catching the head before it could hit the floor, even as Andile shouted her protest. "No! You don't understand! Data's knowledge..."

"Is unusable," he returned flatly, then turned back to the others. "Begin the transfer of crew according to the schedule. Start with the captain," he added, pointing toward Picard, his arms still pinned by the two guards.

"No!" Andile screamed, jerking away from her guard, trying to interpose herself between the Breen leader and Picard.

The Breen stared at her - then with seemingly cool detachment, pulled out a small weapon and fired it at her.

A flash of red enveloped Andile, and she bonelessly collapsed to the ground, a soft grunt of air escaping her lungs as she fell.

Tillerman gaped, appalled. "You killed her! But... Adm. Czymszczak said you would protect us, that we'd be guaranteed our safety."

The Breen looked at him, his expression obscured by the armor.

"She is not dead," he said, "and we will honor our agreement with your admiral; all of his operatives will be granted a safe and secure place within the Breen Homesphere.

"But we have no agreement with her," he added. "She is not one of his operatives."

He looked at the fallen body for a moment - then gestured at the guard behind her. "Take her as well; it will be interesting to study one who would so easily betray her own people."

He studied his armored suit, searching out a control - then tapped it, and in a shimmer of pink and silver, Tillerman, Picard, the unconscious Andile, the Breen leader and three of the guards disappeared.


	120. Chapter 120

**Chapter 120**

For a moment, there was nothing.

No sensation, no consciousness, no awareness of time or self or place or being - not even the faint tingle that preceded dematerialization or the rematerializing process of transporting.

Just... nothing.

And then...

A faint tingle, starting at the core of his body, spreading outward from spine to skull, from heart to fingers, from intestines to feet, an electric itching as his body rematerialized and came back into being as a whole once again, and the first faint touches of awareness returned.

And then Jean-Luc Picard's body exploded.

Exploded in pain, unbearable and unyielding, filling every atom of his being; pain beyond comprehension, pain beyond understanding, pain beyond any capability of a rational being to grasp.

All he knew - all he had ever known, all he could ever know - was pain.

Collapsing forward, vomit spewed from his mouth even as his bladder and bowels emptied themselves in violent spasms, tears washing down his face, mucus running from his nose as every orifice raced to empty itself of the pain the filled him.

The two guards who had stood behind him, holding his arms to prevent his escape now held him aloft, keeping him from dropping to his knees as the senior soldier barked an order.

Wracked with pain, Picard didn't feel the hypospray pressed against his neck, didn't shiver at the cold of the medication as is forced its way beneath his skin - but for a moment for a split second, the hell that filled his body began to fade - then renewed itself with twice the violence it had before.

"_Outo_!" one of the guards barked worriedly, his words now in flawless, perfectly accented Federation Standard, "the medication isn't working!"

The senior Breen turned, staring at the apparently unpredicted response, then gestured at the two. "Put him down - gently. On his side; don't let him aspirate any of the vomitus!" he added as he reached up, whipping off his environmental suit headpiece, and drew out a medical scanner.

Kneeling beside the convulsing captain, he passed the scanner over the body, watching the display, listening to the soft mechanical chittering - and worrying.

The drug should have worked, the Breen thought to himself anxiously. It has been carefully developed, tried and tested on dozens of humans, and had never failed to offset the symptoms of transporter metabolic dyslexia - until now.

But now, for the first time, it had failed - and the failure was killing the human stretched out before him on the transporter's platform. As the Breen watched the scanner, he saw the human's internal organs failing, disintegrating as the chemical balance that supported their structure and function of every cell failed - and with each failure, drawing the human closer and closer to an inevitable and hideous death.

"Double the dosage," he ordered - then glanced at the other body lying on the transporter platform. "And treat that one as well! Quickly!" he added, knowing the transporter was doing its deadly damage on her just as it was on the male.

A hypospray was applied to Andile's neck, and, a moment later, a second was pressed to Picard's - and then the man fell still, unconscious, the pain seemingly gone.

The Breen stared at the two, his eyes darting from male to female to scanner - then, with a very human sigh of obvious relief, the Breen sat back on the floor and looked at the other Breen in the room - and smiled.

"Good work, _uz'ma_," he said to the others with a nod of approval. "The damage is halted; the electrolytes have been remobilized. They should both be stable shortly."

"But the drug did not work, _outo_," one of the Breen protested.

"On the contrary," the unhooded Breen replied, "it did work. Observe the female and Ambassador Tillerman," he said, gesturing at the still standing human, who was staring at the Breen in undisguised shock. "However, for reasons we do not yet know, the dose was insufficient to offset the effect of the transporter for the male." He looked at one of the Breen standing before the transporter platform. "Please perform a full medical scan on the male subject before induction, and double check the medication dosage; let's not make the same mistake twice," he added firmly, yet kindly.

Then turning back to Tillerman, he raised a brow ridge. "You are feeling well, are you not, Ambassador? No nausea, no pain?"

Tillerman gaped at the being, then sputtered, "But... you're a Changeling!" he gasped, horrified, as he gaped at the smooth-skinned, nearly featureless face of the being before him.

The Breen smiled, shaking his head. "Humans," he sighed in amused tolerance. "Such generalists." He sighed, shook his head again, then lifted himself to his feet.

Turning to the others, he gestured at the two bodies. "Take them both to the examination facility, clean up the male - and send a crew in here to clean up the mess," he added, grimacing at the foul smell that filled the room.

As he watched, the two bodies were lifted to waiting anti-gravity gurneys and guided from the room - then he turned back to Tillerman.

"My apologies for your tumultuous arrival, Ambassador; hardly up to our diplomatic standards, I'll admit - but medical disasters can never be predicted. Praise be that the _uz'ma_ are well trained for just such situations," he said quietly, stepping toward the man who was still staring at him. "I'll assume, then, that the inoculation worked more effectively on you than the compensatory medication did on your fellow human. Troubling, that," he added, looking back at the closed doors, as if Picard's body was still there, "it should have worked," - then turned to Tillerman once again.

"A Founder! But... how?" Tillerman repeated staring at the flat-paned structure of the Breen officer's face, confusion and dread filling his own.

The Breen shook his head, smiling. "No. We are not the Founders - or a Changeling - or any of the other names you may have for those species. Yes, there are some physical similarities - but we are not shapeshifters. We can't merge with one another... except briefly, for some of the more pleasurable habits of our people," he added with a smile - then grew sober once again. "But genetically, physiologically, socially, culturally, we have nothing in common with them. I can assure you, we are a completely separate race."

He smiled again - and extended a gloved hand in an awkward imitation of the Earth gesture. "Allow me to welcome you to the Breen mothership, Ambassador; I am Jemat, ship's _outo_," he added.

Tillerman stared at the extended arm - then reached forward, taking it in response, and pumping it uncertainly. "_Outo_?" he repeated. "You mean captain?"

Jemat smiled, though the expression on the Breen's planar face - and the array of brilliant white, razor sharp teeth that it revealed - did little to offset the human's anxiety.

"I thank you for the compliment," Jemat replied, "but Captain Huziah, I suspect, would be less amused to find his position had been usurped."

Tillerman studied the Breen - then nodded, his eyes focused on the scanner in the being's other hand - and, recalling the swift orders he had given the others in the room, reached a new conclusion. "You're the ship's doctor, then?"

Jemat hesitated. "I am _outo_," he repeated, uncertain of the exact translation, then nodded, "but I do serve as a physician as well, when needed - which, _vo'ba shi_, is rarely." He closed his eyes for a moment in apparent reverence, then opened them again, revealing to Tillerman pupils of a deep, shimmering blue.

"This is a mothership, Ambassador," he explained, "not a ship of war; usually the most medical care needed on a mothership is for treatment of minor injuries and the occasional illness. But where a physician's ministrations are rarely necessary, an _outo's_ care is always needed," he added matter-of-factly, as if the words were a truism that was universally accepted.

Tillerman stared at him, then gave a vague, uncertain nod of agreement. "Of course," he replied - then glanced at the door where the two human bodies had been taken.

"Picard and the woman - where are they now?" he asked. "I want to see them."

Jemat stared at the human, his surprise apparent. "I assure you, they are being cared for, as we agreed. The female will be prepared for induction immediately, but I want to ensure that the male - the ship's captain, correct? - has no underlying physical defect that might preclude a normal procedure. His abnormal response to the medication is troubling me, I must admit. Do you know of any pre-existing condition of which I should be aware?"

Tillerman considered for a moment, then volunteered, "He has an artificial heart."

Jemat raise a brow ridge again - and for the first time, Tillerman realized that the Breen was, indeed, slightly different from the Founders who had instigated the Dominion war. Where the faces of the shapeshifters were planar to the point of being featureless, this Breen – Jemat, he remembered - had distinct brow ridges where a human would have had eye brows - and, he realized with a start, a more pronounced ear than basic outlines that had been worn by the shapeshifters in their anthropomorphic state.

And was that a touch of hair surrounding the base of the Breen's head? he asked himself.

Ignoring the human's stare, Jemat nodded. "An artificial heart? Indeed. Interesting - though that would not, of course, affect the absorption rate of the medication - but the tale behind it will make for a more interesting personality exploration. You know him well, then? Does he possess other artificial organs? Is he taking any medications to offset the effect of the organs? Immunomodulators? Metabolic regulators?" he suggested, thinking of half a dozen drugs that would have caused the unusual reaction.

The expression of confusion on Tillerman's face, however, told the Breen more than his words could have said: aside from his knowledge about the artificial heart, the human, knew little about medicine - and even less about his fellow traveler.

"We... haven't been close in many years," Tillerman conceded, then hastily added, "but there's nothing in his file... aside from his assimilation by the Borg," he added.

Jemat's eyes tightened in a grimace of astonishment. The human had been assimilated by the Borg - but was now free? he gaped silently, suddenly anxious to see the results of the encephalographic examination as well as the emotional study; overlaying the two, Jemat mused, I may begin to understand the psychological trauma that accompanies assimilation...

But that was a study that would come much later, he reminded himself, after the contents of the human's life experiences were extracted and deposed.

And that, he added, would not come until he was certain that the human could tolerate the process, he added - at least, he added to himself, as well as any human could tolerate the procedure.

"And the female?" he asked, gesturing the ambassador toward the door. "What can you tell me about her physical condition, her medical history? Any illnesses, injuries...?"

Tillerman gave him a blank look. "I don't know who the hell she is," he swore. "Don't you?" he asked in surprise.

Jemat shook his head. "She is unknown to us."

"But... she knew almost everything about the mission..." Tillerman continued.

Jemat produce a human-like smile. "She knew nothing," he countered. "She was... bluffing?" he tried, unsure of the word.

"But..."

"Mr. Ambassador, for a human, you seem very unaware of the physiologic manifestations you present when you - or any human - acts. Each of you presents a complete non-verbal message when you communicate - and that message is often very much at odds with the verbal one you are attempting to assert. In the female's case... does she have a name?" he asked.

Tillerman thought for a moment, knowing he had heard the name - then shook his head, unable to recall it. "She was an engineer, I think. A lieutenant, I think," he added.

Jemat sighed disappointedly, having always hated to address his subject only by rank or number. "In the lieutenant's case, while much of her body's message was obscured by her environmental suit, there was no mistaking the increase in temperature, the increase in respiration rate - or the change in the chemical composition of her perspiration. She was..." He searched for the unfamiliar word, then said, "...lying."

At least, he added to himself, remembering the unusual readouts from the woman's body that were displayed on the interior panels of his environmental suit, lying about some things. But not all, he reminded himself - and felt a surge of curiosity at what the woman's psychological exposition would reveal.

Two very interesting first subjects, he thought to himself; an omen? - or was it simply statistical averaging, he wondered. Probably the latter, he conceded - but humans with interesting histories tended to associate with other humans of a similar nature, he reminded himself.

Indeed, this could prove a very interesting study, Jemat thought.

Tillerman stared at the man, unbelieving at his pronouncement of Andile's innocence. "But there were thing she knew..."

"Guesswork, perhaps - or perhaps she heard more than you were aware of," he reminded the human. "Did she not fall from a ceiling panel?" he reminded the man.

"How did you know...?" Tillerman gaped.

Jemat smiled, then reached to the neck of his environmental suit, pulling it back slightly - and revealing an intricate web of wires and fibers lining the front of the suit. "Our extravehicular suits are designed to relay all data back to the mothership - so that should something happen the _uz'ma_ we can evaluate the situation at a later time. I was aware of what was happening as it happened - as was Captain Huziah," he added.

Tillerman digested that bit of information - then glared at Jemat. "And where is this captain? As the human ambassador to the Breen homesphere, I should have been met by..."

Jemat raised his hands and bowed his head, silencing the man. "Breen policy. In a situation where we are transporting an unknown quantity aboard, the ship's captain is not permitted to be in the same quadrant of the vessel as the arriving cargo. Once the ship's computer has reviewed the transporter bio-filter records, and both subjects are under induction and pose no threat, I'll notify the captain. Would you like me to have him meet you in your quarters?" he added, touching control panel by the door, opening it to reveal the corridor outside the transporter room -

- and for the first time since the transporter had deposited the three on the Breen ship, Tillerman was aware that he was no longer in a Federation vessel.

Gone were the polished metal bulkheads and black plasti-steel panels with their omni-present Okuda panels; gone were the sharp-lined, uniform patterns that outlined every door and portal; gone were the stark colors of grays, silvers and blacks - and gone was the vaguely militaristic feel the permeated every inch of every Starfleet ship.

In their place were walls made of some seemingly natural material - wood? Tillerman wondered, aching to reach out and touch the intricately burled design in the rose-colored wall that framed the doorway - floors covered by rich thick carpets in soft greys and browns that accented the walls, halls marked by only the occasional computer terminal that seemed to be a natural extension of the wall material - and doorways that were trimmed in unique and individual ways. A different color of paint here, a small flower bouquet in a tiny vase set into the wall there - and on one door, a piece of what seemed to be paper, folded in half and secured to the door.

It was, Tillerman thought, far more like an apartment building than a warship - and for the first time, he felt a shiver of growing uncertainty.

This was not what he had expected.

This was not what Czymszczak had told him to expect.

Jemat studied the human beside him, sensing the human's confusion - then, before the human could begin to voice his apparent worries, wrapped his hand around Tillerman's arm, guiding him gently into the corridor.

"As I was saying, however, had the female subject been a member of Admiral's group, she would have been inoculated against the effect of transporter dyslexia, just as you were," Jemat continued. "As we have learned through sad experience, the effect of our transporter on unprepared humans is always traumatic - and sometimes fatal. We would prefer not to take that risk with anyone - but we were adamant that Admiral Czymszczak utilize the inoculant on every member of his group that might be subject to transportation. As you were," he reminded Tillerman. "But as the female was not. Thus, we know she was not a member of your group."

"But we don't know that" Tillerman protested. "She didn't get sick like Picard did," he reminded Jemat as they walked down the corridor, the soft pastel lights casting a warm glow on the walls of the ship.

"She was unconscious at the time of the transportation," the _outo_ countered. "The effect is still present - but mitigated until consciousness returns. Still, there were petichiae visible around the mouth and eyes - clear evidence of transportation metabolic dyslexia; if we were to examine her internal organs in detail, we would find the same disruption of function that caused the male's... Picard?" he tried, then seeing Tillerman's nod, continued, "... that caused Picard's reaction. Though not as severe," he added, his worry over the human's condition returning.

He guided Tillerman into a second corridor, ignoring the man's gaping as he saw an oncoming Breen.

"He doesn't look anything like you!" Tillerman finally managed.

Jemat laughed softly, a human behavior he found he enjoyed. "No - any more than you look like me. That one and I are not related - different bud stock," he added.

"But..."

"Mr. Ambassador, you're going to have to lose this preconception that because we have some similarities to the Founders, that we are that race," Jemat reminded him, rather sternly. "We are not the Founders, we are not Changelings. For them, their appearance is only that - an appearance, based on a notion of how they should appear, derived from a race that predated us all - but that can be, and is, changed at will, to resemble anything they desire. We, on the other hand, are like you, descendants of that same race that spread the seeds of bipedal humanoids across the stars - and like you, each the distinct - if not unique - product of our genetic heritage," he added a touch obscurely.

The reference, however, seemed to pass by Tillerman; for a moment longer, he gaped at the Breen - then felt the three gloved fingers of Jemat's hand wrap around his arm again, coaxing him forward.

"I know it has been a long day, Ambassador, and you must be tried. Please, let me escort you to your quarters. Once the subjects have undergone induction and I can assure the captain that safety protocols have been observed, I will inform him that you wish to meet with him..."

"No," Tillerman said abruptly, "I want to see what you're going to do to them!" he insisted.

Jemat stared at the man, astounded. "The induction process... Ambassador, it is not a pleasant thing to watch," he protested. "Were I not _outo_, I would not choose to be present - and to one such as yourself, unfamiliar with the preparations and the responses... "

"Jemat," Tillerman interrupted firmly, pulling away from the Breen, "I am the human ambassador to your people - but I am also Admiral Czymszczak's personal liaison - and as such, I must be able to attest that I, myself, saw the process started," he said firmly.

Jemat gaped at the man, his head jerking back in the Breen gesture of disbelief - then twisting to one side as comprehension settled over him.

"In view of the male's... Picard's... reaction, it would be advisable to perform the female's induction first, delaying the male's procedure until I have examined his physiologic profile..."

"No. Picard first," Tillerman insisted - then forced a smile onto his face as he looked at the Breen. "Once I can affirm that the ship's senior officer has been... examined... I can trust that the rest of the crew will be treated in a similar manner."

Jemat studied the man - then gave a nod. "Of course. However, I cannot authorize the inception of the procedure until I have reviewed his physical assessment. It will take at least thirty minutes - perhaps longer, depending on the results."

Tillerman smiled a cold, bitter smile. "No hurry, Jemat. It's not as though I'm going anywhere. I just need to make sure it's done, and done right."

Jemat nodded - then gestured for the man to lead as they turned down another long corridor, studying the man from behind.

Are they all like you? he wondered, suddenly disappointed in the species he had studied - and hoped for - for too long.

You don't know what is going to happen to your fellow human; you know only that there is pain and humiliation and grief and perhaps even death - and yet you wish to see this? To observe as a fellow being suffers? Perhaps even to revel in another's pain?

He bowed his head, grieving for the soul before him and for the species he represented - and for the hope that was lost - perhaps forever.

_We've worked and searched two hundred thousand years_, a voice echoed gently in his head. _If need be, we can - and will - search another two hundred thousand._

Jemat forced a smile into his thoughts, if not onto his face. _Yes, of course, but..._

_But you had hope,_ the voice said.

_Is that so unreasonable?_

_Of course not. It is that hope that will keep the search going_.

_But for how long?_ Jemat replied beseechingly.

Jemat felt a soft reassurance in the depths of his soul. _Until we find it, outo_, the voice assured him. _Until we find... them._


	121. Chapter 121

**Chapter 121**

For several moments, the bridge crew and the remaining Breen soldiers looked at one another awkwardly, as if none of them were entirely certain what to do in the circumstance - and in the absence of their commanding officers, an event that seemed to have left the Breen as stunned as it had left the Enterprise crew. One shifted uncomfortably, then started to turn to his compatriot.

"Now!"

The voice, deep, brusque - and completely unexpected - took the bridge crew and the Breen soldiers by surprise, startling them all, jarring the two Breen into starting to raise their weapons - but before they could complete the motion, four phaser beams burst out and completely enveloped the two.

At first, it seemed as if their armor would protect them from the assault of the phaser attack - then two more beams joined them, seemingly from the walls of the ship itself, the intense energy obliterating all but the faintest trace of a black shadow at the heart of the beams.

One fell instantly to the floor - but the other held out a moment longer, still trying to raise his weapon even as he was sent to his knees - only to have the full brunt of all the six phaser beams turn against him; completely overwhelmed, he dropped to the ground in a heap.

For a moment, the remaining bridge crew stared at the two fallen bodies, seemingly as stunned as the Breen had been - then one of the lieutenants began barking orders.

"Get their weapons! Secure them in case they come around; one of you med techs, check them for injuries... Let's get those lift doors opened; I want to get the injured down to Sickbay..."

The deep voice, the one that had barked out the order to fire, suddenly burst into the room again. "Lieutenant! Up here! Give me a hand!"

The lieutenant started as though he had forgotten that the phaser beams had come from somewhere, then stared up at the ventilator panel which Andile had fallen through not long before - and gaped in astonishment.

"Cmdr. Riker?" he managed. "But... we thought you were dead! The lieutenant said..."

"That she had killed me; yes, I know; I heard her," Will replied. "She didn't. Give me a hand," He repeated, reaching down.

The lieutenant reached up, helping pull the man through the opening, then stepped back as Riker got a solid grip on the frame of the ventilator and pulled himself free. Hitting the ground with a thump, he took only a split second to regain his composure, then motioned toward the aft lift doors.

Following the man's gesture, the lieutenant looked at the doorway - then realized that someone had pried the doors apart, just far enough to aim a weapon - and, he realized as he glanced at the forward lift doors, the same thing had occurred at those lift doors as well. Hurrying to the main lift doors, he wedged his hand into the narrow gap, then his shoulders, then felt the door suddenly give way - and found himself face to face with Worf.

The Klingon gave a grunt of thanks, then took over where the young man had left off, directing the Security officers who were behind him on the lift toward the remaining bridge crew - then stepping over to where Will Riker stood, pulling, unsuccessfully at the cover of one of the ventilator panels that located over the engineering station.

Reaching up, Worf wrapped his hand around the grill-work, then gave Will a glance.

The human nodded. "One, two, three!"

With a groan of metal tearing, the grill came free; leaving Worf to set the grille aside, Will reached both hands into the shaft - and quickly pulled out the dirt-smudged forms of Beverly Crusher and Sunil Chawla, each still clutching a phaser.

"Where's Deanna?" Beverly said, even before she reached the ground.

"Over here, Doctor," one of the med tech's called.

Securing the phaser to her belt with one hand, she pulled the medical scanner out with the other, sinking to her knew beside the first of the silver-blanketed forms.

She read the scanner read-out, then looked at the med-tech beside her, a question in her eyes, "Life signs are seriously depressed."

"Ambassador Tillerman was going to kill them both," she replied. "I gave them both neuro-suppressors to induce a coma, so it would appear they were already dead," she explained.

Beverly nodded. "Good thinking, Ganlee; you may have saved them both. Chlortriethamiazalone?"

"Five micrograms," the technician replied.

Beverly nodded again, approving the dosage, then looked at Will. "They're both alive, Will - for now. But we have to get them to Sickbay quickly," she said firmly, the urgency in her tone unmistakable.

"How bad is it?" Will replied worriedly.

"Bad. They both have third degree phaser burns, internal tissue damage... but they're alive, and if I can get them to surgery, they'll stay that way," she added defiantly.

Worf interrupted. "The lift is non-functional," he reminded him. "We'll have to move them out in the same manner we reached the bridge: lift them through the upper access port in the lift, then carrying them down the shaft itself..."

Beverly stopped him with a shake of her head. "The drugs are keeping their metabolism suppressed and minimizing the damage - but the tissue damage is severe. We can't risk carrying them, let alone trying to push them through the lift access port without risking having the phaser wounds open. They can't survive that kind of man-handling, careful as you may be."

Will hesitated. "Then... could you do the surgery here?" he asked, trying to conceal the desperation in his voice. "We could convert the captain's ready room..."

"Will," Beverly said softly, "to do any surgery, I'd have to have the proper equipment."

"Then we'll get the equipment and move it here!" he snapped back.

"Will..." she replied, reaching out to touch his arm, her voice growing softer, "they're going to need the cardio-pulmonary bypass machine, life support, sterile field projectors..." She shook her head. "The equipment weighs hundreds of kilos. It'll take time to get it here... more time than they have," she added quietly.

Will stared at her, then shook his head. He hadn't come this far, done this much, to get to his beloved Deanna - only to lose her now. "No!" he hissed angrily. "There has to be something..." he began, then let his head drop as the heartrending truth settled in on him.

Deanna was dying.

His _imzadi_, his beloved, was dying.

And he could do nothing to save her.

He reached for her head, pulling it free of the blanket that covered it, clutching it desperately, drawing it to his lips, choking back the sob that threatened - and watched as a tear fell upon the soft skin.

_Imzadi?_ he begged silently, pleading, begging to hear her voice, her thoughts, just one more time.

But the voice that came to him, while unworldly and strangely disembodied, was not the one he expected.

"If I may make a suggestion?"

Will looked up, his blue eyes searching the room - then stopped as they met a pair of golden ones looking up from the floor.

"Data?" he managed, stunned.

"Yes, sir," Data replied, - then looked about him, as if realizing that there was something wrong. "I seem to be lying on the floor - of the bridge," he said, quite perplexed. "And it would appear that I am unable to move, sir," he added, growing even more confused. "How did I get here? According to my last memory file, I was on the battle bridge... Lt. Andile had been overcome by the anaesthezine gas..."

"Data!" Will interrupted sharply. "I'll explain later. Right now, Deanna - and Ensign Brevira - are dying. You said you had a suggestion?"

"Yes, sir. I gather that the passage to Sickbay has been damaged beyond reasonable access?"

"The turbo lift shafts are out of alignment," Worf clarified, "and there is damage to the main corridors, accessway and Jeffries tubes throughout the ship."

Beverly nodded. "That's why I'm here, Data; Chawla and I were trapped in the corridor after the ship began to accelerate; no way off the deck... except through the ventilator shafts," she added, looking back at the opening through which they had just emerged. The option to use the passage had been untenable, she thought, since it would only serve to put them in the hands of the Breen invaders - but when Will had appeared outside the airlock where they had hidden, intent on recapturing the bridge, she had been more than willing to do her part.

"It would appear, then, to be an equally unacceptable return route," Data replied.

"Data," Will interrupted him again, "Your idea?"

"Ah!" the android exclaimed, "Indeed! I had considered... Lt. Andile is noted for always wearing a personal transporter band..."

"Lt. Andile is not here," Will replied tersely.

"As I have noted," Data agreed, looking around the room. "However, as I stated, she normally wears such a personal transporter at all times. However, she would have removed it, along with the balance of her clothing, when she put on the EV suit. Unless someone has cleaned the airlock of her belongings, it would still be there. And, As Dr, Crusher has indicated, access to the air lock is still readily available..."

Will scrambled toward the ventilator shaft - but Sunil Chawla was already entering the tiny passage, her petite form wriggling down the passage, quickly fading from view.

He turned around, affixing the android head with a hard stare. "There's only one transporter band, Data."

"Then transport Dr. Crusher first," he replied. "She will send the band back with one of her people - and we will repeat the process until the injured have been successfully moved to Sickbay."

Will nodded - then stopped, thought - and nodded again. "And that's how we'll move throughout the ship until we get main transporters back on line and the corridors repaired." He nodded again, then reached down, picked up Data's head, and raised it to his eye level. "Data, you've got a good head on your shoulders - even when you don't," he said.

The android stared at him in confusion, then looked down - and seemed to realize for the first time that his body was not simply malfunctioning - it was absent.

"Why is my head disconnected from my body?" he asked curiously.

"Andile cut it off," Will replied.

"Ah!" Data replied, relieved - then frowned. "Why did she remove my head?" he asked.

"I'll explain later," Will said, setting the head on one of the consoles, facing the center of the bridge so that Data could see what was happening.

Or at least see part of what was happening, he thought, finding himself vaguely befuddled by the movement of people in and out of his range of vision - a mental confusion that left the android even more discomfited.

After all, he reminded himself, he was not limited to mere visual data to determine the activities of those around him; his auditory systems were unaffected, even though his visual range was limited: he could hear what was happening, listen to what the others were saying - and he could connect the two, and make logical assumptions about any gaps in his sight. Indeed, he could even add more data to those two senses, garnering the faint changes in the olfactory presence of the others to assess their underlying emotional states - and add that miniscule data to what he already knew - and surmised - for a more comprehensive picture of the state of the bridge and her crew.

He knew this; he had done it before, gathering input from every available sense, compiling it, digesting it mentally, and spewing forth a reasoned and reasonable assessment of the complex beings who filled his life, doing it so often that the practice was now a habit, one that came so easily he was not even consciously aware he did it - though he knew his positronic brain was always cognizant - 'aware', he decided, would be a most inaccurate term - of his every actions, his every thought process - except that now he _was_ aware he was doing it - and, more significantly, he was aware that he was aware, just as he was aware that he should not have been aware of the function...

Something, Data decided after due - and prolonged - consideration, was wrong.

Very wrong - and if the captain was to rely upon informational and decision-making capabilities...

The realization struck him with as much force as a physical blow - and stung him far deeper than any physical pain could: the captain was not on the bridge.

I should have realized that instantly, Data thought to himself; I should have been instantly aware of the changes in the social dynamics of the group, aware of the physical manifestations and behavioral changes that the bridge crew exhibit when the captain is away - and the increase in display of anxiety and concern. Andile has taught me how to see and interpret those changes...

He froze as the second realization struck him, stabbed at him, cut him to the depths of the soul he was not even completely aware he possessed.

Andile was not here.

On another day, in some other circumstance, the realization that he did not know where she was might not have bothered him; he would have known that she was elsewhere in the ship, in Engineering, or perhaps working in the computer core, or helping the technicians rebuild the replicator system - but this was not another day, he thought. This day, the ship was in desperate trouble, damaged beyond rapid remedy, at risk of being lost, along with her crew, to an unknown enemy - and as certainly as this was where the captain would be, Data thought, this is where she would be.

But she was not.

She was, he knew instantly, on the Breen ship, a prisoner, just as the captain was.

I, however, am here, on the bridge... or at least my head is, he conceded.

He considered that fact for a long time, watching without the seeing the activities of the bridge crew as they moved before him.

_If Ginger could be here, she would,_ he considered, oblivious to the reappearance of Chawla at the ventilator opening, a thin black band in her hand.

_That she is not - but that she found it necessary for me to be present - or at least for my head to be present, was significant,_ he added.

He watched, seeing but ignorant, of the dematerialization of Beverly Crusher.

_Further, that my thought processes have been seriously degraded, is equally indicative... of something,_ he added, as a medical technician appeared a few moments later.

_Andile has done something to me,_ he decided, unseeing as Will Riker wrapped the band around Deanna's arm, then leaned forward, kissing the woman's forehead tenderly.

_But what - and for what reason?_ Data asked himself.

A self-diagnostic of his postironic net was in order, Data thought as Deanna faded from view - but a complete diagnostic would take hours under the best of conditions, he knew - and these were not the best of conditions, he knew equally well.

Nor had they been for Andile, he reminded himself; she had stated she had been outside the ship for too long - and had gasped in pain when he touched her hands. Nonetheless, she had persevered in her mission... which was what? he wondered.

To save the ship, he conceded - but how? She had not told him, he thought, a hint of anger and frustration building in his thoughts - then felt a surge of chagrin as he remembered that he had not given her the chance to do so. Indeed, he had refused to listen, refused to hear out her plans, insisting instead that she follow his directives and remain with him on the battle bridge.

I was wrong, he thought to himself; I did not give her the opportunity that a commanding officer, a friend, a lover is due.

That she had promptly feigned injury, shot him and cut off his head seemed, if not a reasonable response, at least a most practical one; she had a mission to complete.

He hesitated. On the other hand, perhaps removing my head _was_ excessive...

Or was it? he added, the details finally beginning to mesh is his sluggish mind.

He considered for several minutes, oblivious as a new technician appeared and Ensign Brevira was transported to Sickbay - then gave himself a mental shake.

"Cmdr. Riker!" the head called out.

Will, startled, turned to the disembodied android. "What is it, Data?"

"You stated that would discuss the reasons underlying Lt. Andile's removal of my head at a later time. I believe this is the optimal time for that discussion," Data said.

Riker hesitated. "Data..." he began reluctantly.

"Commander, I detect that you are reluctant to discuss the matter," the android interrupted. "If you are attempting to protect me from a perceived emotional injury, please be aware that my emotion chip is not engaged at this time," he assured the first officer.

Will raised a brow in surprise; despite Data's assurance to the contrary, there was no mistaking the fact that there was emotion on the android's face... but whether it was over Andile, the captain, or the ship, Will didn't know.

And, he added, he owed Data the same respect he would to any other officer. If he wanted the truth, he would have it.

"She cut off your head so that she could use it as a bargaining chip," he said. "She was going to trade your head to the Breen in exchange for freeing the rest of the crew," he told his friend.

For a moment, the android said nothing, his face blank, implacable, unreadable as a thousand thoughts - or perhaps none at all, Will conceded - crossed Data's mind. Finally, his eyes focused again, and he looked at the first officer again.

"Indeed. To what end?" he asked.

Will's eyes widened in surprise; the answer, he thought, was obvious.

"Data, the Breen want to study humans - human psychology in particular - and you, Data, are a walking encyclopedia of everything there is to know about humans. Our emotions, our logic, our responses to stressors and stimuli - Data, whatever there is to know about people, you know it! You could have given them everything they wanted - without the loss of a single life."

"Except mine," Data pointed out.

Will shook his head, knowing the argument well; it was the same one he had used with Andile in the corridor when they met, when she explained her plan...

He hadn't liked the idea, of course, of risking Data when there was no certainty that they could retrieve him, but she had assured him that once the information was downloaded, the Breen would return him, uninjured, unharmed...

He shook his head, suddenly confused; she had been utterly right, he knew; she had been certain that Data was at no risk - and she had argued the point well, countering every argument every objection he could think of until he was certain she was right... and always, always, always with the reminder that getting Data's head to the bridge would save Deanna.

Deanna was safe, he realized, a rush of icy cold running over him - and with it, restoring every thought that had filled his mind.

Damn it - damn her! he swore silently. She tricked me! She tricked me!

And I fell for it!, he added as he stared at Data's head, appalled by what had almost happened.

"Commander?" Data repeated.

Will looked at him, horrified at what he had almost done.

"How did she know the Breen would return me?" the android asked.

Will shook his head. "She didn't," he admitted, then started to explain. "God, Data, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Somehow she convinced me..."

Data cut the senior officer off abruptly. "Commander, it is not important at this juncture to understand what happened - or rather, it is important, but for other reasons."

Will looked at him, curious. "What reasons?"

"First, while the proposal of giving the Breen my head - my knowledge about humans - in exchange for the lives of everyone aboard this ship is outwardly reasonable, it does not hold up to close scrutiny. Psychologists, as a rule, do not want 'book learning'; they want to examine individual experiential data. That is not something I could provide. Andile, however, with her greater age and greater personal knowledge of the complexities of human existence, would have made a more palatable candidate. Why then did she not offer herself in exchange?"

"Because she is a coward," Worf interrupted.

"No, sir," the android head contradicted instantly. "Andile is many things - but a coward is not one of them."

"She isn't, sir," the lieutenant who had taken control of the bridge after the Breen had been shot down agreed. "When the Breen said the were going to take the captain, she jumped in front of him, like she was trying to protect him," he said.

"That's when they shot her," one of the others volunteered.

Data froze. "The lieutenant... has been shot? Is she... alive?" he managed weakly.

Oblivious to the pain in his voice, the officer nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, then added, somewhat hesitantly, "At least I think she is. The Breen officer said she wasn't dead."

Hope surged in the android - then faded almost as quickly.

Breen weapons were reputed for their deadliness, Data knew, and Andile's health was precarious, at best. Even if she had been alive at the moment of transport...

It took a moment before the voice registered in his mind. Looking up, he met Will Riker's eyes - but there was no trace of sympathy in the man's eyes.

"She betrayed you, Data; she would have sold you to the Breen..." he started angrily.

"No, sir; she would not," Data countered.

Will gaped at the head, astounded, "But I heard her..."

"Propose an exchange, yes. As the first offer in a negotiation," he added. "Not as the final offer."

Will stared at him - then managed, "You mean she cut off your head - for nothing?!"

"No, sir, - not for nothing. For a reason."

"And that reason is...?"

Data hesitated. "I was being... stubborn," he said. "My orders were to attempt to take command of the ship from the battle bridge. When Andile arrived, she endeavored to convince me that, in light of the conduit damage and my inability to retrieve control of the ship, that we should make our way to the main bridge and fulfill our duty from that position. I argued against the idea, and ordered her to remain on the battle bridge. That is when she incapacitated me, and removed my head."

Will shook his head. "I don't understand," he confessed.

"She removed my head, not because she wanted to trade it to the Breen, as she indicated to you, but because she wanted me off the battle bridge and in position where I could better address the situation on the ship. As I would not release the force fields securing the battle bridge, and as she could not remove my body through the passage she had used, she opted for the most commodious alternative - removing my head and bringing it with her," Data explained.

Will considered the information, then shook his head. "But to use your words, Data - to what end?"

"I do not know, sir. Under other circumstances, I believe the lieutenant would have felt herself capable of dealing with any situation she may have encountered. That she removed my head and brought it with her would suggest that she believed there was a real possibility that that would not be the situation - that she would not be here to deal with the state of affairs she discovered. Or perhaps she was simply ensuring that at least one of us was.

"Nonetheless, I am aware of a significant decrease in my processing speed. I believe the lieutenant did not simply remove my head, but rather that she also attempted to provide me with access to the information she had accumulated during her movement from the ship's hull to the battle bridge," he said.

"And what information is that?" Will pressed.

"I do not know, sir," he answered.

"You don't know?" he said incredulously. "Why not? Is the data encrypted?"

"No, sir. It is not encrypted. It is simply... inaccessible."

Confused, Will asked, "Inaccessible? Why? If she wanted you to have the information, why not make it easy to read?" He paused, then continued, a worried and angry look on his face. "Data, is it possible that there is no information? That she's done whatever she's done just to delay us, to have us waste time, trying to retrieve non-existent information while she's over there, collaborating with the Breen?" he asked. Then lowered his voice, trying to gentle it against the rage that still filled him. "Data, we've every reason to believe she's working with them..."

"They shot her," Data pointed out.

"But they didn't kill her," Will countered.

"As far as we know," the android argued.

Will hesitated. "As far as we know," he agreed. "But even that could have been part of the plan...

Had he still had a neck, Data would have shaken his head - but now lacking the balance of his body, he had to settle for a vocal dispute of Riker's statement. "Sir, the state of the lieutenant's health is highly unstable, as Dr. Crusher will attest. Even a minor injury may prove fatal; a Breen energy weapon, even on the lowest setting, has been known to kill. Even expertly planned, it would have been an unacceptable risk. No sir, I believe my supposition is accurate; the lieutenant has placed data in my head, not as a delaying tactic, but as a means to effect... something. Our escape, perhaps?"

Will studied the android's head, and the implacable faith that shone from the golden eyes - and remembered the faith, the certainty that had flowed over him only a few minutes before.

"Salvation," he whispered.

"I beg your pardon?" Data said.

Will stared for a moment, then looked at Data soberly. "When I met her in the corridor, when I was going to arrest her, stop her from doing whatever she was doing she said... she said your head was our salvation." Deanna's salvation, he reminded himself - then looked at the floor where his beloved had lain only a moment before - and nodded. In this, if nothing else, Andile had been right; Deanna was safe.

As they all would be.

He looked at the android, wanting, needing - aching! - to believe - but finding the doubts still strong in his soul. "If she had wanted us to access the information, though, why make it inaccessible?"

"I believe that was inadvertent, sir," Data replied. "The lieutenant appeared to be in considerable pain when she reached the battle bridge, and stated she had been EVA for too long; I believe she meant that she was suffering from vascular insufficiency to the peripheral tissues, caused in part by prolonged exposure to the extreme cold of space. As a result, she may have had difficulty in placing the data into my neural net, and inadvertently rendered the data inaccessible, as well as in reducing my processing speed," he surmised.

Will considered - then nodded. "Do you think Geordi will be able to retrieve the data?"

"It is a reasonable assumption; Andile would not have tried to place the information in my mind if she had not wanted it utilized," the android concluded.

"Sir," Worf interjected, "I would treat any information that comes from the lieutenant as highly suspect."

"As would I," Data replied, to the surprise of both men. "Not, however, because I doubt the lieutenant's loyalty," he added quickly, "but rather because if her hands were so badly damaged that she could not place the information in my mind without error, it is equally unlikely that the information itself was documented correctly. We must consider the content in that light - and with due caution," he said.

Worf grunted, agreeing with the treatment - but no less secure about the trustworthiness of the source. "I will have two of my security people on hand when Cmdr. LaForge removes the information."

Will nodded. "Agreed. Now let's get your head down to Engineering," he told Data.

"Yes, sir. Sir?" he added as Worf picked up the head. "We are going to attempt to retrieve the captain and the lieutenant, are we not?"

Will nodded. "Damned right we are," he said. I will not leave the captain in the hands of those barbarians! he insisted to himself.

"Then expediency is critical," Data reminded him.

"Agreed. The longer they have the captain..."

"It is not the captain about whom I am concerned," Data interrupted. "It is the lieutenant. If she is, indeed, suffering from vascular insufficiency, the damage to her extremities could irreversible; moreover, the damage could affect the rest of her body," he reminded Riker.

The first officer nodded. Tissue necrosis, gangrene... her hands and feet could literally rot off - and the poison they created could - hell, it would, poison the rest of her body. It would be a hellish way to die, he thought to himself - but if she were a traitor, he added angrily, even that slow and hideous death would be too good for her.

But that, he thought, was not what the android needed to hear. Nonetheless...

"Maybe it's not such a bad thing, Data," he said, as gently as his anger would allow. "If she comes back, there's going to be an investigation; she's going to face charges - assaulting a superior officer, insubordination - and despite the captain's decision, she never was formerly cleared of the charges of treason," he reminded the android. "Data, it might be better - for her, for all of us - if she stays there."

"Sir, we do not know the level of Breen medical technology when it comes to humans. If she remains, she may die."

Will reached out, stopping Worf in mid-step, then took the head from him and raised it to eye level.

"I am aware of that Data - but..." He hesitated, unwilling to hurt his friend - but equally unwilling to shield him from the truth.

"Data, if she dies... it may be for the best."


	122. Chapter 122

**Chapter 122**

The Breen technician pulled the flexible sheet from the terminal and handed it to Jemat. "Three fractured vertebrae," he said in a cool, clipped tone.

Jemat looked up from the document, his eyes meeting the technician's, the reproach in them unmistakable. "Compassion, budling," he reminded the Breen gently. "Always compassion. Distance yourself so you will not feel their pain, but distance yourself too often or too far and you will not feel anything."

The Breen hesitated - then slowly nodded. "He must be in pain," the technician said softly. "Is there anything we can do for him?"

"Not for the moment. The human ambassador wants the procedure to begin as quickly as possible - and he requires that we perform the procedure on the male first," he added grimly.

The technician frowned. "You do not approve."

"No. The lack of compassion the ambassadors has for his fellow beings is heart-breaking," Jemat replied.

"Then it may be better that they are not the ones we seek," the tech countered.

Jemat smiled gently. "Cynicism is no better than indifference, budling."

The tech paled in embarrassment, then bowed his head. "I wish... Perhaps, _outo_, in time, we could teach them compassion. They may not be as us, but maybe we could teach to share their pain, as we do," he suggested gently.

Jemat lifted his right shoulder in resignation. "No. Not yet. They are not sufficiently advanced as a race. Perhaps someday," he added, then placed his hand under the tech's chin, raising the being's eyes to his. "Perhaps you will be the one to help them," he added in soft praise.

The young technician bowed in head at the blessing, whispering back in ritual response, "We will all be the ones," then looked back to the terminal and the read-out.

"I found no other pre-existing conditions that would have affected his response, _outo_," he added. "Artificial heart, with well-healed scarring, indicating it has been in place for some time - but with indications that is not the first such device he has had. No trace of immunosuppressant medications or immunomodulating implants. Extensive internal and external scarring, all showing evidence of corrective therapy - a physically challenging life, but he's been well cared for medically. Exceptional muscle tone, minimal degradation of renal and hepatic function, cerebral perfusion excellent... The only abnormality I detected was the presence of Borg nano-probes in his blood stream."

Jemat smiled tolerantly. "As I indicated may be present," he reminded the tech.

"Yes, _outo_ - but the scarring around the implant removal sites suggest that the removal from the Collective occurred more than fifteen years ago," the technician protested.

"Yes? And?"

The tech twitched a brow in confusion. "The probes are newly replicated - less than a phase old," he added.

Jemat started, stunned by the news. A phase? He repeated to himself. But that would indicate that the human had been re-infected while the ship was already on its mission! he protested silently. Impossible!

Yes, it was impossible, he told himself a moment later. Borg sub-space communications within the Collective were easily detected and easily intercepted by Breen technology - but the communications department had not informed him that there was any indication of either. Re-infection, therefore, was not the cause - but what was? he wondered - then dismissed the concern.

Later, he reminded himself; there would be time later to analyze what had happened, either during the deposition - or, he added softly, regretfully, at the autopsy.

"Any other findings?"

The technician shook his head. "Nothing of significance. Minor residual bruising in the antecubital areas of both arms, but again, minor, and with indications of good healing processes. At this point, I see no physiological reason to delay induction."

He turned, looking past the terminal and its printer, through the translucent wall, and studied the figure there: a lone human, male, now washed, cleaned, stripped of his filthy clothing and freshly dressed in nothing more than a pair of thin, white, loose-fitting trousers, sat, his unconscious body secured to the induction chair, waiting.

It did not seem an uncomfortable pose, Jemat thought to himself, having sat - once, for a moment - in the chair himself, kneeling on the thickly padded cushion, his arms resting on the soft arm rests, his head eased against the facepad - but sitting in the chair as a student was a far cry from being strapped into the position, with arms, legs and head secured and utterly immobile, as was the human in the adjacent room. That the total immobility was for the ultimate safety of the subject seemed little consolation against the terrifying realization that once secured, the individual was completely defenseless against the actions of those around him.

And it would be terrifying, Jemat knew, having seen enough procedures to know the panic that filled the souls of the humans who had been subjected to the process in those brief moment between the restoration of consciousness and the first moment of induction: the terror at the realization of where they were, of what was happening - and the dread at not knowing what was to come, of knowing that they may never know the manner of their ending.

It was wrong, Jemat reminded himself, in so many ways; a life should not end in this manner; an ending should only be after a long spiritual examination of one's existence - but even spirit must, on occasion, give way to practicality. And here, now, practicality was critical.

Knowing these people, Jemat reminded himself, these humans, their bodies, their minds and their spirits, was essential if both people were to survive.

"I will stay with him," Jemat assured the technician gently, seeing the same objections in the young one's eyes as he felt in his own soul.

The young Breen hesitated, then said, "I will stay as well, _outo_."

Jemat felt a surge of pride and tenderness fill his soul, his heart warming and melting as he looked at the technician. "I could not be as proud of you if you were my own budling," he told the other, then added, "but... no. You are young," he added softly. "Though one should not be afraid to feel pain, there is no reason to subject yourself unnecessarily. That, in its own way, is just as unhealthy. No; I will stay - alone," he said.

The Breen nodded; one did not argue with the _outo_ when he had made his decision. Still... "I will available afterwards, _outo_, should you need someone."

Jemat smiled again, touched, then lowered his head to the other Breen's their large flat foreheads touching in affection.

Then raising himself up, he gestured at the door, silently informing the technician he could leave. Then, drawing a deep breath, he looked at the human in the next room - and touched a button on the control panel.

"Notify Ambassador Tillerman that we are ready to begin induction. Induction team one, please assemble in room three," he said, then looked at the tech once again. "And the female?"

"Ready as well, _outo_," he said, touching a control, bringing up the lights in a second room.

Unlike the male, she had not been bathed in preparation; unnecessary, Jemat reminded himself, as she had not reacted to the effect of the transporter. Instead, she had been secured to the chair, still clad in her environmental suit, the only concession to the procedure being that the back of the suit had been cut aware, giving the technician the necessary access to her neck and spinal cord.

Still, there was something that rankled Jemat's conscience; somehow, he thought, it seemed unprofessional to simply proceed without the ritual examination of the being, without knowing the precise details of her physiologic make-up and being prepared for any contingencies that might arise - then snapped his head back in self-disgust.

I am no different than they, he thought, reminding himself of the pride human executioners once took in their work, in their so-called professionalism, maintaining their axe blades with razor-sharp edges and practicing their swings for hours, even days, on end, so as to make the death blow as sure and swift as possible - to spare their victims, he thought caustically.

He jabbed a digit at the communicator switch once again. "Induction team two to room two. Notify me when the female is prepared," he added, refusing to forfeit this being to her fate alone.

"I will be with you both," he swore to himself - and to them.

A moment later, four Breen, gloved, masked, dressed in surgical gowns, entered the room, two pushing carts of equipment.

Settling themselves into place around the unconscious woman, they methodically began to work.

Covers were removed from the carts, lights arranged and re-arranged, sterile drapes arranged...

Jemat smiled, seeing the hesitation in the group as the studied the long mass of black hair that trailed down the female's back. Long hair was not something they frequently encountered, and for a moment they seemed befuddled as to what to do with it. After a brief discussion, one of the technicians wrapped the lengthy braid in another drape, arranged it on the back of the female's head, then secured it with a large surgical clamp, when the thick braid threatened to fall back into its usual place.

Not the use for which the equipment was intended, Jemat thought, looking at the clamp, but he silently applauded the Breen's innovation.

Content with their decision, one finished placing the drapes, while a second opened a container of thick, brown fluid, and began painting the liquid over the small section of exposed flesh.

Such habits we have, hiding ourselves in the minutiae of our profession. Did humans, Jemat wondered as he watched the skin being cleansed, go to such extremes? Did they sterilize the necks of the convicted prior to cutting off their heads? he asked himself bitterly.

Not the same thing, he reminded himself; not the same thing at all. This was not an execution; this was an examination. That it was the end of this life did not mean that it would be the end of the body - but the introduction of foreign bacteria into the spinal fluid would, indeed, be a death sentence. He had seen the historical records, read the accounts of the swift but agonizing death of the bodies as the bacteria invaded the brain; it was not something he wished to observe for himself.

It was difficult enough to have to be present for the induction, he added, forcing himself to watch as one of the technicians began to attach the near-microscopic fibers to the probe matrix - then watched as the four turned to face him.

They were ready, he realized. Touching the communicator buttons again, he spoke.

"A few moments; we are to begin with the male. I will let you know when to begin the female's induction," he added - then turned to look at the adjacent room.

It looked the same, he thought, the differences in the two beings, in the two genders, masked by the drapes that covered all but a few square inches of their backs.

The same from this point of view, he thought to himself, so different from the front, he added - then turned as he heard the door to the preparation room open.

And so different from within, he added, studying the outward form of Jay Tillerman - and wishing he could study the inner form as easily.

"We're ready then?" Jay asked, smacking his hands together in hungry anticipation.

Jemat wrinkled his nose in disapproval at the human's enthusiasm - but nodded.

"Let's get to it, then," Jay insisted. "I've been waiting a long time to see Johnny get what he's got coming."

"Indeed," Jemat replied, forcing a calm upon himself that he did not feel. "Before we begin, we should, however, meditate upon the change of existence for these, our fellow beings."

Tillerman gaped at the Breen. "Meditate? You mean 'pray'?' he replied incredulously. "For Johnny-boy?! I don't think so, Jemat. Wherever he's going, he deserves it."

"Going?" Jemat echoed.

"Yeah, you know, heaven, hell - wherever it is that your people think your soul goes after death," Jay explained.

The Breen stared at the human. "We do not go... anywhere," he replied slowly. "After death, we... remain," he said, thoroughly confused by the human's ideas.

"Good. Then you can pray that Johnny stays right here, 'cause I've had as much of him as I can take. That arrogant, self-righteous, pompous son of a bitch - he took the commission I was supposed to get! And if I'd been the one on the Stargazer, it would have been my ship - and I would have been the one promoted to captain when the captain died. It would have been mine - and the Enterprise to follow! Instead..." He looked at Jemat, his eyes blazing at the years of injustice that had festered in his soul. "Instead, I get a second rate posting on a third-rate ship - and spent the rest of my career going nowhere! No, if your souls don't go anywhere, then you can add his to your collection... though there would be a certain irony in sending him to the hell he's put me through for the last fifty years!"

Jemat gaped at the human, stunned by the vitriol in the man's voice - and the poison in his soul. "Ambassador, I am _outo_ to the ship; if you would like to..."

"Look, I don't need a doctor," Tillerman snapped. "If anyone does, it's Johnny-boy there," he said, stabbing a finger at the window, "and if you want to be a real good doctor, then the sooner you put him out of his misery, the better - right?! So let's get to it!"

Jemat stared at the man, too stunned to reply, half wishing that he could put this one into the induction chair. To study a being so cruel, so vindictive...

It was, he thought, nothing more than another aspect of human psychology, something he had seen before, both in his own people and in the humans - but never so intense, never taken to such an extreme. What a subject he would make... but he was exempt, Jemat knew.

But, the _outo_ added with a degree of satisfaction that he shouldn't have experienced, when this one's existence ended, it would truly end.

Perhaps it would be better for the others, he thought, adding a silent prayer.

Then he slowly nodded, remembering the human gesture for silent agreement. "Then let us proceed. If you'll follow me..."

He led the human - the eager, enthusiastic, gloating human - out, and into the procedure room.

Tillerman stared at the body, draped in blue, the only patch of bare skin now stained dark brown, glistening wet - and shook his head. "No. Not good enough. I want to see him when you do it."

"Ambassador," Jemat said pleadingly, "I can't permit that. The damage would be incalculable!"

"Damage? You're going to kill him anyway - what difference could it make?" Jay retorted.

"Not the damage to the subject," Jemat argued, "The damage to you. To your soul! To see the pain and suffering of a fellow being..."

Tillerman whirled on the Breen, ignoring the alien's greater height, weight - and the face filled with razor sharp teeth. "I said, I want to see him. Now get those things off him - and get this started."

Appalled, sickened, Jemat stared at the man - then turned to the others.

"Remove the drapes," he said, refusing to explain the human's demand to the others, grateful for once that their language was so difficult to understand, "but I want a sterile field over the site. And once you've started, I want you all to leave," he added.

The four stared at him in astonishment, appalled by the order - then looked at the human... and understood.

"Barbarians," one muttered, turning back to the subject, neatly removing the drapes from the unconscious being.

A red tinted light flickered on, then was focused over the same area as the drapes had covered, its soft heat gently warming the cool room.

The subject would be safe from contamination, Jemat thought to himself - but now it was his people who were at risk.

He looked at them, silently praising them for their work, then gestured at the door. "Go. We must begin..."

The four looked from one to the other - then stared back, unmoving, at the _outo_.

"No," Jemat said pleadingly. "_Uz'ma_, no," he begged the team.

"Yes," one of the technicians replied. "Five can bear what one cannot."

Jemat swallowed hard, wishing the surgical gowns the others wore would have permitted the touch of blessing - but it would have to wait, he told himself.

"Then begin," Jemat finally said.

It was warm.

Not too warm.

Just gently warm. Deliciously warm, Picard thought, feeling the pleasant lassitude of an afternoon spent dozing in the sun - though which under which sun, and on which world he was dozing, he wasn't sure.

The thought didn't bother him.

At least, not at first - but it niggled at him, chewing away at the delicious lethargy that tempted him, calling out to him, sweetly begging him to come back into its tender embrace.

For a moment, he was tempted to give in, fatigue and exhaustion adding their powerful vote to the teasing call of relaxation.

He drew in a deep breath, willing to allow himself to follow the beckoning call - and a second nagging thought joined the first.

Something _was_ wrong.

It wasn't just the warmth, he realized; there was something else, something that was out of place...

Something _smelled_ wrong.

Fifty years on a starship had left his mind filled with ever-changing images, sounds, perceptions, sensations... but the one constant was the air.

The air, with its slight chemical taint, the hint of processing to remove every foreign particulate that left a unique smell of its own, blended with the faint afterscent of fourteen hundred others, a suggestion of a myriad of perfumes, colognes, flowers, and cooking, colored with a touch of plasma, coolants, cleaning solutions, recycling stations, disinfectants... There was nothing like it in the universe, Picard knew.

Including the air he was breathing now.

He was not on his ship.

His eyes snapped open, and he tried to jerk himself upright - only to find his body totally immobilized.

Totally immobilized, he realized, the thought coming into full awareness in his mind, accompanied by an instant of complete terror.

Terror he should have instantly stilled. Terror served no purpose, he reminded himself; it just wastes time and energy.

But it took time to still terror; even for a man such as Jean-Luc Picard, who had been through hell more times than a being should, it took time.

And time was something he no longer had.

He felt the band that held his head to the padded headrest tighten, then move forward, tilting toward his chest, pulling his already over-stretched neck even further - and groaned.

A voice called something incomprehensible, then...

"Awake, Johnny-boy?"

A face peered up at him, grinning cruelly.

"Jay..." Picard croaked, his voice hoarse, his throat sore. "What...?"

"No time to explain, Johnny-boy," the man replied. "I'll explain later. Oh! That's right! You don't have a later! Bye-bye!" he added, then moved from Picard's view.

Picard opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, he felt something cold, metallic and hard clamp onto the back of his over-stretched neck.

Instantly, six thick, razor-sharp spikes bit into his flesh, driving themselves deep into the tissue, forcing a hoarse groan from behind Picard's tightly clenched teeth - a groan that quickly turned into a cry of pain as the teeth hit his vertebrae - and crunched through them, drilling, grinding, chewing their way deep into the bone.

Jemat swallowed as he looked at the monitor, trying not to watch the male's body convulse as he fought, uselessly, against the pain, trying to block out the sounds of his cries, and trying harder still to blank out the expression of satisfaction that covered Jay Tillerman's face.

The probe," Jemat said, gesturing at the monitor, trying to turn the human's attention from the subject's contortions and cries, "has almost reached the spinal cord. At this point, the risk of accidentally penetrating the cord and introducing bone debris into the spinal fluid becomes too great, so the outer probes extend a second, finer point to drill to the surface of the cord itself. Unfortunately, this step is exceedingly painful; there is a significant amount of heat generated, but because of the precision needed, we must go slowly, which, regrettably, extends the agony."

"Agony," Tillerman echoed disapprovingly. "We would say 'discomfort', Jemat. It sounds nicer."

"Humans dance on such niceties," Jemat replied. "You conceal, rather than face the truth."

Tillerman sighed and nodded. "We do. It makes us feel better."

"But it makes you weaker," the Breen countered.

"Perhaps," Tillerman admitted - smugly. "And perhaps not; after all we're here with you now - and our enemies are not."

"Have you considered that you are here precisely for that reason - because you are weak?" Jemat replied.

Tillerman stared at the Breen, suddenly alarmed - then both turned, startled as the barely stifled moans that had filled the background suddenly turned to a piteous, wordless shriek of agony.

"I am sorry," Jemat said softly, wishing the restraints would have allowed him to take the man's hand, knowing how much simple contact meant to these beings - but knowing he could not offer even that basic comfort to the human.

Jemat closed his eyes, silently mouthing a prayer, though he knew that would mean equally little to the suffering creature.

_I would share this with you if I could_, he told the screaming human. _I would be with you if I could_.

The prayer, spoken wordlessly, came back to him, echoing from a thousand locations from around the ship, assuring him, reassuring him - as he reassured the others.

But not the man who writhed before him.

"I am sorry," he repeated. "It will be over soon," he added, then looked at the technician hopefully.

"Almost... Two of the probes are in place... Three... Five... All six probes are in place, _outo_," the technician said.

As he spoke, Picard's body tightened in a vicious spasm - then collapsed against the chair, the air racing from his lungs, his eyes open, fixed, unseeing.

"Is he dead?" Tillerman asked.

"No. As soon as the probes reach the spinal cord, the subject is given a drug to suppress motor function; it I imperative from this stage forward that the subject not move, or we risk losing him before deposition of the data." He looked at the technician, whispering, "Proceed," then gestured for Tillerman to look at the screen once again.

"With the subject immobilized, the third extension will now puncture the spinal cord in six locations, and exude the neural fiber probes through the probe matrix unit. From the third extension, the fibers will begin work their way up the spinal cord, into the brain itself. Once they reach the brain stem, they'll infiltrate the cerebral cortex, and perfuse the tissue throughout the surface area. At that point, when the probes are all in place, we'll begin a slow infusion of neural destabilizers. The subject's memories, which are chemically encoded, will then be released and become accessible for deposition."

"How long will that take?" Tillerman asked.

"It depends," Jemat conceded. "Deposition time depends on the subject's age; usually twelve to fourteen hours. At that point, we begin an infusion of drugs to restabilize the chemicals. If we have any chance of returning the being to his state of origination, this is when it will occur."

"And if you don't start the drugs then...?" Tillerman prompted.

"At twenty hours, the destabilizers begin to have an irretrievable effect on the brain's chemistry and permanent brain damage occurs," Jemat said glumly. "At twenty-four hours, the effect is felt on the deeper tissue as well, and organ damage begins. Sometime we can maintain the body - but the essence of the being is gone. At thirty hours, the core functions are lost as well; the body and the soul are both lost."

Tillerman nodded, dismissing the Breen's apparent concern with a wave of his hand. "And when can we start expecting Johnny here to start spilling his guts?" he asked curiously.

Jemat looked at the human, confused.

Jay grinned. "Human phrase; it means 'to talk'," he explained.

"Ah," Jemat replied. "It can take as much as an hour for the probes to infiltrate the brain. Then another half hour for the perfusion of the destabilizer..."

Tillerman cut him off in mid-sentence. "So you don't need me here anymore. Fine. I want to get some sleep now. Long day, you know."

"I can inform you when the deposition begins..."

"No, no need," Jay demurred. "I've heard more stories enough about Johnny-boy here to fill a lifetime. I don't need to hear him blather about himself as well."

"And the other subject? You do not wish to watch her induction?" Jemat asked.

Tillerman shrugged. "As long as I can attest that you did in Johnny boy here, that's all I care about. What you do with..." He waved his hand at the glass wall that separated the rooms, "whoever she is, that's up to you. Far be it from me to interrupt the progress of Breen science," he added.

Jemat bowed subserviently, then walked with Jemat into the doorway, gesturing at one of Breen who had escorted Tillerman to the examination area. "I'll have the guards escort you back to your quarters."

"Yeah. Damned big ship you have here," Jay admitted, finding himself surprised by the complexity of the vessel - and, he admitted, of the people who inhabited it.

"Four _lan'yi_ in length and breadth, not inclusive of the external energy matrix," Jemat said proudly. "That would make it roughly twenty times the size of the Enterprise," he added. "Finding one's way about can be a challenge, even for a seasoned crewman. I'll have the computer provide you with a map of the primary quadrants so you can familiarize yourself with the vessel," the Breen continued politely.

"Good, good - and don't forget, I want to meet with this captain of yours - after my nap," he added, yawning heavily.

"Once both subjects have undergone induction," Jemat reminded him.

"Then you better get to it," Jay countered.

Jemat gave a half bow, watched as Tillerman left - then turned to the second set of doors.

Entering, started to nod at the technicians - then crumpled his nose in distaste at the faintly sweet smell.

Not excreta, he thought, having smelled the effluvia of humans on enough occasions to know the smell - and yet, the smell was vaguely familiar.

Looking at the woman, he realized where it was coming from - and what the scent was as well.

Too many hours in an environmental suit, he thought to himself, having smelled something not-too-dissimilar from his own experiences in body armor.

One of the realities of life in space, he reminded himself.

Nonetheless, a reality that could be addressed.

"When we're done, please make sure she's properly bathed and dressed in clean clothes," Jemat replied, making a note to himself to make sure all future subjects were properly bathed first. It was one thing to treat the subjects as subjects, he told himself - but another thing altogether to treat them as animals.

For a moment, he stood, reminding himself of the sentience of the creature before him, reminding himself of the very real risk he took with each life that was subjected to the procedure - and reminding himself of the necessity of what they were doing.

He stepped forward, kneeling before the chair, looking up at the face there, wishing he dared take her hand to reassure her - and knowing it would not be safe for either of them.

Nor would it be possible, he added, looking at the gloved hand, still encased in the protection of the environmental suit.

Still, he found himself unable to let the female go so easily, so unprepared. Softly, he whispered the same prayer he had given Picard, "I would be with you if I could."

He studied the face, slack and emotionless in the sleep that still claimed it - then jerked back in surprise as the eyes suddenly opened, and the voice began to scream.

"NOOOOOOO! Not... Not... Not... Not..."

"Jemat!"

The _outo_ looked up, started by the terrified cry from the technicians - then realized the cry hadn't come from any of the four gathered about the chair.

Looking at the glass wall, he realized the voice had come from the adjacent room - and with good reason.

The human male, who should have been incapable of moving, was instead jerking violently against the restraints, his contortions almost as violent now as they had been in the first moments of induction, almost as violent as the female's movements.

It wasn't possible, Jemat protested silently. Once the drugs had been given, the body was incapable of moving... unless the dosage was incorrect, he reminded himself.

Again.

"Double the dosage," he barked, hurrying to his feet, racing back to the first room.

"No effect," the tech replied a moment later.

"None?" Jemat replied, horrified. That wasn't possible!

"None! _Outo_, if we can't immobilize him..."

The probes would break in his spinal cord and he would be paralyzed - or worse, Jemat knew - and all that this being was, all that he knew, felt, sensed, would be lost to the Breen.

Unacceptable, he thought, his mind racing for a solution for his dying patient, one eye glancing back through the glass wall to observe his other patient, still violently fighting the pain and the drugs, her body convulsing against the restraints just as the male's was...

_Just_, he realized, as the male's was, their movements almost perfectly synchronized, moving as if they were one.

Jemat stared at the male - then back at the female - then raced from the room.

"What's the probe's position?" he barked at the technician.

"Half way..."

Jemat pulled the tech away from the female's side, then placed his hand on top of the probe matrix, and began adjusting the device.

"_Outo_! No! You'll damage her spinal cord!" the technician cried.

"A risk - one we'll have to take."

"_Outo_..." the tech protested.

"We have to immobilize her - now."

"But..."

"She's sending," Jemat said quietly.

The tech stared at him, stunned.

"That's not possible," the Breen insisted after a moment. "They're human. They can't send!"

"Possible or not, she's doing it - and it's killing the male. Prepare; as soon as we puncture the spinal cord, I want the full dose of motor neuron suppressant injected. No slow infusion," he repeated, then added, "Almost there..." The probe matrix suddenly gave way beneath his hands, sinking in a fraction of an inch, startling the Breen - but not so much that he released the device.

Instead, he held it in place, watching as the tech pushed the vial into place on the machine's side and saw it empty.

A moment later, the female's body relaxed, her eyes going wide, her mouth slackened, and her cries softened, then stilled.

Jemat felt his own body go limp, falling to the ground beside the woman - then reached up, touched her face - and pulled it back.

"_Outo_?" one of the technicians said, falling to his knees beside the Breen.

"Call the captain," he whispered hoarsely.

_I'm already on my way_, came the instant reply. _What is it, old friend? What's happened?_

_The female... she's sending. I can hear her_, Jemat answered, tears streaming down his face. _I can hear her._


	123. Chapter 123

**Chapter 123**

There was, Will Riker decided as he lowered himself down the rungs that lined the turbolift shaft, no dignified way to carry a severed head - especially when it was still aware, conscious - and talking.

Talking - a lot, he added. Too much as far as he was concerned.

Not that Data wasn't justified in keeping up a continual stream of chatter; having been first sequestered away in the battle bridge, unable to monitor the events on the rest of the ship - and then knocked unconscious and reduced to a disembodied head, only to find himself coming back to consciousness an unknown time later - and then discovering that events had passed him by - he had had more than a few questions regarding what had happened.

And, now that he had been caught up to date, he had as many remarks to make concerning the ship and crew's present condition - not to mention their potential futures.

'Not to mention', Will sighed to himself, wishing Data would take the phrase to heart - and stop mentioning every thought, every bit of mental flotsam that passed through his mind.

Of course, Will heard only one word in ten - half because he was focusing on trying to climb down the shaft without falling - and half because the android's head was currently situated in a bag hanging from Worf's shoulders, muffling almost everything the android was saying.

It was not dignified way to carry the android's head, Will repeated - but it was serving the purpose.

If only it would drown out his constant chatter completely.

It was an unkind thought, Will chided himself - and probably, he added, the worst thing possible; if it wasn't for Data, his mind would be locked on Deanna.

Who was going to be fine, he insisted for the thousandth time in the last hour.

Beverly was one of the best surgeons in the Federation; she had treated hundreds of phaser burns, performed thousands of surgeries - and Deanna was strong and healthy...

She'll be fine, Will told himself angrily.

But a part of him ached to go to Sickbay, to be there, to make sure the surgery went well...

But the crew needed him as well, he reminded himself. With the captain gone, he was in charge - in charge of trying to repair the ship, of mounting a defense against any new intruders, of finding out why the Breen had captured them in the first place - of finding a way to get the captain back! he added firmly.

The captain, he thought, his mind drifting as the long climb and Data's monotonal chatter faded into a dull, steady drone.

What a life the captain had had, Will mused to himself; adventure, excitement, mental and physical challenges - everything that Will had wanted - everything that he had wanted to be.

Once.

And now? Will asked himself.

Now... Now, I want a ship - but that's not as important as it once was.

I want a command - but I no longer ache for it.

I want the responsibilities - but responsibilities come with every role, no matter how large or how small; responsibility is what we bring into our lives, not what's imposed on us from outside. I can have the responsibilities I yearn for, whether it's as a starship captain - or as a trader - or, he added, as a husband.

And that, he knew to the depths of his soul, was he truly wanted to be.

Everything else... Everything else was the icing on the cake. Delicious? Yes. Glorious? Of course! But... without substance, without meaning.

All that really mattered - and ever had, he realized - was Deanna.

He drew a deep breath - and felt a surge of energy return to his tired body, refreshing his body - and leaving his soul more alive than he had ever known it could be.

Worf heard the deep inhalation, and growled his understanding. "We will retrieve the captain, Commander," he growled.

"And Tillerman," Will reminded him angrily. "He's going to pay for what he's done." As if he could ever be punished enough for what he had done to Deanna - and to the others, he added hastily. If I have to take the cost out of his hide myself, he's going to pay!

"We must not forget the lieutenant has been taken as well," came Data's muffled voice from the backpack.

Worf growled again, in anger rather than commiseration this time. "Let her rot there!" he roared. "_She_ is a traitor! She has betrayed her crew! To risk lives to retrieve that _p'tok_..." he spit out angrily.

"The nature of her actions has yet to be determined," Data replied. "May I remind you she was the one who suggested the plan to capture the Breen on the bridge?"

"And she was the one who caused its failure!" Worf grumbled back. "Had she delayed the discussion for a few minutes longer, as she had said she would..."

"She was not in control of the negotiations, Cmdr. Worf," Data countered. "If Cmdr. Riker's version of the events on the bridge is accurate, it was the Breen leader who changed the dynamic of the negotiations - not the lieutenant."

Worf grumbled, grudgingly acknowledging the fact. "Still, had we been a few seconds faster, has she delayed a few moments longer..."

"Things would have been different," Will agreed between gasps of air, "but not necessarily for the better," he added. "It took all six phasers to take down two of the Breen - and all we did was knock them out," Will said grimly, remembering the med techs assessment of the two fallen bodies: unconscious - but alive. "If we had faced all six of them..."

"We may have been able to save the captain!" Worf protested.

"Or we might have gotten him killed," Will countered sharply. "Our phasers had almost no effect on them, Worf. Their armor is far better than we were led to believe," he added.

Worf growled. "Because the lieutenant lied. She said we would be able to defeat them! Commander, the lieutenant has played us for fools once again!" he raged angrily.

"Not necessarily," Data countered. "The Starfleet database on alien weaponry indicates that Breen hand weapons are no more effective than our own - and that their body armor affords only a ten percent reduction in the effect of hand phaser. Using that information, the combined effect of your phasers should have been sufficient to disable the Breen. However, the Breen armor appears to have been upgraded since the Federation's last encounter with it; had the six of you attempted to capture the bridge as the lieutenant planned, it would have failed, in part if not in total. Regardless of how long the lieutenant had delayed, or how timely your appearance, the outcome would not have been significantly different - aside from the possible increase in casualties to the captain and the crew."

"So we should be grateful they only kidnapped captain?" Will asked bitterly.

"And the lieutenant," Data reminded them both.

Will gritted his teeth - but said nothing.

A moment later, the two men - and the head - reached the opening to the main lateral turbo shaft.

"How much damage here, Worf?" Will asked as he peered down the passageway.

"Considerable damage at junction four-oh-seven-E; we'll have to bypass the section there, and re-enter two sections further down," the Klingon replied.

Will shook his head. The damage in the lateral shaft was even worse than what he had encountered in his journey to the battle bridge.

But there may have been worse damage to the human portion of the crew, he realized slowly. At some level, he had expected to find crews already working on repairs, already trying to get the ship back into some semblance of flying condition, readying her so that if - no! he swore angrily - when! - when they retrieved the captain, they could get the hell out of here - and fast!

That Geordi's people weren't here meant the ship's damage was even worse than their original predictions - or that the casualties among the crew had been catastrophic.

Or, he realized slowly, there may have been another cause at hand - another problem for him to resolve before they could recapture the captain and get the hell out of here.

The Breen may have started to send in their troops already, immobilizing the repair teams - and the rest of the crew - before they could begin their work.

"Worf, we're going to need to use the Jeffries tubes to access Engineering..."

The Klingon looked at him, puzzled. "The lifts were operating in that area, sir..." he began.

"I'm aware of that, Worf," Will replied curtly, "but with internal sensors down, we've got no idea if the Breen have begun their infiltration into that area of the ship. The last thing I intend to do is to walk into a trap. No, we'll approach Engineering as covertly as possible and assess the situation first. If the Breen are there, we can gather our forces before we try to take back the ship.

"Damn it," he added angrily, "I wish we had enough processing power to use the ship's internal sensors! At least then we'd know what we're up against!"

For a moment there was silence as the two men and the head continued their progress down the shaft - then Data spoke.

"Commander, perhaps restoring the computer's circuits will not be necessary - at least not completely," he said.

Will slowed, staring at the bag, then called to Worf. "Stop, Worf," he barked, then reached for the bag on the Klingon's back, opened it, pulled out the head and looked into the golden eyes. "What do you mean?"

The android hesitated, his thoughts slowed by his interrupted circuitry, then said, "It is possible for my positronic net to be directly connected to the ship's processors - and I could operate the ship's sensors - or, indeed, any of the smaller programs. It would not be dissimilar to the time that your connected my head to the circuits in Engineering after our encounter with..."

"I remember," Will cut him off, having felt no more comfortable working with a disembodied head then than he did now.

But his own discomfort aside, it had worked - and there was no reason to assume it wouldn't work just as well now.

"All right. Once we get your head connected - after Geordi finds out what Lt. Andile put in there," he added emphatically, "we're going to need a complete sensor sweep of the ship. We'll need to know how many Breen have come aboard and where they are. Worf..."

The Klingon nodded, knowing the task before him. "I will have phaser rifles issues to all crew members," he said.

"Commander, you must ensure that all the phaser rifles are placed on the 'kill' setting," Data interjected.

" 'Kill', Data?" Will replied, taken aback by the suggestion from the usually mild-mannered android. "I want them disabled, not dead. The intent of this mission was to prevent an interstellar war - not initiate one, even with a different species," he reminded him.

"I would not make a suggestion that we kill our enemies, sir, unless I felt it was necessary. And in this case, it is not. Rather, I make the suggestion based on your comments regarding the effect of hand-held phasers on the Breen body armor. Even with the greater firepower of the phaser rifle, Commander, the odds of killing the Breen are unlikely. However, the possibility of effectively - and quickly - disabling them is significantly improved."

Will considered for a moment then nodded. "Inform your people to use the 'kill' setting, Worf - and send someone to Sickbay. I don't know that we'll have enough room in the brig for all of them - but once they're down, I want them staying down. See if Beverly's got something - a drug, a sedative - that will keep them out, but unharmed. We may need to use them to negotiate the release of the captain."

"And the lieutenant," Data repeated.

Will sighed silently, then shook his head at the android's stubborn faith in his friend, and continued. "Once you're done with determining where the Breen are, Data, we'll need a complete assessment of the internal damage to the ship - and repair estimates. We have to have the ship ready to move as soon as we get the captain back."

Which meant getting to Engineering first, he reminded himself, grateful to Data for the hope he had given him - and for the moment to catch his breath. Sticking the head under his arm, he gestured to Worf to continue.

"Until we have reestablished the structural integrity fields - and the inertial dampeners - any repairs performed will be without effect; the damage will simply reoccur as soon as we begin to move - and perhaps in far greater forms, due to the already tenuous condition of the ship," the android reminded him.

"Then we get the integrity field and inertial dampeners functioning," Will snapped.

"Sir, that may be easier said than done; in addition to the damage, we have lost the computer team. To re-create the programs without them - and without the lieutenant - may be impossible."

"Are you suggesting we stay here?" he retorted angrily.

"I am not aware that we have a choice, sir. However, that was not what I was about to suggest," Data said.

Will pulled up short, gesturing for Worf to stop as well - then motioned for him to take the dismembered head from the bag so he could look at the android as he spoke.

"Then what, Data, are you suggesting?" he asked.

"I do not yet know," Data admitted. "However, I have been thinking... The lieutenant was cognizant of the condition of the ship and of the Breen vessel. I had considered that the information she had imported to my neural net was the total of that experiential knowledge - but upon due reflection, I have come to think that she would not have had time, nor the manipulative capabilities, to impart information that had already been garnered from other sources."

"You mean she wouldn't tell you what everyone already knows," Will translated.

Data's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Is that not what I have just said?" he asked, making a mental note to add a self-diagnostic of his speech center - once he was freed of Andile's program and its deleterious effect on his processing systems.

"Data," Will sighed, "just get to the point."

"The point, sir, is that Andile would have utilized what little time and ability she had on relaying usable data; as she was aware that instituting a propulsive method of any efficacy was unlikely in a reasonable period of time, she would have left the data for the only other reasonable option."

Worf sneered. "I would not trust any information _she_ would leave you!" he insisted.

"It is not your trust that is required, Mr. Worf; it is the commander's," Data reminded him.

"But I don't know that I can trust it, either, Data," Will countered.

"Understood, Commander," the android replied blandly. "In light of the lieutenant's injuries, I am not sure that any information she has provided can be assumed to be safe from error."

Will sighed, frustrated by the android's insistence on seeing only the best in the woman - in everyone, he added after a moment. "That's not what I meant..."

"I am aware of what you meant, sir," Data interrupted. "But she is - or rather, she was - my friend. I would prefer to maintain an open opinion mind concerning all possibilities of her involvement... for as long as possible."

And when the time came to make a decision? Will asked himself - then shook away any trace of doubt; of every man - of every being - on this ship, Data was the only one who could - and would - act with absolute impartiality.

Even toward a friend.

"However, I must act on the assumption that if she went to the considerable effort to leave information behind - when, had she so chosen, she could have easily opted to simply leave me, non-functional and trapped behind my own security system, on the battle bridge," he reminded the two.

The thought brought a frown to the expressions of both men - then Will nodded. "I'll wait to see what the data is before I make any judgments - but I want Geordi to assess it as well," he added firmly.

"If there is anything to assess," Data added.

"Then it is possible that this is nothing but another ruse, another plan to misdirect us, to waste our time while the Breen transport their troops onto the Enterprise and take over the ship?" Worf asked as he ducked under a half-fallen support beam.

"Wasting the time of two people - if that is her intention - is hardly an effective plan to keep an entire ship preoccupied while an invasion force boards us," Will reminded him, ducking under the beam, trying to ignore the ominous creaking in the ship above him.

He looked up, noting the crack in the structural support of the lateral tube. It would have to be repaired - and quickly - if they were to regain control of the ship - but as long as the ship's structure was damaged, as long as rapid movement in the ship was impossible, they would have the advantage over the Breen invading troops, when they came.

Will hesitated, the question that had been dancing on the edge of his mind finally coming to the front.

So where were the Breen?

Admittedly, they were going to be as hampered by the ship's internal damage as his people were - but if he were trying to invade a ship, taking control of the main lateral turbo shaft would have been one of his priorities: it was the easiest way to access both the saucer section and the drive section, and to maneuver between the two.

It was also one of harder positions to defend, he reminded himself, glancing down the passage, making quick mental notes on how they were going to do just that - notes, that, he added, Andile would have made when she designed the ship, notes that she would have given her enemies.

They would be expecting them...

Was that why they weren't here? he wondered. Because they knew this would be one of the better defended passages?

No, he decided as they approached the damaged junction, following Worf into one of the rare side access doors; they had to know their armor was sufficient to ward off any but the strongest of Starfleet's weapons; they could storm down any passage they wanted - and take it. It might cost them a few men, Will added, vowing that he would make that number the highest one possible - but in the end, they would not stop the Breen from acquiring this crucial passage.

So where the hell were they?

Could they not know about the strategic significance of the lateral shaft? He asked - then dismissed the idea. Andile was the designer of the ship; if she was working for them, then they would have to know.

And hell, even if by some slim chance she wasn't a Breen collaborator, the ship's design plans were available to other Federation allies. It wouldn't take more than a few thousand credits dropped into the right hands to get a copy of the schematics to the Breen - and anyone with even an iota of information about strategy and tactics could figure out the importance of this corridor.

So where the hell were they?

A disarming ploy? he wondered; an attempt to lull the crew into a false sense of security while they prepared their assault for another, less likely area of the ship?

It wouldn't be the first time that the most logical sight for an invasion wasn't the one chosen; after all, the Borg had taken Engineering first - and had almost captured the ship through that approach - which was why he insisted that their return there be a covert one.

But just as the lateral shaft was hard to defend, the size and the multiple entrances and exits from Engineering made it hard to attack. The Borg had succeeded only because they could assimilate anyone who came close to them, and corrupt them to their will, the knowledge, experience and training of the crew shifting almost instantly to the knowledge base of the Collective.

All the Breen could do was kill or injure the crew; they couldn't steal their knowledge.

Or could they? he added worriedly, a thought coming to his mind.

They had the captain, Will reminded himself; they had Lt. Andile. Whether by design or just sheer bad luck, the Breen had captured the two people who knew more about the ship than any others alive.

Of course, if Andile had gone over to their side, everything she knew about the ship would already be in their hands - but the expertise of the captain, his knowledge of the people, Starfleet tactics and strategies, the subtle inner working of the Federation - everything that was stored in his mind would be theirs - just as it once had been the Borg's.

Unlike the Borg, however, it would take time for the Breen to break the captain. But given time - time, drugs, and torture, he added - anyone would break, even the captain - and when that happened, and it would, Will knew - when that happened, everything that Jean-Luc Picard knew could become the property of the Breen.

And then it would not be the Breen they were trying to defeat - but a much tougher adversary: his own captain.

Feeling a renewed sense of urgency, he shouted at Worf to hurry, then set after the man, increasing his pace to a steady jog.


	124. Chapter 124

**Chapter 124**

For a moment, the guard who stood outside the examination rooms considered trying to stop the ship's captain as he hurriedly approached, going so far as to step in front of the door, blocking the captain's entrance - but, upon seeing the look of absolute determination in the Breen's eyes, he fell back, limiting himself to a murmured remark about regulations.

Huziah raised a hand, dismissing the remark and the guard with a gesture, then hurrying into the room.

He froze as he entered, studying the scene, terror filling his soul as he saw his friend cowering on the floor before the female human's chair, his arm extended to her, his hand resting gently on her face - and his own face covered in tears, his expression a mask of sorrow and pain.

"Jemat?" he said softly, wondering if even now it was too late - then hurried forward, crouching down beside his friend, reaching out to turn the being's face toward his.

"Sir," one of the technicians said quickly, interrupting him with the word, "you shouldn't touch him. If the female is really sending..."

"Then my friend, the ship's _outo_, is in danger," Huziah replied firmly - but even so, he hesitated.

If the ship's _outo_ was gone, if _Jemat_ was lost in this human's soul, then how could he expect to be able to free himself?

Pulling back his arm, he called out, "_Outo_? Jemat? Old, friend, pull away," he said quietly, with the gentle tenderness of an old friend - but with the firm insistence of a senior officer who was not used to having his orders ignored.

For a moment, the Breen remained in place - then slowly turned his head to face Huziah's, his face a mask of grief and pain the like of which Huziah had never seen.

"Jemat?" he tried again. "Pull away, Jemat," he coaxed softly.

Jemat stared at him blankly, his eyes fogged with tears, then tilted his head back in slow denial - though whether he was denying the order or the pain that filled him, Huziah did not know.

Still a soft touch of relief filled him; the human had not buried the _outo's_ awareness completely: Jemat could hear him, could respond to his orders - even if only to refuse them.

"Jemat?" Huziah repeated, then reached to his friend's arm, gently pulling at the hand that seemed glued to the female's face.

"Jemat?" he tried once again, "Please, old friend, pull away. Come back to us, to your ship, to your friends, to your people," he begged.

For a moment, Jemat's hand stayed where it was, unmoving - but the outo's eyes slowly began to clear, focusing on Huziah's face - and the tears began to flow again.

"Such... pain," he whispered. "Such sorrow. For one person..." he whispered.

"For one, yes," Huziah agreed gently. "But that is why we are here, is it not, _outo_? So that, one day, perhaps it will not be for one person?" he reminded his friend.

Jemat stared at him, the words touching him but not registering - then, with a gasp, he fell away - and was instantly caught in the gentle embrace of the captain's arms.

For a moment, Huziah cradled him against his body, letting the _outo_ sob freely in the safety and security of his friend's arm - then glances at the technicians who were huddled worriedly around the two.

"A chair for the _outo_," he said softly.

A moment later, a chair had been found and placed in one corner of the room; two moments later, a second chair joined the first, followed quickly by a table, two cups of steaming _ehr'laq_ and the ritual container of _vors_.

Pressing one cup into Jemat's hand, Huziah opened the container, drew out a small pinch of the reddish grain and sprinkled it into the _outo's_ cup. Responding automatically to the scent, Jemat raised the cup to his lips, sipped the steaming brew - then wrinkled his nose and focused his eyes on the captain.

"Huziah, you know I like extra _vors_," he reminded his old friend, reaching into the container and adding a more generous measure of the grains to the cup.

He waited a moment for the particles to dissolve, then sipped again and gave a satisfied shiver of appreciation.

Huziah smiled, placed a few grains into his own cup, gave it a moment to dissolve, sipped it - then raised it to the _outo_. "May they be found," he said softly.

"They will be found," Jemat replied, completing the ritual - then taking another, far deeper sip. He gave a small, involuntary shudder as the salty, spicy brew flowed down his throat and settled in his empty stomach - then sighed as the warmth began to fill him. Looking up, he met Huziah's worried gaze - and gave the captain an embarrassed wrinkling of his brow ridge. "I'm... all right," he said at last.

"Of course you are," Huziah replied, still watching his friend.

"She's sending," Jemat continued.

"Of course she is," the captain echoed, his voice still carefully neutral.

Jemat studied his friend, then shook his head. "You don't believe me," he complained softly, "but I did hear her."

Huziah sighed, then looked to the cup before him. "It is not that I don't believe you, Jemat," he countered, "but... humans don't send. They're not capable of telepathy," he reminded the _outo_.

"Perhaps not as a species, no – but she _is_ sending," Jemat insisted.

Huziah looked at the figure; between the Starfleet EVA suit and the surgical drapes that covered its form, it was barely discernible as a being at all. To believe that it was not only sentient, but fully aware as well was almost impossible to believe.

But the ship's _outo_ had said it was.

Huziah studied the unmoving mass for a moment, then raised his eyes to Jemat. "Then perhaps it is not fully human," he suggested. "Humans interbreed with other races, after all," his face contorting in tolerant amusement at the practice, "and some of those races are telepathic," he reminded the _outo_. "Indeed, I believe that one of the beings listed in the crew manifest that Admiral Czymszczak provided is one of these creatures - and is capable of telepathy."

"Limited telepathy," Jemat countered, sipping at his own cup. "I read the crew biographies; according to the profile, the creature has only empathic skills."

Huziah smiled at his friend. " 'Only', _outo_?" he teased the Breen gently. "Were you not the one who argued that empathy was the most fundamental - and most important - of all telepathic skills? Did not your last teaching remind the crew that empathy toward all beings - to understand them at the level of their feelings - is what makes us superior?"

Jemat jutted his chin at the other, bristling with indignation. "I did not, and you are fully aware of that, Captain. Such teaching would counter all that the book stands for. I said that empathy makes us capable of being superior individuals. That holds as true for other species as it does for us - or why would we have spent two hundred millennia working toward that goal?"

"The question then, dear friend, is: do you believe that," he gestured toward the female's form, "is the very goal we have sought for so many generations?"

Jemat opened his mouth to reply, the instant denial on his lips - then stopped. "It is..." He hesitated, sighed, then finished the answer, "...unlikely. As you said, telepathy is virtually unknown among humans... but on occasion, such 'sports' do appear. Genetic mutations and such," he added.

"And we just happened to find such a mutation, a being who is capable of reducing our _outo_ to tears?" Huziah pressed skeptically.

Jemat hesitated, then gave a reluctant frown of agreement. "Unlikely. More likely it is as you say, that she is one of the cross-breeds. Still, I did hear her..."

"And as such, we cannot continue with the induction," Huziah agreed. "At least not until we know for certain."

Jemat nodded. The process of induction and deposition had been developed for the non-telepathic breeds they had encountered, giving the Breen full access to the contents of the minds of the individuals they studied. It had been unnecessary for other telepathic races, of course; in even the most highly trained of those species, it had taken only a few moments of mental duress before the Breen interrogators could break through whatever mental shields were present - and the contents revealed to the readers.

But in the beginning, accidents had occurred - as one had almost occurred today. For whatever reason, the telepathic abilities of some of the individuals had not been known to the Breen interrogators; they had been induced - and the results had been horrific, both for the individuals - and for those unfortunate enough to be within telepathic range.

The chemical induction that freed the thoughts of the human subjects, Jemat thought, had a far more devastating effect on the telepathic; true, it could - and did - kill some of the humans who were subjected to the experience, reducing others, indeed the majority, to mindless idiots, living out the balance of their lives reduced to performing simple tasks - but in the telepathic, those same drugs destroyed the regions of the brain that controlled telepathy - both the incoming and the outgoing. Suddenly stripped naked of the control that had marked every day of their existence, the individual became subject to the emotions and thoughts of every being around them, bombarded constantly and without respite, assaulted mercilessly, unceasingly, until their sanity was stripped away and destroyed, leaving them to spend their last few hours or days in the insanity of living in a nightmares of a hundred others - and unable to stop themselves from inflicting that nightmare on every Breen around them.

Unleashed and out of control, their insanity had spilled out - and had been inflicted on every Breen within telepathic reach. Entire ships had gone mad, flooded with the thoughts, memories and nightmares of people whose lives, cultures and morés the Breen could not begin to comprehend - but could not erase from their minds.

Since then, the Breen had taken as much care as possible, searching out and studying the ships they intended to take until they were certain that any sources of possible mental contamination were known - which was, Huziah reminded himself, precisely why they had required Czymszczak to provide a complete personnel file for every being aboard the ship they were sending to the Breen homesphere.

And Czymszczak had done just that, noting the one crossbreed who displayed telepathic skill as one of the ship's bridge officers - but not noting this one, he added.

"Could this one be the officer that was listed in the files?" Huziah asked his friend.

"No," Jemat replied. "That was a female as well - but a bridge officer, I believe. As the Federation ambassador, Tillerman would have been introduced to the senior officers - that is standard Starfleet protocol," he added. "Yet he stated he had not met this one."

"It will be simple enough to confirm," Huziah said. "A simple genetic profiling will confirm whether or not it is a Betazoid/human cross."

"And if it is not?"

"Then we will learn what it is," Huziah replied firmly. "A sport, a mutation - possibly there was a cross with a telepathic species generations ago, and a recessive gene has now emerged. It does happen, Jemat," he reminded his friend.

"A recessive gene creating a awareness so strong that it can reduce me to tears?" Jemat questioned, drawing in a breath, trying to quell the memory of the sorrow that had filled him so completely only moments before.

Huziah drew in a slow breath, silently but reluctantly agreeing with the assessment. "Czymszczak was warned."

"Perhaps Czymszczak was not aware," the _outo_ countered.

Huziah looked at his old friend - then chuckled. "That, old friend, is an understatement."

Jemat returned the laugh, then finished the cup of _ehr'laq_, and noted that his companions cup was equally empty. "Another?"

Huziah turned the cup over in reply. "Thank you, _outo_, but we both have work to do. And..." He crumpled his nose and he drew in a breath of air, "... I think you need to bathe your subject," he added, gesturing at the prone figure.

Jemat paused for a moment, then realized what Huziah meant, the faintly sweet smell he had noted when he first entered the room was still present - and indeed, was growing stronger. "Federation EV suits are no better for ventilation than our own," he smilingly informed Huziah, then looked to the technicians gathered anxiously nearby.

He gave a half-bow to the four. "Thank you for your care, _uz'ma_," he told them, "but now there must be care for our subject as well. Please bathe her, find her some clean garments..."

"Should we remove the probe matrix, _outo_?" the leader asked.

Jemat looked at the female, then glanced across the transparent window that separated the two rooms and studied the figure there. "No..." he said hesitantly, then repeated himself, his voice, surer, more certain now, "No. Leave the matrix in place for now," he said without explaining himself further, not wanting to alarm the technicians with his worries.

She had been sending, he reminded himself - and it was the human male who had received the emanations of her mind. Remove the probe and its ability to feed the drugs directly into her body - and they would lose their ability to keep tumultuous mind calmed and under control.

And if that happened, he added, she might send the male into another spasm of pain and destroy whatever gains they might achieve through his induction and deposition.

"No," he repeated, "just move her carefully; the matrix is not as deeply affixed to the bone as it normally is. We'll remove it shortly," he continued, silently adding, just as soon as we are done deposing the male.

The lead technician gestured his understanding, then quickly relayed orders to the team. A moment later, the four had gather around the female, hurriedly but carefully cutting through the resilient fabric of her EV suit.

Jemat watched for a moment, then turned back to Huziah, his thought of a moment before still at the front of his mind. "She was sending," he repeated.

"As you have said," Huziah returned.

Jemat gave a short, disapproving jerk of his head. "No need to be patronizing, Huziah," he chided gently. "I meant; she was sending. But... why?"

"To communicate," the captain replied, as though the answer were obvious.

"But there was no message, only... pain. Grief. Sorrow beyond anything you or I have ever known, Huziah," Jemat said quietly.

"Then to share," Huziah tried.

Jemat gave the Breen captain a vaguely amused look. "A moment ago, you didn't believe humans could send; now you want me to believe they _share_?"

Huziah hesitated, then let out a puff of in resignation. "It would be... unlikely," he conceded.

"Unlikely, indeed."

"Then... why?" Huziah echoed. "And why send such pain?" he added.

"And again, I do not know..." Jemat began - then stopped in mid-sentence, his attention drawn to the technicians by the sudden wash of horror in their thoughts.

A split second later, the lead tech turned to the _outo_, his face blanched to a pale grey. "_Outo_," he managed in a faint whisper, his eyes filled with desperation - and unbearable pain.

Jemat was already out of the chair, hurrying to the others as Huziah rose from his seat, pulling out his weapon as he stood, his eyes locked on the pain-ridden technicians gathered around the chair.

If the female were sending again, he thought coldly, if she were imperiling his _outo_, his friends, his crew... There would be an end to this, he thought. He would regret the loss - but he would not endanger his people.

Not even for the search.

Still, he kept the weapon down, out of sight of Jemat and the technicians, his sense alert, heightened, aware of every change in the emotional atmosphere around him - but, except for the shock and grief coming from the four - five, now that Jemat had joined them - he felt nothing different.

Weapon still out, he stepped forward, looking at what the others were staring at - and gasped.

"What happened?" he said softly.

No one answered. Instead, Jemat stepped forward, kneeling beside the woman, taking the proffered hand from the technician who had held it - and finished peeling the glove from the hand.

The tissue - that which did not peel away with the gloves - was black, necrotic and stinking, the sickly sweet smell of the decaying flesh filling the room as Jemat removed the glove.

"What happened?" Huziah repeated. "The probe...?"

Jemat shook his head. "The probe could not have caused this. This... this is from this suit," he explained, touching the ribbons of thick fabric that were strewn around the unconscious body. "She must have been outside the ship for too long, her circulation to the limbs decreased..."

Huziah stared at the hand for a moment longer. "And the other?" he asked, gesturing at the other hand.

"The same, I fear; the feet as well, I would suspect," Jemat said slowly.

"Can you do anything?" Huziah asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I don't know," Jemat replied. "Regeneration, perhaps, but..."

"But?" Huziah echoed.

"Regeneration is painful, Huziah. I'll need to place stimulators in the tissue, retracting them slowly through the new tissue as it grows..."

"I know what has to be done," Huziah interrupted, having been through the process more than once, grimacing at the memory even now. "Your point?"

"My point is that we intended to take the Federation ship with us as it is - with her crew intact. I assumed their physicians would handle their injuries until we reached the homesphere. Because of that assumption, I did not prepare properly. I... I don't have the medications to control the pain that will accompany the process," he admitted.

"Then _we_ will share her pain," Huziah replied automatically.

Jemat threw his head back miserably. "Sharing with humans - if she even is fully human... it is not something we've done before, Huziah; we have no idea what will happen - and from what we've seen from this one already, it would mean placing the entire crew at risk. If her thoughts infect one of us..."

"Then you condemn her to suffer this?" Huziah asked angrily, appalled by the callousness of the idea - doubly appalled, knowing it came from his _outo_.

"I am sorry, Captain, but we cannot share the pain. The risk to the crew – and to our mission is simply too great," he announced dolefully – then hesitated and glanced across the transparent wall that divided the room.

After a moment, he turned to face his friend. "Captain, we cannot share the pain – but perhaps the other human can," he said at last.

Huziah stared at his friend, astounded by the outrageous, impossible idea. "He is not a telepath..."

"But he can receive her," Jemat countered. "We know that; we've seen that."

"Yes - but without control - just as her sending is without control. Without something to buffer it..." His voice trailed off as he realized Jemat was staring at him.

Their eyes locked for a moment as they shared the inevitable thought, then Huziah gave a half-bow of agreement. "Something - or someone," he agreed. "I volunteer, _outo_..."

Jemat smiled, his love and respect for his friend and captain swelling in his soul. "You honor me with the practice of the teachings," he said reverently. "But... no. You are the ship's captain. The mission cannot be completed without you. I will do it," he added firmly.

"But you are the ship's _outo_," Huziah protested.

"An _outo_ who is not willing to live the lesson is no _outo_, Captain," Jemat replied. "I will act as the bridge while the regeneration is performed."

Huziah considered - pointlessly, since the decision had already been made, he knew.

"As you will," he said softly.

Jemat rested his hand reassuringly on the taller Breen's shoulder. "I'll be fine, old friend."

"But will they?" Huziah asked, gesturing at the humans. "Bridge their minds - and they'll become one. Are you certain you can separate them later?"

Jemat looked at his friend, then at the two humans - then whispered, "I don't know, Huziah. I just don't know. But... I must take the chance," he decided.

"Yes - but would they?" Huziah wondered aloud.

Jemat studied the tall Breen for a moment, then answered. "If they would not, then they are not the ones... and we move on, Huziah. We move on."


	125. Chapter 125

**Chapter 125**

A sense of relief welled up in the Enterprise's Chief Engineer as he watched Will Riker, Worf, and a small troop of Security officers enter the room; for two hours, he had worked at restoring the ship's functions, trying to bring the ship as far back on line as possible - but in the back of his mind had been a worrying doubt, a nagging sense of concern, not knowing where his friends were, how they were - or if they were even still alive.

But now, seeing them here, watching as Worf took his people off to one side to talk with them in relative privacy, he found his focus returning as some of the worry faded away...

It took a moment for the site to register in his mind, for Geordi to be able to accept that what he saw under Will's arm was, indeed, what his eyes told him it was: Data's disconnected head.

Disconnected - but functional, he added, seeing the eyes execute a slow blink.

"What happened?" he asked, directing the question to Data, then hastily added, "No; don't tell me. Biji got mad."

It was a joke, he thought to the two as they stared back in grim silence, Will's face covered with anger, Data's masked by confusion; perhaps a joke that was a little out of place, he conceded, admitting his sense of humor wasn't always the best-developed aspect of his personality - and perhaps, considering the circumstances, what with the ship in trouble and Biji being, once again, under suspicion, it was tasteless - but it was still funny.

Wasn't it?

"Oh, my God!" he said under his breath, suddenly realizing his jape was dead-on. "Biji did this?" he gasped.

"We believe she removed my head for the purpose of implanting information relating to our present circumstances," Data began to explain.

"So why didn't she just tell you?" Geordi replied, confused.

"I was... not listening," the android's head replied. "I believed my approach to rescuing the ship from its current state was to follow the captain's orders in a more literal fashion than Lt. Andile would have had me do; as a consequence..."

"She chopped off your head and stuck a chip in it," Geordi concluded, reducing what he knew would be a lengthy tale to eleven words. He sighed, shook his head, then, taking Data's head from Will, raised it to eye level. "Data, what have I told you about not listening to women?" he asked, with a disappointed sigh.

Data frowned. "Geordi, you have told me nothing about not listening to women. Rather you have stated that you do not understand women and never will. However, you have discussed, in alphabetical order: attributes, and their relative importance and/or unimportance in the desirability of specific women; dating, including the presentation of suitable presents; dining with women, covering the topics of what menu items to choose and which to avoid, citing the 'musical' attributes of certain vegetables and..."

Geordi cringed, remembering the graphic discussion, then hastily interrupted the android. "Yes, I remember, Data," he said, quickly changing the topic. "You said Beej implanted information? What information?"

Will shook his head. "We don't know."

Geordi looked at the two, perplexed. "Then how do you know..."

"My cognitive processing speeds have suffered a seventy-eight percent decrease in efficiency," Data offered. "As I did not detect such a decrease prior to or during my tenure on the battle bridge, but rather became aware of it upon my return to consciousness, I have reached the conclusion that something happened during that interim that has affected my neural processors."

"And you think Beej stuck something in your head?" Geordi summed up. "It's possible she severed one of your flow regulators," he suggested.

Data considered the possibility, then instantly dismissed it. "Andile is extremely well versed in my every aspect of my anatomy, as well as being an excellent engineer, and exercises an exceptional degree of care; she would not have made a mistake of that nature, Geordi."

The Chief Engineer gave his friend a frank look. "Data, you're being very generous, considering the woman cut off your head. Have you considered that she was not taking her usual 'degree of care'?" he asked the innocent being.

Data looked at his friend, utterly bewildered, then simply replied, "No."

Geordi sighed, then gave in, knowing there was no arguing with the android. "All right. I'm going to have Jenkins open up your head and begin the diagnostics; I'll be there in just a minute," he assured his friend.

Handing the disembodied head to the lieutenant, he watched as Data was safely escorted to the work bench where the usual android maintenance was performed, then turned to Riker. "I'll get to work on Data right away," he said.

"As soon as you find out what Lt. Andile put there, let me know - but..." Will said hesitantly.

Geordi nodded, understanding. "I know - and I'll treat whatever I find with due respect, sir. Biji was my friend too - but I'm not sure I have Data's degree of faith in her."

Will nodded approvingly. "It's that skepticism that I'm counting on, Geordi; I can't risk acting on anything that's come from her - at least, not until we can verify it." She may have given him the plan for regaining control of the bridge, he thought to himself - but there was no guarantee that she wasn't responsible for putting them in the predicament in the first place.

"You may be taking a risk that way as well," Geordi reminded the first officer.

"Risk is our business, Geordi - but not unreasoning risk," he added. "Tell me what it is first - and we'll proceed from there."

"Yes, sir," Geordi agreed, his mind running over the possible diagnostic protocols they could use - then looked up as he realized Will was walking away again. "Commander, I do have some good news," he called to the man.

"And that is...?"

Geordi smiled. "I got ship-wide communications back. Internal only - but it's a start. Another couple of hours, and I'll have impulse engines back on line. All we have to do is figure out what those tendrils are, break loose, and get the hell out of here."

Will nodded - but the frown on his face didn't budge. "Good work, Geordi - but we're not going anywhere - not yet, at least."

The engineer gave him a apologetic look. "I hope you're not suggesting we wait for the warp engines to be re-installed..."

Riker interrupted him with a shake of his head. "The Breen have the captain."

Geordi's eyes widened in shock - then instantly crystallized in resolution, his joy and the good humor from a few minutes before now completely gone. "Well, if we're going after him, we're going to need to know the nature of their vessel and those tendrils. We're going to have to stop the flow of energy into those tendrils if we're going to use the transporters... Damn, I wish we still had a shuttle; once we understand the energy consumption rates, I could outfit it with a deflector... They'd still see you, but..."

Will's brows raised as Geordi's ruminations registered. "You're telling me that if I can get you a ship..."

Geordi shook his head. "Just rambling, sir; all the shuttlecraft are gone - and we felt someone take off with the captain's yacht; short of outfitting a probe as a transport..."

"Just work on the idea, Geordi - and Geordi?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is there any way we can project a signal outside the ship?"

Geordi pursed his lips, his mind hurriedly switching tracks in the middle of a thought - then grimaced. "I'll work on it, Commander," he said.

"Good. And the longer the range, the better," Will added.

Geordi stared at him, perplexed, then realized an explanation would not be forthcoming. Turning away, he let the questions run through his mind - and began to formulate some preliminary answers for Data to consider.

Will was starting to turn away when he heard the soft, formerly familiar chirp of his communicator. He stared at it for a moment, having grown used to its silence in the past few hours - than hastily tapped the badge.

"Riker here," he said, a feeling of satisfaction welling up in him at having one system back and functional.

"Will, it's Beverly," came Crusher's voice, tired and worried. "Where are you?"

Engineering," he replied.

She hesitated, then said, "Can you come up here? It's important," she added.

Terror filled the first officer's soul, fighting with dread as his mind considered - seriously considered - the possibility he had been ignoring for the past few hours.

"I'm on my way, Beverly."

Beverly Crusher looked at the overbed monitor, trying to make sense of the readings it displayed. If the readings were right, the young ensign had just suffered a spontaneous pneumothorax - not an impossibility considering that he had just undergone major surgery after an experiencing an extensive chest wound - but in light of the fact that the man appeared to be doing little more than sleeping peacefully, she had to doubt the reading.

Placing two fingers alongside his trachea, she took his pulse, compared it to the readout - and decided the monitor was at fault in this area at least.

A moment later, she added respiration rate and temperature to the list of errors.

She reached up, carefully adjusting the monitor, delicately trying to recalibrate the sensor grid - then growled at it as it failed to respond. Only one treatment for a machine that refused to cooperate, she growled to herself; balling her fist, she pounded it against the side of the monitor.

The monitor protested the brutality with an electronic whine, faded to black - then re-lit, the readings now matching those that Beverly had taken.

Satisfied, she smiled - then felt the smile fade as she felt the second surgical table press against the small of her back.

Turning, she looked at the form there, the silver metallic blanket covering it completely, delicate drapes falling from the pointed rise of the victim's feet, to the flat of the abdomen, then rising twice more, once at the curve of the breast and a final time at the head.

She stared at the blanket, the thoughts racing through her head.

There was nothing I could have done, she thought forlornly, it was too late when she got here.

She knew it was the truth, knew that there was nothing else she could have done - and yet her mind refused to still itself, a thousand possibilities racing through it, a thousand reasons why the failure had been her fault, a thousand excuses that all boiled down to: If I had just been a little... A little what? she asked herself sternly, just as she did after losing every patient. A little faster, a little better, a little wiser, a little smarter, a little bolder, a little more conservative? And if I had? If I had been all those things? she asked: Then what?

Then she still would have died, Beverly answered herself honestly.

She touched the body, her hand resting delicately on the head of the still woman - then pulled it back as she heard the sharp gasp of breath.

Will Riker stood there, staring at her, staring at the form, the grief on his face and in his eyes palpable.

"No!" he managed, his mind calling out to his beloved - and hearing nothing.

He fell, half-stumbling, half-sagging, lurching toward the body - then felt arms reaching out for him, stopping him before he could reach the bed.

"No! Let me go to her!" he cried desperately, the pain filling his soul deeper than any he had known or could have even imagined, leaving him broken, aching... alone.

The arms stopping him turned his body - but his head remained locked on the silent figure - until a hand touched his face, turning it until his eyes were finally faced away from his imzadi - and met those of Beverly Crusher.

"Beverly!" he cried out, lost, aching - and furious. "What happened? You said she would be all right! You said..." His voice tapered off as he started to turn to look at the body again - then felt Beverly try to turn him again, more roughly this time.

"Will, look at me. Look at me, Will!" she repeated, her voice snapping at him authoritatively, the order in it unmistakable.

Against his will, he tore his eyes from the body and met hers.

"That's not Deanna," she said softly.

Will stared at her, unable to believe - but unable not to believe as well.

He stared at the body again, then back at Beverly. "Not... Deanna," he managed.

"No," she said, allowing herself a soft smile, one of the few she had managed all that grim day. "Deanna's in recovery with Dr. Ogawa. She's going to be there another hour or so - but she's progressing exactly as I hoped she would. The surgery went very well. She lost a lot of blood, and she's going to be weak for a while, but her prognosis is excellent. You can visit her... as soon as she's stabilized," she hastily added, suspecting he would leave as soon as the words had exited her mouth.

To her surprise, however, he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes focused on her.

He stood there, studying her intently for any trace of a lie in her expression - then felt the worry begin to ease from the depths of his soul, where, until just the last few seconds, it had threatened to take up permanent residence.

Feeling the burden begin to ease, he smiled at the woman - then looked back at the unmoving body. "But if that's not Deanna..."

"That's why I asked you up here... Actually one of two reasons," she corrected herself.

Stepping over to the draped body, she pulled back the blanket - and revealed the face of a young Romulan woman.

Will stared at the face for a moment, then looked at Beverly, confused. "Who is... who _was_ she?" he asked.

"Tiron's protégé," Beverly replied solemnly.

Will stared at the body for a moment then looked at Beverly again, his face once again carefully composed, every trace of the emotions that had filled him a moment before now back under his control.

"What happened?" he asked gently.

"We had prepared a special area for Tar Zumell to reduce the effect of the acceleration on her body; her age put her at substantial risk for injury and we wanted to minimize that risk as much as possible," she explained. "She..." Beverly paused, looking at the body, "offered to accompany Zumell, to stay with her" she explained - then looked at Will again. "But I think she had her own reasons. I think she was scared, Will; I suspect she was thrown into this mission as unprepared as the rest of us - but unlike the rest of us, she had no training - and very little life experience. I don't think she was much older than a teenager," she added quietly.

Will studied the woman for a moment, understanding her all too well, having seen the terror that had filled her every time she realized her son was at risk from the life path he had chosen - and understanding equally well that this path had not been the young Romulan's choice.

"How did she die?" he asked quietly, gently prying Beverly away from the memories.

Beverly stared a moment longer, then drew a breath and collected herself.

"Fear," she continued. "When we started to accelerate, she panicked; she tried to leave the room where she and Zumell were staying - but the last jolt of acceleration must have caught her off balance. Zumell said it threw her against one of the consoles in the room - and her neck broke. It was a freak accident, something no one could have planned for - or prevented.

"Or could have treated," she added. "Medically, there was nothing we could do for her. By the time Alyssa got a med team to her, she was gone. Zumell was with her; she said she never regained consciousness."

Will nodded, considered - then gave Beverly a peculiar look. "Is there any chance that this wasn't an accident?" he finally asked.

Beverly's eyes widened at the unexpected question - then widened further at the implication behind it. "Are you asking me if Zumell could have done this?" she said, dumbfounded at the idea.

"It wouldn't be the first time one ambassador has killed another," he reminded her.

"No - but what would be the point?" she asked. "What would it accomplish? The ship is in trouble - and there's no guarantee any of us is going to be around to complete our respective missions - so why kill her?"

"The Cardassians and the Romulans have been at odds for centuries," he reminded her. "Blood feuds have been known to exist - and carried out across the generations," he added.

Beverly considered the idea, then gave Will a frank, skeptical look. "And you honestly think Tar Zumell killed Tiron's protégé? You think Zumell is capable of cold-blooded murder?" She smiled. "Let me rephrase that: You think Tar Zumell, an aging, frail, and physically weak school teacher who had to be protected against any sudden movement in the ship because of the weakness in her bones, was able to overpower an extremely physically-fit young Romulan female who out massed her by at least thirty kilos - and break her neck? Without any signs of a struggle?" she added.

Will hesitated - then gave it up, shaking his head in resignation. "All right, so it's unlikely."

"Extremely unlikely. But you're not going to be the only person to ask," she added. "For the sake of political stability, I'd like to perform a full autopsy as soon as I get permission from Tiron." She stopped, giving Will a curious look. "Speaking of Tiron, have you seen him?" she asked, realizing for the first time that the Romulan had been strangely absent from his protégé for some time.

Will gave a vague shrug. "He was assisting us earlier; I haven't seen him for a while, but "I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is," he replied ambiguously.

Too ambiguously, Beverly thought; after working with him for all these years, she had come to know the man - and his mannerisms - all too well. Will was hiding something.

But years together also meant that she had learned better than to ask him about what he was concealing from her; the secret would remain a secret until he was ready to reveal it.

"Well, should you see him, let him know I need to speak with him," Beverly said. "In the meantime, I'll place her body in stasis, pending his authorization for autopsy." She hesitated, looking at the body, then at Will. "You know, I don't even know her name," she said quietly.

Will frowned, looking up at her, seeing the pain in her expression - and the worry.

Worry for the ship, the crew, her patients - and, he knew, for the missing captain.

She wouldn't admit it, of course, Will knew - not beyond the token acknowledgement she would make regarding her concern - any more than she would admit how she felt about the man personally.

He reached out, gently grasping Beverly's arm, squeezing it gently, sympathetically, as he if would lend her some of his strength.

She looked at his hand - then gently detached his hand, smiling that smile at him.

_That_ smile.

That carefully practiced, cool, calm, disciplined, professional smile of hers. That 'don't worry about me, I'm fine,' smile. That smile that showed she was strong, that she was the one to help others, the one that showed that she was there for them - not the other way around.

The same smile that Picard wore, Will thought.

They were so alike, he thought, not for the first time; both such professionals, so dedicated to their work, both so selfless... and both so damned pig-headed, he added.

Would it be so wrong for either of them to admit they cared for... no, he corrected himself, refusing to concede to the political correctness they insisted on in dancing around their obvious attachment... would it be so wrong for either of them to admit they loved the other? Would it be so wrong for them to give in to those feelings - and actually develop the relationship they had both danced around for as long as they had known each other?

All right, so Beverly had been horribly hurt by her husband's death, Will thought - but death was always a possibility in a life in Starfleet; she had known and accepted that reality it when Jack had proposed, and yet she had still married him, he thought. Was the love she had felt for him so little in comparison to the hurt she had felt after his death? he asked himself.

No, he thought to himself - though added, conceding the point, he had never really discussed Beverly's life before she came aboard the Enterprise in depth with her. It had always seemed a topic that was _verboten_, off limits - as had most aspects of her personal life.

Looking at her now, Will realized for the first time that even after all these years of serving together, he still barely knew the woman.

Oh, certainly Deanna had been able to pry a few details of her life from her, shared in those moment of 'girl-talk' they had indulged in on occasion; details of teen-aged romance, passing remarks about the occasional, but relatively rare, love affair - but they had always been short-lived, flaming white-hot with momentary passion, then fading away, disappearing as the need, emotional and physical, was sated, the rare feast between the long periods of starvation - as though that was enough.

No, he corrected himself; the simile wasn't quite accurate; Beverly didn't starve herself for emotional satisfaction between relationships; she fed - as Jean-Luc did, on the spare diet of feigned casual friendship they allowed themselves to show for the other.

That wasn't the way humans were meant to live, aching and angry at the stupidity and stubbornness of his friends, resolving with the passion and determination of the newly converted, to resolve their situation... just as soon as he got the captain back and they got the hell out of here, he added.

"You said there were two things you wanted to show me," he reminded her.

The remark, so out of context with the emotions she had seen passing over Will's face in that moment, caught her by surprise; she hesitated a moment, trying to catch up to him mentally.

"Oh.. yes. Over here," she said, stepping back toward her office.

He followed her, watching as she picked a padd off her desk, confirmed the contents, then handed it to him.

"These are the result of the medical scans I had the Security team perform on the captured Breen soldiers. I wanted to remove them from their suits before their internal atmosphere regulators lost power - but that meant knowing what that internal environment is first. This what those scans revealed."

Will studied the screen - then stared at Beverly. "But... this indicates their suits contain an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere - just like Earth," he said confused.

"Not _just_ like Earth," she countered. "The breakdown on the other gases is slightly different - but close enough to Earth standard that I feel they could be removed from their suits without detriment."

Will continued to stare at the padd a moment longer, as if not hearing her.

But why would anyone - especially a soldier! - wear an e-suit, with all its added bulk and elaborate atmosphere maintenance systems, he asked himself, if it wasn't necessary?

He looked at the physician, asking her the same question aloud.

"No reason that I can see - unless it was for the armor," she added.

He frowned at the idea. "Unlikely; building armor into an e-suit cuts down on a soldier's efficiency; we have them - but unless there's some indication that an environment is toxic, we don't use them," he reminded her.

"But, as we're constantly reminded, Will, we aren't the Breen - and they aren't us. Maybe they're more conservative by nature, and prepare for any potential environment," she suggested. "Or maybe there's a more basic reason - anyone, Breen or human, dressed in one of those suits, looks pretty intimidating. Personally, I'd think twice before I'd fire on them," she added.

He looked at her, mulling over the idea - then glanced at the padd, considering. After a moment, he said, "And you're sure that exposing them to our environment won't harm them?"

She gave a short sigh. "According to the scans, they should be fine in a standard ship environment. We can adjust temperature and humidity as need be - but the worst that will happen is they may be a little uncomfortable."

"Then let's get them out those suits," he said emphatically. "I want to see what we're up against."

And, he added silently, if anyone knew anything about how they could get the captain back, it would be the prisoners - and, by God, he was going to get that information from them. He turned, tapping his badge as he went, barking out a string of orders as he strode toward the doors of the Sickbay, then realized he was not alone.

"I'm coming with you," Beverly informed him.

He started to protest, about to argue that the Security guards would take due care with the prisoners - then stopped.

It wasn't the guards she was worried about - or rather, not more than her profession required of her - but rather, it was that other, more secret part of herself that she kept so deeply suppressed that was troubling her.

If the soldiers talked, they might tell her what had happened to the captain.

He nodded. "As you wish, Doctor."


	126. Chapter 126

**Chapter 126**

Kurget, the Breen ship's Chief Medical Officer, knelt before the silent Jemat, tentatively laying one hand on the _outo's_ knee, hoping the touch would break him enough from his meditative state to hear the words he was about to speak - but not so much that he would fully rouse the Breen.

If that were possible, Kurget added to himself, finding the reverie into which the _outo_ had placed himself to be unexpectedly deep, profound - and to Kurget's surprise, peaceful.

As it should be, the surgeon reminded himself - or rather, as it should be... in theory.

In theory, a conduit was just that, an easy passage from one mind to another, blank and open, allowing the free passage of thoughts, feelings and perceptions, an open channel between two beings - and utterly untainted by the thoughts, feelings and perceptions of the Breen serving as the passage. In reality, achieving that open neutrality was almost impossible, even for the most highly trained of Breen - even, indeed, for the most highly trained of _outo_.

For some, it was fear or apprehension that clouded the path - a realistic fear, for one could never serve as a conduit without being affected by the information that touched them; for others, there was the subconscious belief they were being asked to add their interpretations to those passing before them: to offer help, advice, or the need to share their own thoughts - when indeed, the only assistance desired was that of the open passageway; for some, it was the awareness that the state of openness was difficult to achieve - and their pride in doing so risked contaminating the very route they sought to achieve.

In touching Jemat, however, Kurget felt none of those things, only a deliciously deep and untroubled calm - so delicious, in fact, that it tempted Kurget to join it, to sink into its depths and share the tranquility with his _outo_, to be one with the Breen...

Kurget looked up, shaken from his daze - and was startled to find Jemat's eyes on him. No expression of chastisement accompanied the look, no hint of disapproval or reproach - and yet Kurget knew that he must not risk touching the Breen again, lest he risk the safety of his _outo_, his patients - or himself.

Humbled - gently - he bowed his head fractionally, then looked at Jemat again.

"We're ready," he said softly.

We're ready, Kurget repeated to himself, silently reviewing everything that had happened in the last few hours.

The patients had been moved from the examination rooms to a surgical bay, stripped, bathed, arranged on surgical beds that had been carefully placed on either side of the chair where Jemat now sat, attached to equipment that would monitor their physical states, even as Jemat monitored their mental conditions.

At the same time the probe matrices had been carefully removed from the bones of their spines, leaving the microscopic fibers in place, ready to adjust the chemical balance in the humans as needed.

Kurget had hesitated at that suggestion, disliking the dangers it contained, though he knew there was no way to perform the surgery with the woman secured in the examination chair - and yet, without the matrix to protect the fibers, they could become damaged or kinked, making adjustments impossible until a new matrix was installed - a task that could not be undertaken for hours - or even days - after the first procedure without risking killing the subjects.

For the male, damage to the fibers would mean that they would be unable to start the flow of the drugs that would reverse the effect of the induction drugs they were still feeding him, forcing his mind to stay open to Jemat's - and through him, to the female's. The result, should that happen, would be brain damage, unquestionably - and death, quite possibly.

In the case of the female, death would be all the more certain; her distal appendages - hands and feet, he reminded himself, using the appropriate human terminology - were already necrotic, deteriorating rapidly and seeping toxins into her circulation.

Kurget had had the appropriate fluid samples drawn, ordered the appropriate tests performed and the findings documented so that he could monitor the effect of the surgery and regeneration - but using the findings to establish baseline metabolic indices suggested he had a clue as to what a change in those indices would mean.

Which, he admitted to himself, he did; he would never have agreed to this idea, regardless of Jemat's arguments, if he hadn't had at least some idea of what he was doing.

The problem was, he reminded himself angrily, that these humans weren't Breen; they weren't consistent, even at a chemical level, from one subject to the next. What was normal for one would be deadly for the next - and then to add the fact that the two genders had different norms?!

He rolled his head on his thick neck, once again amazed the medicine had ever developed as a formal science on these peoples' worlds; how could their physicians work, knowing that no two ever responded in precisely the same way? How could they face each patient, never entirely certain that what saved the first patient might kill the second? How could they face themselves? he added, wondering once again at the spirit that must fill some humans.

Which was, of course, the reason they were here in the first place.

Drawing himself out of his reverie, he glanced at the elapsed time read-out on the display above the male.

Five hours, he thought, since the induction had begun; that meant he had somewhere between seven and nine hours to complete the reconstruction on the female's hands and feet before the risk of brain damage started for the male.

And if that happened...

If that happened, Kurget reminded himself, there was every chance he would lose all three; the male to the brain damage, the female to the pain and the toxins flowing through her body - and Jemat, his _outo_, to the psychic repercussions of losing the humans.

A soft flow of confidence washed over Kurget - but by the time he raised his eyes to Jemat's, the _outo_ had allowed his head to droop again, his gaze falling back to the book that lay open on his lap, his hands extended, one resting gently on each of the humans stretched out beside him.

He rose to his feet, pulling the surgical mask over his face, then stepped into the sterile field that enveloped the female.

He studied her for a moment, then looked to the _uz'ma_, studying their faces - or rather their eyes, the only part of the face left uncovered by the mask - then nodded.

"Let us begin. We'll start by excising the necrotic tissue, cutting to the bone, if need be. Work carefully, removing only one fiber at a time, removing only the dead material. Where necessary, draw muscle fibers from other areas of the body, reattaching the base cells where the ligaments and tendons were originally placed, then tease them out slowly as the regeneration field replicates the cells," he instructed the _uz'ma_ - as if they needed instruction, he chided himself gently.

As if they had not performed similar surgeries on dozens of others, he reminded himself, feeling a soft surge of pride in the people around him.

But never like this, he added; never when three lives were at risk.

Never when it was their _outo_ who would pay for their errors - or their failure.

A soft gasp startled Kurget from his thoughts; turning he looked at the source of the sound - and found himself staring into the stunned eyes of his chief assistant.

"What is it?" he asked, glancing at the hand to which the Breen was attending.

"There was no tissue left to save," the assistant surgeon began.

"Then excise to the bone," Kurget repeated, a little surprised by the Breen's reaction.

"I have," he replied.

"Then what is the difficulty?"

"Kurget..." the Breen began, then stopped. "You must see this," he finally said.

Startled by the confusion in the Breen's voice, Kurget moved away from his side of the surgical bed, hurrying to the other - then froze.

It should have been whitish-grey, Kurget knew, having seen human bones before; whitish-grey, smooth in areas, rougher where the ligaments and tendons had attached, streaked and dotted with blood where the tissues had been and where the blood vessels had entered and exited...

Instead, Kurget saw the white of the bone - but interspersed with shiny silver of metal, bright and gleaming where it wasn't covered by flakes of blackened flesh and drops of blood.

"_T'gaz!_" the CMO swore furiously, glancing at the timer, mentally making the calculations - then silently calling out to Jemat even as he began to bark orders to the others

_Hold on, _outo_; hold on,_ he said silently; aloud, he called, "I want a full body scan - and I want those genetic profiles _now_! I want to know what we're dealing with here!"

Jemat felt the body seize as the first shock of pain seized the male's body and mind.

Instantly, he reached further in the drug-induced haze of memories that had once been the male's mind, seeking a place, a time, when things had been quieter, calmer, trying to draw him back to a time when pain had been fleeting, transitory - and joy had been everything...

The young woman gasped at the sharp sensation of the baby latching on to her breast, then sighed with relief as she felt the first rush of warm milk begin to flow, so fast and freely that for a moment it threatened to overwhelm the infant - then the baby caught up, drinking deeply, satisfyingly... happily.

The woman smiled contentedly, savoring the delicate warmth of where his tiny hand pressed to her breast, the joy that filled her flowing as easily as the milk did, washing over her, over the baby, feeding her just as deeply, as intensely as she fed her child.

"Beloved," she said softly, knowing that in those moments, filling his stomach with her warm and nourishing milk, and filling the rest of the world with the knowledge with the simple fact of her unending love, she was doing all that she could for him.

If only it could stay this way, she sighed, watching the tiny bubble form at the edge of his mouth, watching as his lips pulled and relaxed as he suckled, his cheeks moving in and out, his tiny throat swallowing as his mouth filled - knowing that in this moment, the world - his world and hers - were perfect. If only it could stay like this.

But it couldn't she knew; soon, all too soon, everything she had would not be enough as he began to make his own way into the world - and all too soon, he would begin to make his way into the world, to continue the life she and Maurice had given him, to become the man she knew, even now, that he was meant to be.

But for now, for these few minutes today and in the weeks and months to come, this would be enough for both of them.

She lowered her head, bringing her lips to his forehead, leaving a tiny kiss there - then smiled.

"Je t'aime, mon petite un. I love you, Jean-Luc."

("I love you, Garave.")

The echo was so soft, so faint that it almost passed by Jemat, unnoted, a vague after-image of a scene that must have been repeated a dozen, perhaps a hundred times, between the infant and its parent, identical in emotion, varying only in detail of time and place and duration, so close in content that for all but the details of the moment, it could have been between a Breen and its offspring.

But...

The echo was wrong.

No, not wrong - but different.

The child appeared different, smaller, the hands tinier, thinner, the face narrower - and the hair, appearing at once dark and thick, reappearing white and thin.

Different ages, Jemat's conscious mind advised him. Different ages and out of sequence.

But chronological sequencing of a subject's thoughts was something that Jemat had learned dozens of cycles before, even before his decision to become _outo_, when he was still a medical student, still learning how to progress an individual or a group back in time, preparing them to help receive the distressed thoughts of an injured Breen. Learned, and relearned and practiced time and time again, until it became not even second knowledge, but so intrinsic to his being that he no longer had to use conscious thought to direct the action.

Delving back into the depths of the memories, he sought out the same quiet moment, knowing it would come where it always was, just after the maelstrom of the infant's unformed thought patterns - but before the ordering consciousness began to assign thought and concern to the moments outside the joyous one.

Here was bliss; here was where Jemat sought to keep the male.

The pain would wash over him here; here, Jemat would draw up the brunt of the insult, allowing the human to draw off only those aspects of it which he, being a Breen, could not understand: the humanity of suffering, the fear of death that accompanied any pain for that species. Here the human, in the mind of the infant, could take on those aspects for the female - and digest them in his sea of immature and blissful ignorance.

The infant had no knowledge of fear, no knowledge of death; at worst his mind would see them pass over, as a cloud on a sunny day - only to feel the return of his parent's touch and care a moment later.

He reached back into the male's mind, seeking out that quiet moment, sinking into its depths once again.

He looked up, his eyes filled with nothing more than the satiety of a full belly, the taste of her sweet milk still rich on his tongue, his nose smelling only the scent of her body and his own, together, his ears hearing only the soft lullaby she sang, his hands feeling only her skin, soft, warm, her breast still filled with milk, waiting for him once again.

"Je t'aime, mon petite choux; je t'aime," she whispered - then began to sing as she rocked him slowly in her arms.

("_Sikh falto rah, ju thay mer yan_," the woman's voice murmured, the song sung so soft and low that none, save the parent and the child could hear it.

(The infant, looked up at the woman, her face alight with the innocent and pure love only a child could produce - and laughed, her voice soft sweet, musical.)

Jemat felt the jerk of the time dis-reality pull at him harder this time - and the realization that he was losing control of the subject stunned him, jarring him so hard that for a moment, he feared he was about to lose his control of the meditation.

This was unheard of, he thought harshly - then forced himself out of the astonishment that threatened him, calming himself, forcing himself to take the deep controlled breaths that were the essence of the meditation, to set his conscious mind back to reciting passages from the book.

It would do none of them any good if he lost his control, he reminded himself - calmly. There was a reason for these jumps in time, a reason that he could not focus on this one moment in the male's life.

Perhaps the chemical soup that had once been the male's memories had stayed, undeposed, for too long, he rationalized; perhaps it would take a few more forays into his mind to repeat the thoughts enough so he could focus on that moment where it would be most safe to keep the male.

Perhaps...

"Garave!"

She had crawled through the dark narrow space, following her mother, watching intently as the woman found her way through the tiny passages, committing every turn every bend to memory - then watching, unsmiling, as the woman opened her tool pack, studying each instrument as her mother removed it, used it and set it back in the case - then looked up as she felt the surprise register.

There was no fear in her soul as the recognition registered; there had never been a reason to fear her. And indeed, the face that met hers beamed with joy, the light in her eyes unmistakable, even in the darkness of the depths of the ship.

"Little one! I thought you were with Temore," she said softly.

The three year old smiled back proudly. "I hided me," she announced.

For a moment, the woman's smile faltered - then was restored. "Yes, you did - and so well! I'm so proud of you!" she said, holding her arms out to child, savoring the weight they embraced as the child moved into them - then closed her eyes, refusing to let the child see the fear that resided there.

Garave, Jemat thought blissfully, understanding at last; Garave, the female's name.

It took a moment for the understanding of that piece of information to register in his mind - and quite a few moments more for the implications to develop.

The _female's_ name.

He was hearing the female's name - as spoken by the parent.

Jemat gasped, suddenly horrified by the realization of what was happening.

It was not the male's thoughts he was hearing - or rather, not the male's alone - but both of theirs, flowing back to him as he sifted through the male's thoughts.

I am searching through his mind for his infancy, for his moments of calm - but instead I am finding the female's - or rather I am finding them both!

An unfamiliar sensation of confusion washed over the Breen, threatening to pull him away from the ordered calm of the meditation; pulling himself away, he forced himself to think, ignoring the ever quickening flow of thoughts racing past him, pulling him deeper and deeper into the maelstrom of their combined memories.

She was sending to him, he reminded himself, trying to reduce his thoughts to the most basic, the most fundamental level he could, easing the strain on his conscious mind. Sending - but under control.

Even unconscious, the control was there - but weakening, he added, remembering the male's convulsions of unbearable agony as she projected them to him - until, he had ordered the technicians to drug her.

Drug her, and filled her with medications that would immobilize her body.

And perhaps, he realized in a wave of horror, immobilize her control as well.

It shouldn't have happened, he thought to himself, fighting against the current that tugged at him, fighting against the pull of their thoughts moving from her to him in an exorable current of memory - but neither should she have been a telepath, he reminded himself.

And we, we in our superior knowledge and certainty that we were the most aware of all the galaxy's beings - we treat her body as we would treat one of our own.

As though we knew what would happen.

We did not - and now, he realized, feeling his grip on the shore of reality crumbling away, and now we have loosed all control she had, letting everything she was and all that she knew flow into him - and perhaps, in return, allowing it to return to her.

He struggled for a moment, seeking to free himself from the miasma of their minds, trying to reach out to Kurget or one of the others to reverse the induction, to solidify their minds as they were, and allow him to try to repair them before the damage grew worse.

But there was no answer to his mental cry, suppressed so deeply in the thoughts of the other two; he would be trapped with these two, his mind a conduit between them, speeding the unification of the two souls, speeding the sharing of awareness that would have allowed the female to survive the surgery - but, he realized in his last conscious thought as the stream turned to torrent, it would be the end - for them both.

Indeed, for them all.

"Borg nanoprobes?" Kurget gaped, astounded. "She's Borg?"

"No; that is, no evidence of cybernetic implants, Kurget," came the reply. "They appear to have been modified and deliberately infused."

Infused? Kurget thought - then checked the idea.

"Then the hands...?" he continued.

"Federation grade tri-tanium medical lattice - as is the skull," the technician said, reading from the scanner's display.

"How..." Kurget began, then stopped himself in mid-sentence. This was not the time for speculation, he thought; there were only six hours left before the induction had to be stopped or they would lose the patients.

Six hours.

Regenerate four appendages in six hours, he thought. From the bones out, he added, having realized early in the procedure that there was virtually nothing to save on any of the appendages. If they had gotten to her only a few hours earlier...

But a few hours before, she had been on her own ship, with access to her own medical people, she thought angrily, wondering what type of people would force a crewman to continue working even as the flesh rotted from her bones.

The same sort of people, he growled to himself, who would abuse their own so easily, refusing to suppress any longer the rage that had filled him when he had seen the bodies prepared.

Scars covered them both, giving display to lives lived hard, a fact that his physician's mind rebelled at - but one that his explorer's mentality understood.

Life involved risk - but risk undertaken voluntarily, not under duress - and not under threat or reality of physical force.

And that was where these two were different, Kurget thought, unable to control the rage that surged over him; the male, despite the extensive abuse his body displayed, both to the trained Breen eye and the optronics of their scanners, was basically fit, well-nourished, with good muscle tone - and with the majority of scars indicating prompt and attentive, high-quality medical care.

The female, on the other hand, was obviously malnourished, with bones protruding through skin that stretched too taut over muscles that were thin, long and stringy, and with scars covering almost every inch of her tissue; scars that had healed badly, the margins approximated in some places, and filled with patches of secondary growth in others. Add to that the fact that her metabolic indices not only did not match the males, but that they were not even close... Kurget jerked his head back angrily.

She had been abused by these people, possibly reduced to the level of slavery, beaten, perhaps even tortured, subjected to medical experimentation, if those Borg nanoprobes were any evidence, forced to work in intolerable conditions until her hands and feet had lost circulation, lost all feeling but pain, until even that was gone - and still forced to continue on.

Probably not for the first time, either, he added, understanding where the metal bones had originated; these were not the first hands she had lost - and the repairs then had been so badly done, or their technology so primitive, that even the bone itself had been lost.

He refused to allow himself to consider what had caused the skull to be repaired in the same manner, finding the possibilities so repugnant that his last meal threatened to return to the primary digesting vesicle.

One so abused should have been granted the luxury of retirement, he thought, glaring at the unconscious male. He had been the ship's captain, he thought angrily, recalling the data file that had been given him on the male, finding his disgust at these creatures swelling as he compared them to his own people - and found them grievously lacking.

Lacking in compassion: _his_ captain would never have permitted his own to work injured or sick.

Lacking in honor: slavery? Among a culture that had the capability of providing for every one's material needs? It would never have happened among the Breen, he thought angrily.

Lacking in justice - providing the privileged few with superior medical care - but denying it to others - or worse, using them as subjects for live experimentation? Unacceptable - and unforgivable, he added.

No, he amended a moment later, looking at the Breen settled between the two, his hands resting on their bodies as gently as his mind rested on their souls; not unforgivable.

Unforgivable meant that blame could be assigned - and it could not be; these people, whatever their crimes were in the eyes of the Breen, could not be held to that standard. They were not gifted with the ability to share knowledge; they could not, indeed were incapable of knowing, the pain their acts inflicted.

They were blind, unaware - but they could not be faulted for not knowing what they could not know.

But somewhere, Kurget reminded himself, there was a species that had come to know that awareness, not just at the level of the Breen - but beyond; a species that was beginning to transcend what it had been, to grow to the next state of being.

The Breen knew they were out there; for hundreds of millennia they had visited the peoples in the galaxy, searching for those species with the potential necessary, manipulating the optimal genes here and there, moving cultures as need be to separate and protect those desired gene pools, working to initiate what they knew must be found in the next level of evolution - then stepping back, waiting, watching.

And searching.

And, he added, not finding them.

For a time, there had been hope that they had found them in these people - but, he thought, it was not to be - at least, not yet. Not in his lifetime, or the lifetime of his budlings or their budlings beyond.

But some day, they might evolve.

Or another species would develop, Kurget knew.

And some day, Kurget knew with a certainty that fulfilled him, they would find them.

Some day, the Breen would find God.

But not today, he reminded himself, calling for the genetic read-out on the female.

He glanced at it, having seen enough to know that, aside from the telepathy, she was otherwise human... or close enough, he added, taking quick note of the occasional abnormality in the display.

Perhaps the mutations the captain had mentioned, Kurget thought - but nothing significant enough to delay the surgery any longer.

He glanced at Jemat, silently encouraging him to persevere - then turned to the team again.

"We've lost an hour - but we cannot allow ourselves to hurry. If we can establish primary muscle and circulation to the appendages, we can continue with reconstruction at the next surgery."

"Next surgery?" one of the others asked.

Kurget gave the Breen a questioning look. "You would allow the patient to continue through life like this?" he asked, looking at the bared bones of the hands and feet.

The physician stared back - then hastily bowed. "Of course not, Kurget."

Of course not, Kurget echoed. We will not let this one suffer. We will let this one know what it is to be cared for, to learn to live with honor and respect.

We will let this one know what it is to live among civilized people, among the Breen.


	127. Chapter 127

**Chapter 127**

(Not... not... not... no...)

Not... what? Jemat wondered briefly, the memory of the forlorn plea floating past his consciousness - then lost sight of the cry, as it and he were lost in the wash of ideas and memories, the swift currents knocking him about, buffeting them with their weight and their strength.

For a moment he fought against them - but they were too chaotic, too overwhelming to be held off for more than a moment.

Still, he raised his hands above him, as if he could stave them off - but the wave was too powerful, too tumultuous... It washed over him, dragging him down in the powerful current, buffeting him about in its turbulence until all he knew had faded away, but for a faint echo.

(Not... not... not... no...)

She lay in her bed, her head turned toward the wall, her breathing slow and even - but her mind awake.

"We can't take the chance," she heard her mother whisper in the night, trying to keep her voice below the level of the sleeping child's hearing.

"But another child... this one might be normal, not an abomination!" he said, his voice beseeching, pleading.

"She is not an abomination - but I will not bring another child into this world if there's even a chance that the priests will decide they are cursed. I will not have my child, my children, murdered!" she cried. "Not even for the gods!"

He glanced at the crib near them, then at the woman, raising a finger to his lips to quiet her, pulling her to him, silencing her sobs against his body, whispering soft sounds until her cries faded - then letting out a long sigh of his own.

"We should have let them take her," he murmured. "We should have told the priests as soon as we knew."

"They would have killed her," she whispered softly.

"But they might have let us try again," he argued.

"No," she returned. "You know they wouldn't have. We would be as cursed as she; they wouldn't dare let us have another child!" she reminded him. "They would make us both have the operation..."

"Then we should have killed her when she was born, as soon as you knew - and they would never have found out. We could have tried again," he said.

Her eyes widened in fury. "You would have had me kill my own child?!"

"And you would have us destroy our family, by keeping that... thing!"

"That _thing_ is our daughter!"

"Your daughter! I'll never accept that filth is of my flesh!"

She glared at him, her outrage and fury beyond suppression. "If she is not of your flesh, than you are not of mine," she replied, pushing back the cover from their bed - only to feel his hand reach out for her arm, pulling her back.

"No! Maj, please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that... Maj, you know I love you; I couldn't live if you left me."

She looked to him, her fury still fresh in her heart - then relented, easing herself back into their bed, into his arms.

"She is our child, Adro, flesh of our flesh; if she is an abomination, then so is our love," she reminded him softly. "And no matter what the priests say, I know that it is not true."

He drew her against him, knowing she was right - then glanced across the room, staring at the cradle - and wondered.

"He's wasting his time!" his father growled angrily. "He doesn't need a telescope to understand how to grow a plant!"

The boy pulled back, hiding himself further in the dark recesses of the door outside the kitchen, his eye pressed against the crack between the door and the jamb.

"Maurice, he was not meant to be a farmer."

The man laughed derisively. "Of that, I have no doubts! The plants wither when he touches them!"

The boy watched as she wiped the plate dry, set it in the cabinet, then lay the towel over his shoulder.

"That's not fair, Maurice. He's brilliant, talented..."

"He's ignoring generations of tradition!" his father insisted.

"A tradition that includes explorers, adventurers..." she countered.

"And vintners!"

"A tradition that Robert wants to follow," she replied.

"And which he rejects!"

His mother sighed, sat down before the man, laying her hand patiently and lovingly atop the man's. "He isn't rejecting it, Maurice, it's simply that his path lies in another direction," she said quietly.

"My sons will follow in my footsteps," the man roared, "or they aren't my sons!"

She stared at the man for a moment, then rose to her feet, pulling the towel from her shoulder, opening it, then resting it across the back of the chair to dry. Wiping her hands on her apron, she silently left the room, closing the door behind her, stepping past where he hid - then stopped.

For a moment, she stood there, the boy watching from the security of his dark recess - then she spoke, her voice little more than a soft whisper.

"He's afraid," she said, her eyes locked straight ahead, focusing on the front room, not looking into the depths of darkness where he hid - but talking to him. "He's afraid that he can only be loved for the things he does, not for the man he is. He thinks that doing something else, wanting something else means rejecting what he's offering - rejecting him. He doesn't understand that we love people for who they are - not what they do."

The boy was silent for a time, then whispered softly, "I do love him, _Maman_."

"As he loves you, my dear. He just doesn't know how to show it."

"Be carefully, Garave!" Temore called out as he swung the rope into a neat coil, preparing it even as he drew it in, readying it to pay out when they moved into port; she might have only been a child, but she knew how precise the movement of the airship had to be when they reached port - especially when the ship was going to try and moor so late at night.

She knew the crew both hated and craved these night landings, their feelings as vibrant in her mind as they were in their own; hated the dark landings because they were dangerous and unpredictable as the evening winds blew in or out of the port, more often than not leaving at least one of the crew injured as the settled into their berth.

And craved, for the dark landings allowed them the grace of darkness to steal off the ship, to enjoy the indulgences of the port that the captain - and the priests that patrolled the ports by day - would never allow them otherwise.

That the dark landings would also allow the ship's engineer to steal away always seemed to miss their notice - not that Garave would have allowed them notice, even if they saw her.

But pushing a few crewmates' minds was one thing, she knew; pushing at the crowds that filled the docks by day - and the near-omnipresent priests who spent their days watching the ships coming in and out, seeking those who had betrayed the faith and the law with contraband goods - or the far more dangerous contraband thoughts - and assigning additional tasks and duties to captains whose next ports of call met with their own needs - was far beyond the capability of the six year old.

Or perhaps not, her mother had conceded to her, in private, in secret and sworn to silence; she was growing stronger, day after day, her presence now completely invisible to those around her, her saw nothing more than a child being doted upon by her loving mother as they walked through the bazaars that ringed every port's docks, their smiles blessing them, masking their own pain and grief at their own families, their own losses.

"Why aren't they happy, Mama?" she had asked once, seeing the smiling faces - but feeling the fear and sorrow that filled their minds.

"There was a time, Garave, when the world was full of people, when we had a world to fill - and we spent our time and energy and love making people to fill it," the mother had said.

Garave giggled softly, a flurry of new, unfamiliar sensations washing over her.

Her mother smiled, knowing the child had no understanding of the feelings - then soberly wondered if she ever would.

"Mama?" Garave said worriedly.

The woman looked down at the child, apologetic, forgetting how sensitive the child was.

"Then the gods went away, my beloved - and the priests said it was because we had sinned, because we had failed the gods in some way..." Her voice trailed off.

"Because we started to be like me?" the child asked. "Am I a sin, Mama? Did the gods go away because of me?""

Her mother stopped short, turning to the little girl, pulling her roughly into her arms. "No, my beloved! Never!" she insisted, holding the child tight to her chest, trying to fill the girl with every grain of the love and adoration she had ever felt for her daughter, so that, in that in this, her first moment of question and doubt, all she would know that she was innocent.

The truth would come soon enough.

"Oh, Jean-Luc, what am I going to do with you?" Yvette sighed as she sat the boy down on a chair in the kitchen, reached up under his chin, turning his face from side to side.

She studied it for a moment, then sighed, stepped to the sink and soaked a towel in cold water.

A moment later, she was back before her son, dabbing at the bloody scratches and bruises that covered his face - and sighed again.

"I don't know what you're father is going to say when he gets home. I'm just glad that's not going to be for several days," she added, thankful once again for his annual trip to Paris to discuss the year's crop and to begin negotiations for the sale of some of the wines that were ready for market. "Maybe the cuts won't be so noticeable."

She sighed - again - dabbing at the cuts, then dropped the set down the cloth on the table. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" she finally asked.

He looked at her for a moment - then shook his head. "No, Maman. I can't."

She nodded. "Robert again," she concluded for herself.

He refused to acknowledge the remark - but the slight widening of his eyes revealed all she needed to know. "What did he say this time?" she asked.

He shook his head, refusing again, as he always did, to reveal what remark, which cruel and vicious taunt his brother had thrown at him, had driven him over the edge, pushing the two to fight... again.

She sighed, wondering how she could have borne two, so-different sons.

Robert was larger, stronger, more sure - and not just because he was older, she knew. Robert's world was made of absolutes, of white and black, of right and wrong, of how he thought things should be - which could have as easily been read as how his father thoughts things should have been - and everything else. And everything else was wrong.

But Jean-Luc was everything else, she knew equally well. He was a gentle child, more sensitive, more open to the world around him, and the possibilities that lay out there. An explorer, she thought - as he should be, she added, knowing that the best thing for him would be to find a way away from this vineyard, away from the domineering father who was trying to mold him into something he was not - and away from the brother who, she knew, was deriving pleasure from torturing his brother over the very differences that made them who they were.

She opened her mouth to advise him - again, to caution him - again, to suggest he try a new way of defending himself - again - then closed it.

He was an explorer, she reminded herself, determined to find his way in everything - and for himself.

She dabbed away the last of the blood, then turned his head from side to side once again, making sure the worst of it had been cleaned up, then eased the boy from the chair.

"It not too bad; go wash - and put on some clean clothes. I'll not have bloody, torn school shirts at the dinner table," she said.

Jean-Luc nodded, turned to leave the room - then stopped, hurried back and wrapped his arms around her waist. "I love you, Maman," he said softly.

Yvette smiled. "As I love you, Jean-Luc. Mon petite un," she added.

He held her a moment, then released the folds of her skirt, stepping back, starting from the room - and hesitating again.

"Maman?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What's a 'bastard'?"

Yvette stared at the boy, startled by the unexpected question - then answered. "It's an old word - it doesn't have much meaning any more, thank God - from a time when such things mattered, which they don't now. It was a person whose parents weren't married when their child was born."

He studied her for a long moment, as if not understanding how the word could apply, then headed from the room.

She could hear his step on the stair - the hesitation, the footsteps as he crossed the floor, hesitated at the library - and then the rapid fall of feet as he hurried back up the stairs.

Checking the family Bible, she decided.

Checking wedding dates.

Checking his own birth date, she added - and comparing them.

She stepped into the hall, placing herself at the bottom of the stairs - and waited.

"Your father and I were married for many years before Robert was born," she said softly as he came out of the library a moment later. "You came a few years later - and we were still married," she added.

He stared at her, dumbfounded at the demonstration of parental omniscience. "But Robert said I'm not Papa's son..."

"You are most definitely your father's son, Jean-Luc," she assured him.

"But Robert said that's why I'm so different," Jean-Luc protested.

"He's wrong. You're not different, Jean-Luc," she replied.

"But I don't want to be a vintner!" he protested.

"Neither did many of your ancestors," she answered. "You come from a long line of explorers and adventurers - and if that's where you find your life going, my dear, then you are following in a long line of other Picards, who found their paths lay outside the rows of a vineyards grapes. But remember this as well; that at some point, everything a Picard did was for the first time - including the first one to grow grapes and press wines. Finding your heart and following it - that is what truly makes you a Picard, my love," she counseled him - then gave him a hug followed by a slight tap on his bottom as the sounds of a newcomer entering the kitchen made its way to them both.

"Now go do your homework," she reminded him, glancing past him to the kitchen, "while your brother and I have a little chat."

"Then wrap the shielding back around the cable connection," Maj said, guiding her tiny daughter's hands around shield, letting her feel the smooth texture of the perfectly repaired winch.

"It feels smooth," Garave agreed, her eyes wide in awe.

"That's because it was done correctly. As you will do when you are the ship's engineer," she added.

Garave looked at her in astonishment - and fear. "But you are the engineer, Mama."

"For now, yes - but some day, this will be your ship..."

Garave shook her head violently. "This is your ship. Yours and Papa's. I'll have my own ship, for me and my husband..."

Maj smiled at her daughter, but darted her eyes back to her tool kit, instantly shielding her thoughts.

"Mama?" the child called to her, her voice colored with worry at the sudden absence of the familiar touch of her mother's thoughts.

"Yes, Garave?"

"Did I say something to make you sad?"

Maj hesitated, wanting to shield her daughter from the painful reality of life - then stopped herself. She could shield her only so much longer - and then her ever strengthening mental abilities would make even the most carefully suppressed thoughts readily available to her gently inquisition.

And, she added softly, she owed the child the truth.

"Garave, you have a... gift... no," she corrected herself, "an ability. Something that no one else on this planet has."

"My sin?" the child asked.

"The priests say it is a sin, Garave; a curse - but it is not - no more than the ability to run fast, or to sing prettily, or to hoist a sail is a sin or a curse - or a gift. It just... is. This is something you can do - but it is also something that other cannot do - and that scares them," she added.

"I know, Mama," Garave answered in her tiny child's voice, soft and barely audible against the creaking of the masts holding the ship's sails aloft. "That's why I hide us - like you said to do," she replied.

And hide us you do, Maj agreed - but try as you might, you are still a child - and children forget.

That was why they changed crews every other port, taking the longest rounds of the inhabited ports, taking almost three years to make the grand tour, so that no one would remember them when they returned next - and any thought of an aberration, any memory of the especially precocious child aboard the vessel would be lost in fading memories and disappearing recollections. Only Temore had been with them all along, his mind either completely unaware of the child's ability - or not caring.

Or perhaps caring too much, she added; Temore had been with them since the days before Garave was conceived; he had held her in the moments after her birth, when Adro had been busy landing the ship, had cuddled the child when she cried, soother her to sleep when she was fussy... Temore had been the father that Adro could not allow himself to be.

That the priests had found Temore's infant brother abhorrent and taken him from his family days after his birth had also not hurt Maj, Adro and Garave; Temore would have lied to the priests if need be - and risked being found abhorrent himself.

Not that they could have slaughtered Temore as they had slaughtered his brother, as they slaughtered thousands of innocent newborns every year; Temore was named, and once named and washed of the sin of abhorrence, the priests could not kill him - but if the learned of Garave's abilities, of her and Adro's efforts to hide her, of Temore's complicity in sheltering her, they would condemn him - as they would condemn her parents - to the same fate as they would condemn the child.

Andile.

Andile?

The word jumped into Jemat's mind, faint and indistinct - indeed, so faint that he wasn't certain he had heard it, that it wasn't simply another word or series of words that sounded like it.

As it must be, he decided, feeling the insubstantiality of the thought fade away, old, long forgotten... and yet, he added, somehow, strangely new.

But different, he added.

And _wrong_.

For a moment, he tried to cling to the word, a part of him knowing to hold to it, to hold to something solid, to try to buoy himself up against the tumult of his patients' thoughts...

My patients, he suddenly remembered, the words once again familiar - and important this time.

Why it was important, he didn't know - but he knew that it was - and that he needed to keep those words close to him.

He reached out, his fingers seeking the idea - then grabbed it, drawing it close - and felt a gently lift as the solidity of the concept began to raise him from the maelstrom of the torrential thoughts.

(Not... not... not... no...)

"Then go," Maurice Picard informed his youngest son flatly.

Jean-Luc stared at his father, stricken by the emotionless pronouncement, knowing that in its flat tones there was a deeper, unremitting disapproval.

"Father, you don't understand!" he argued. "This is what I've been working for - what I've been studying for - for years! All the classes, the extra work I've done..."

"And all that I have been working for? All that I have been teaching to you and your bother? All the extra work I've done? That means nothing, does it?" Maurice replied.

Jean-Luc sighed, feeling his shoulders sag against the weight of the ancient argument. "It means something father - and I appreciate what you were trying to teach me - but I wasn't meant to be a vintner..."

"'You weren't meant'?" his father scoffed. "You were meant to be a Picard; to stay here and raise grapes and make wines the way Picard have done for generations! And now you take that tradition and throw it in my face, throw it in the faces of every Picard that was born in this house, who had walked these fields, labored in this soil - you through it back at us, denying your tradition, your heritage because 'you weren't meant' to be a part of this family?!"

"I am a part of this family," Jean-Luc replied angrily. "I am a part of the family that chose exploration..."

"That ran away, you mean," Maurice interrupted. "You're a part of the family that couldn't face responsibility."

"There's responsibility in Starfleet, Father," he protested. "Responsibility, honor, duty..."

The older man gave a bitter laugh. "And you think you have honor, abandoning the family traditions?"

"Robert is maintaining the traditions, Father!" he protested uselessly. "He wants to stay here! He wants to work with you! But... I can't! I'm not meant to be a vintner - and we both know it. You said it yourself; the plants die when I touch them; the wine I press turns to vinegar even before it's bottled."

"Because you never pay attention; because you don't apply yourself!"

"I did, Father," the young man protested. "I did try."

"And failed. What makes you think you'll be any less a failure at Starfleet?" he goaded the boy.

Jean-Luc hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't know that I won't, Father. But I have to try. My place is... out there," he said, gesturing at the few stars that were beginning to appear against the setting sun. "In the stars," he added softly.

Maurice followed the boy's gaze - then turned away. "Then go," he repeated. "Go to your stars - and this family be damned."

"Mama!" she cried piteously, the tears washing down her face, only to be swept away by the torrential rains and hurricane-like winds.

I was careful, she cried to herself piteously, the rope cutting ever-deeper into her belly as the anchor dragged at her from one direction, the ship from the other. I did what Temore said to do, I didn't step where he said not to step...

... and yet her foot had been in the wrong place at the wrong moment, the uncoiling anchor line catching her as it flowed over the ship's edge, trying to slow the ship as the crew tried to brake the vessel against the gales of the storm.

The unseen loop in the rope had taken her by surprise, catching her too quickly to allow her even the split-second she needed to cry out, carrying her over the edge, cracking her skull sharply against the edge of the hull, knocking her unconscious, and leaving her to hang, suspending halfway between the rocky mountains below and the storm-tossed sky above, until the pain of the ever-tightening rope caught around her waist startled her into consciousness.

"Mama!" she cried again, her voice and her thoughts tinged with panic. "Help me, Mama!"

Where was she? she thought desperately. Why hasn't Mama come to get me? she cried, the sensation of abandonment suddenly overwhelming her fear - and her pain.

She started to cry again - then forced herself to stop.

Mama had said that an engineer had to have a clear mind in a troubled situation, she reminded herself; she couldn't give in to fear.

She tried - but being brave was so much harder when Mama wasn't around.

She felt her lip begin to tremble, then...

"Mama!"

_Here, Garave_.

Garave gasped at the soft touch of her mother's mind, then cried out in relief. _Oh, Mama..._

_Hush, little one. I'm coming. Be calm_, she soothed.

Garave stilled her cries, her eyes scanning up the length of the rope that had trapped her - but the rope was so long that it was quickly lost in the misty clouds.

_Hurry, Mama. It hurts!_ Garave cried out.

The soft voice came back to the child quickly, reassuring her gently - but urging her to quiet herself once again.

For a moment, Garave was surprised by the caution - and by the sensation of worry that followed it.

Mama was worried, she realized with a start - then felt the worry suddenly rush over her as well, understanding what had happened - and understanding that it was all her fault.

_Mama, I'm sorry!_ she cried pitifully.

_Hush, beloved! What's done is done - and we'll deal with it when we get you back to the ship_, Maj soothed the terrified child.

Though how, Maj thought, she didn't know.

Garave's terrified mental call had reached ever member of the ship, startling them all with its intensity and strength - and terrifying most of them with its existence.

Now, Maj thought as she lowered herself on the makeshift rescue board down the length of the rope, now they all _knew_. Not suspected or guessed, as happened often enough with a crew - but they knew.

And they were terrified. Terrified of being on a ship with an abhorrent, horrified of what their voluntary sign-on as a crew member with a family of sinners would infer to the priests, panicking at what might happen to their families when the truth was known.

Even as she lowered herself down the rope, a thousand scenarios played out in her mind - some with her begging for understanding from the crewmen, others where she murdered them all, throwing the bodies into the storm-tossed sea, some with her throwing herself and Garave into the waters... but all ending in the same way.

The truth would out - and when it did, Garave would be taken from them, taken and raised as andile - if she survived the training. She and Adro would face the mandatory operations, leaving them both sterile, unable to bring another abhorrent into the world - and their ship and labor drafted into the service of the priests, their every action under intense scrutiny for the rest of their lives.

Their lives were over, she knew - and still, she lowered herself, inch after painful inch, down the rain-slicked rope, her mind continuing its call of quiet reassurance and calm to her daughter.

It took longer than she had thought it would to reach the terrified child; the rain had begun to turn to ice, and the rope had grown harder to control, growing rigid in some places, icy covered and slick in other - and all threatening to loose the rescue chair from the pulley that eased it down.

Aching and cold, she finally felt the tiny voice in her mind cry out in relief as Garave saw the chair some into view - and a moment later, Maj reached out and kissed her baby.

Easing a safety belt around the child, she secured her to the line that held her, then lowered herself another foot, knowing the line that wrapped around the child's waist would kill her if the storm grew any stronger. Reaching out with her knife, she began to saw at the rope - but the blade wouldn't even dent the now ice-covered braid.

She needed a better angle; releasing one hand from her own safety line, she pulled herself closer to the anchor rope, silently regretting the act, knowing that severing the line would save Garave - but would send the ship wildly careening above them, threatening everyone aboard - and threatening them as well.

She would have only a few seconds before the effect of the severed anchor had an effect on the ship, she thought; she was going to have to time this just right. Cut through the rope until only a few strands remain, then signal Temore to begin lifting, severe the rope, and hold on.

Maj sawed at the strands until she had broken through the ice, slicing through half the width of the rope, then three-quarters, then seven-rights...

She pulled back, reaching up past Garave to jerk on the signal line, then stopped as she moved back, kissing her beloved daughter to reassure her.

She reached down...

And realized she had miscalculated.

The rope, sodden, frozen, and now ice covered, weighed far more than it should have. Straining under its own weight as well as the weight of the anchor, it suddenly parted -

- and Maj fell.

Garave screamed - and suddenly there was not a soul on the planet who did not know of the child's loss.

(Not... not... not... no...)

Jemat pulled back, stunned by the impact of the memory, feeling the loss, the grief and the pain as intimately as if it his parent who had died.

His parent.

He pulled back, startled by the recognition of the fact he had a parent, that he had once been a budling as well.

As he was _outo_, and had patients to tend to.

He nodded, the slow recognition of his existence as a separate one from the torrent of thoughts and memories seeping into his consciousness.

I am Jemat, he realized - and these are my patients.

The growing certainty of his identity lifted him further from the stream - and for the first time, he felt the mental security of a solid footing beneath him - and a realization of the task before him.

He was _outo_. These were his patients - and they were lost within one another - because of him.

He hesitated a moment, a part of him aching for the security of his platform of identity - but the greater part reminding him his duty lay not in safety, but in his obligation to his patients.

Releasing his grip, he eased himself back into the chaos - and reached out for the nearest passing memory.

Luisa smiled, not coyly, not shyly, but knowingly.

Far more knowingly than Jean-Luc was comfortable with.

He flamed red with embarrassment as she drew close beneath the apples trees on the outskirts of the vineyards.

"Call it a 'going away present', Jean-Luc," she whispered, sidling close to him, her hand running down his chest, crossing his stomach, reaching lower. "My 'special' gift, just for you."

He gulped, the sensation deliciously unbearable - then reached down, his hand capturing hers, and pulling it away.

"What's wrong, Jean-Luc?" she complained. "Don't tell me you don't want to; I know you do," she added teasingly as she touched him once again.

"Luisa... You're Robert's girlfriend," he reminded her gently.

"Yes, but Robert's not going away to Starfleet Academy," she replied teasingly. "You are - and I thought you might like a special going away present from me."

"Yes... I mean, no," he stammered. "I mean... Robert's staying here - with you," he added, saying aloud what ever already knew.

Luisa and Robert were... well, he conceded, knowing the word 'engaged' had never been uttered at the dinner table.

But it was still understood, he reminded himself firmly as he stared into her beautiful blue eyes, feeling the exquisite touch of her body... her breasts, he admitted to himself in embarrassment, trying not to look at the soft, full mounds that pressed against his chest - or the incredible sensation of her hips pressing against his groin.

"What Robert doesn't know won't hurt him," she countered softly.

He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation as her hand moved lower again, caressing him, his mind hastily rationalizing the suggestion: after all, he _was_ about to leave for Starfleet, and with all the classes and seminars, there wouldn't be a lot of opportunities to be with girls there - and, he added in a fit of embarrassment, if he didn't he would probably be the only cadet - hell, the only person - in all of the Academy, in all of Starfleet, for that matter - who was still a virgin.

And Robert would never know, he reminded himself, groaning as her hand reached into his now-open pants...

But he would, he realized.

Opening his eyes, Jean-Luc placed his hands on her shoulders - and gently pushed her away.

"No. Robert might not know," he conceded, "but I would," he concluded - then turned away, heading back toward the house.

"No tears!" the hooded man screamed, back-handing the child, the blow sending her flying into the rock walls that lined the room.

For a moment, she lay there, stunned, unused to pain, unused to anything but the loving caresses of her mother...

But Mama was dead, Papa was dead, most of the crew dead - and she was an orphan, an abomination, a curse to any family that would adopt her, lest she bring her perfidy, her wretchedness, down upon them.

The priests had taken her when they learned her parents were dead, declaring her abhorrent, and condemning her to a life as andile; taken her, still stunned by her loss, still bruised and aching where the ship's rope had almost torn her in two - and thrown her into a room where priests screamed at her and struck her until she burst into tears.

The tears had been too much for the priest who had been screaming the loudest; outraged at her insolence, he had sent her flying - then hurried after her, grabbing her by the wrists, pulling her out of the room, kicking and screaming, and onto the hot, dry sand of the training arena.

Pulling her to her feet before a thick post sunk deeply into the ground, he quickly tied her hands together, then lifted them up, setting the rope over a hook driven into the post, letting the child hang there.

For a moment, she was silent, too stunned by the new pain of her body dragging against the fragile strength in her wrists - then screamed as the whip sailed through the air and slapped across her back, shredding the thin shirt she had worn, flaying the skin from her back.

"Filth!" he cried, swinging the whip. "Abomination!" he shouted as it flew again. "You are not human! You have no right to cry! No right to pain! No right to feel! You are nothing! You are garbage beneath the feet of the lowest animal! You are andile!"

She did not hear the words, having fainted at the third blow - but the lesson would be learned whether she was awake or not. The man continued to flail at her until the worst of his anger was gone... and the sand beneath the post turned red.

Spent, the man dropped the whip, then walked back into the cool of the building, leaving the child to the winds, sand and flies.

The body would still be there in the morning, he knew; if she lived, they would begin again. If she died... She was andile, he reminded himself; if she died, it would be better for them all.

Jemat gasped, horrified at the image, pulling himself away from the memories.

That humans would do this to their own people, he cried softly, to bruise and batter their own children so, to willing allow them to die - indeed, to kill them children themselves - and for what? he wondered, the memory unclear in his own thought.

For a moment, he was tempted to re-enter the image, hoping to find out something more about what he had seen, going so far as to release himself into the stream once more - only to feel himself pulled back as he did so.

No, he amended, correcting himself; not pulled back; _pushed_ back, a faint echo whispering at the back of his mind.

(Not... not... not... no...)

He shook the protest off - then realized that perhaps the plea was correct, albeit unknowingly; to reenter that thought once again would be traumatizing to them both.

He waited a moment, letting the flow of memory pass him, letting their mental time flow by - then eased himself back in.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Picard?" Admiral Belke said as she slowly paced the space in front of his chair.

Jean-Luc hesitated, uncertain what the Admiral wanted to hear - and even less certain what he wanted to say. Everything he could think of sounded like an excuse, as if he was trying to find a way to claim that everything that had happened - the horrible grades, the failed tests, the missed classes - the debacle at the bar - hadn't been his fault.

Which they hadn't, he thought defiantly - at least, not entirely, he added.

But that, he knew, was not what she wanted to hear.

"I apologize, Admiral," he finally tried.

"Apologize? For what, cadet? For wasting the Academy's time and resources? I'm sure your apology will mean so much to the thousands of people who could have been helped by a properly trained Starfleet officer who was assigned to their world - but who never got trained, because we were wasting our efforts on a slacker, an idler - a ne'er-do-well! - like you, Mr. Picard!"

"I said I was sorry!' he retorted instantly - and instantly regretted his brashness.

Being a smartass was not going to win him any points with the Admiral, he reminded himself - and, he added, allowing the growing defiance in his soul to fade away, she was right; he had wasted his opportunity - an opportunity he had almost missed when he failed the first entrance exam - and wasted that of another candidate.

"I am sorry," he repeated, his voice quieter, calmer this time. "I thought... I thought that getting here was enough. I thought that having been accepted, that that was enough; I thought having made it this far, I could coast - and still succeed." He considered for a moment - then met Adm. Belke's eyes dead on.

"I was wrong."

Belke turned, not wanting the young man to see the expression on her face; it was rare that any person his age could admit to his errors - and having seen his personality profile, she had suspected that he would never be able to concede that he was wrong. That he had - while still in his first year there - was a good sign.

Perhaps Boothby had been right, she thought.

She turned back, considering the young man for a moment, then stepped back, resting her ample posterior on the edge of her desk, her eyes locked on the young man before her.

"Yes. You were wrong. Grievously wrong. You thought getting here was the end - when indeed, it is the beginning. The beginning of a life of hard work, of constant learning, of struggling and striving to become more than you were, to become the officer you can be - to become a Starfleet officer.

"It doesn't get easier, Mr. Picard - ever," she said firmly, then let out a long sigh.

"And perhaps it is my fault that I don't make that clear during the entrance examinations; there is so much emphasis placed on getting in that what happens after may seem trivial in comparison," she conceded.

"It isn't your fault, ma'am," Jean-Luc began.

She silenced him with a single look. "I wasn't aware that I had given you leave to speak, cadet," she said sharply.

"No ma'am," he replied meekly.

She studied him. "If it isn't my fault, then whose is it?"

Picard studied her silently, uncertain if she was looking for an answer, or simply talking aloud.

"I asked you a question, cadet," she said a moment later, as if in answer to his silent question.

"The fault, ma'am, is mine. I was..." He hesitated, trying to make a concise clear statement to the woman, "...overwhelmed - and I didn't know how to ask for help. I didn't think I should," he admitted. "I thought a Starfleet cadet should be able to find the answers for himself; I thought that was part of the training," he added.

Belke considered the statement - then nodded. "In a way, cadet, it is - but part of the training needs to be in knowing that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness or inherently the wrong thing to do. Perhaps the answer you needed to find was how to ask for help - and when. And that you didn't know that, is, in part, if not in total, my fault. And now, it is my responsibility - as it is yours - to get the situation repaired."

Jean-Luc stared at the admiral, stunned. "You mean I'm not being expelled?" he managed.

"I mean, you're not being expelled... today," she clarified. "But if your grades don't improve significantly by the end of the term..."

"They will, ma'am," Picard replied hastily.

"They had better; don't think for a moment that I won't be watching you, mister," she replied sharply. "One slip - and you're out!"

"Yes, ma'am," he managed.

For a moment he sat there, unable to believe his incredible fortune - then realized he was being watched. Intently.

"Well?" Belke finally said.

"Um... Permission to be excused, Admiral?" he tried.

"Permission granted," he said, watching as the young man hurried to his feet, the relief on his face unmistakable - only to be surprised when he stopped a moment later.

"Cadet?"

"Ma'am... I'd like to make a request," he said.

She gave an indignant snort. "You're hardly in a position to be making requests, cadet," she reminded him.

"No, ma'am. Nonetheless..."

"Go ahead," she conceded.

"I'd like to request a change in quarters. My room... my room is not conducive to studying," he said.

Belke considered the request - then nodded. "I'll approve the change. See the quartermaster," she said curtly.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied - then hurried from the room.

Belke watched him for a moment - then rose to her feet and stepped over to her private office. Opening the door, she met the gaze of the man who stood there.

"Good enough, Mr. Boothby?"

The groundskeeper sighed. "Not as good as getting that troublemaker Tillerman out of here. He's the one who did this - to Picard and half a dozen others."

"I can't bring an accusation against Tillerman if the cadets won't press charges," she reminded him, "and they won't. The very code of honor were trying to instill in them also works against us, sometimes - with this being the worst case. Thank God he came to you before it got out of hand," she added.

"Now we just have to hope he lives up to his potential," Boothby agreed.

"Isn't that the case with each of them?" she countered.

"Andile."

The sound rustled through the air ahead of the robed figure, chasing the few townspeople off the road as the figure approached, then stopped beside a house.

Kneeling near the door, she scratched at it lightly, then fell back, resting her weight on her feet as she listened for the sounds of the inhabitants leaving the house.

After a few minutes, the sounds had faded - and she crept in.

The man lay on the bed in the main room, a hearty fire lit and kept blazing to offset the chill of the fever that had consumed him, draining the life from his body until the end was only a few hours away.

"Old one, I am here to take your sins, that you may ascend," she whispered as she took the traditional place on the floor beside him.

"Andile," he said, his voice shaking as he managed the word - though the tremor was not from fear and revulsion - but from relief.

"I am here, old one. Speak your sins, that you may ascend," she repeated

The man reached out blindly, seeking the warmth of her hand, not caring that the penalty for touching an abhorrence would be the amputation of the offended limb.

For a moment, the andile hesitated to take the hand - then she pulled the sleeve of her robe back, taking the old man's hand in hers.

"Speak, old one, tell me all that you have sinned, free yourself of its burden - and ascend. Join your family, your friends..."

He opened his mouth to speak - but the family had waited too long, hoping against hope that the man would survive the illness, not calling for andile until the man's strength was almost gone - and leaving him too weak to speak the words of his sins.

Stricken at the realization he would die, unshriven, he fell back, the grief on his face unmistakable.

The andile tightened her grip on the man's hand, then reached up, pulling back her hood from her face, and looked at the man, her brown eyes meeting his blue ones.

_I won't let you die unshriven, old one_, she assured him gently, her mind pressing softly into his. _Know your sins that I will know them - and I will take them unto myself._

His eyes widened - then the tears began to flow as he knew his place in heaven was assured.

A few minutes later, she lay the now-still hand back on the bed, then pulled her hood over her head, and moved toward the door once again.

Again, she scratched at the wood, the exited the building, cowering against the wall for a few minutes - then heard the shouts and cried behind her.

They were ritual, necessary, the sound of the family chasing the evil from their house, throwing refuse at the filth - and in the refuse, a few coins, a few pieces of edible food.

She let the garbage batter her, letting the family chase her from the town - then waited on the outskirts, hiding among the sparse trees there until the sun had gone down before she dared return.

The refuse was where it had fallen, a few coins mixed with a few bits of food.

Enough to live on, she reminded herself.

And that was all andile required.

Or were allowed.

"Johnny-boy!" Corey Zweller shouted into the open door of Picard's temporary quarters at the starbase. "You up for a game of dom-jot? There's a couple of Nausicaans at the bar who think they can beat us!"

Picard snapped his order padd closed gratefully; he had read the details of their new assignment a dozen times now, and swore he had them memorized. There was nothing that he would like more than a afternoon spent with Corey and Marta - and if he could get the best of a couple of those Nausicaan brutes while he was at it, so much the better.

"No!" she screamed desperately. "It wasn't his fault! It was an accident! He didn't mean to touch me..."

The boy, outraged at the protestations from an andile backhanded her, sending her crashing to the ground.

Dazed, she pulled herself to her knees, watching in horror as the boy whose hand had accidentally bushed her minutes before, grabbed the axe, resting his other hand on the tree stump.

Raising it up, he glared at her. "It was an accident," he sneered contemptuously, "but I'd rather cut off my own hand than live with the memory that I ever touched such filth!"

With a flourish, he brought down the axe.

In that moment, he found hope for life - then felt that hope torn away, forever.

"Jean-Luc, I'd like you to meet Beverly Howard. Soon to be Dr. Howard. Sooner yet to be Mrs. Crusher," Jack Crusher added, beaming at the stunningly beautiful redhead standing beside him as he clutched her hand in his. "Bev, this is my captain, Jean-Luc Picard."

Picard smiled at the woman, extended his hand politely, murmured the appropriate congratulations - then excused himself to the bar.

"Damn it, Jean-Luc, if I had known Jack was going to settle down with her, I'm not sure I would have introduced them," Walker Keel sighed as he joined Picard. "You realize that as soon as they're married, as soon as he's got a family on the way, he's not going to want to take on any more deep space assignments. Can't say I blame him," he added with a second sigh as he glanced back at the couple.

"It may not happen, Walker; Jack's been involved with a few other women, even engaged once before - but somehow the marriages never happened. Maybe it won't this time, either," Picard said as blandly as he could, praying that Walker couldn't see the desperate hope that suddenly filled him.

Keel laughed. "Not a chance," he countered. "Jack's not a fool; those were just girls; Beverly is someone... special. No; when you find someone that beautiful, that intelligent, that capable - you don't let it get away from you."

Or you do, Jean-Luc countered silently; you let it get away - because there are some things that are worse than spending a life alone.

And stealing your best friend's fiancée away from him is one - no matter how much you want to.

The ship was empty.

Even if it hadn't been, they corridors would have been deserted; no one wanted to see the andile coming aboard the ship; no one wanted to acknowledge that on a voyage of this duration, the odds were that someone, sometime, would die.

But it had been a reality that the designers had recognized; a generation-ship meant that lives would be created - and lives ended. And just as the priests would be there to confirm the spiritual health of the newborns, an andile would be needed to assure the ascension of those who died.

Indeed, the designers had known no one would willingly agree to take the journey into the stars, the journey to find the gods who had abandoned them, if they couldn't be guaranteed the possibility of ascension - but to openly advertise that an andile would be aboard was vulgar to the point of obscenity.

Still, the presence was necessary, and hence, following the orders that had been left for her, she smuggled herself aboard the ship in the middle of the night, quickly finding her way to the depths of the ship, far away from the crew quarters, far from the officer quarters, far from the nurseries and school rooms that would be there to educate the children who would come, in time; far from them all she found herself buried in the depths of the ship's engines, surrounded by the small and the sound of the great vessel.

She was... home.

Jemat wrinkled his nose, knowing somehow that the memory was wrong.

Not home. Not here. Not yet.

Jean-Luc touched the terminal, sending the address to Starfleet Command and on to the net that connected the terminals of the residents of Earth - and braced himself.

A moment later, the face he still dreamed of, the face that still haunted his days and nights, appeared - and she smiled.

"Jean-Luc!" Beverly Crusher gasped, startled - and pleased. "What a surprise! I hope..." she started - then stopped, as the expression on his face must have registered.

"Jean-Luc...?" she repeated, using his name to plead with him not to give her the news she already knew was coming.

"Beverly... I'm sorry, Beverly. I wish I didn't have to tell you this..."

"No... please, Jean-Luc, no..." she said, her face growing empty, blank, as he watched her world collapsed around her.

"Beverly, I regret to inform you that your husband, Jack Crusher, was killed in the line of duty..."

He continued with the words, knowing them from memory - but not knowing if he was saying them or not.

All he knew was her pain, her grief - her loneliness - and he knew that he had caused it.

"I'll bring him home to you, Beverly," he said at long last - then watched as she reached out and turned off the monitor.

She lay on the floor of the tiny room they had given her, staring up at the ceiling that loomed high above her - but not seeing it.

She couldn't see it - or anything else - nor could she do anything besides lay on the floor, trying not to sob, trying not to scream.

It hadn't been her fault; she couldn't have been responsible for what had happened - but they had blamed her, of course; she was andile. She was filth, she was the cause of all evil on their world.

When they had a world.

But it was gone now, destroyed sometime in the first few years they had been gone, blasted into atoms when their sun had suddenly gone supernova, leaving them homeless, alone in the universe.

They had gone insane, of course, insane and desperate to assign blame - and she had been andile.

They had beaten her, pounding her with fists and feet and tools and anything else they could find, beaten her until she was bloody, broken and dying - then stopped, realizing what they had done, condemning themselves as they had condemned her.

Shocked and stunned by their now double loss, they had left, leaving her to die, unattended and uncared for in the tiny room that had been her residence for the last ten years, shutting the door behind them, sealing it so the smell of her rotting flesh wouldn't disturb them as they...

As they what? they wondered as they filed from the room, mindlessly walking back to their own duties, numbed from the loss that was only now beginning to register.

We came to find the gods, they thought - but the gods have punished us for our hubris in daring to look for them. If we cannot find the gods, then we must find a new home - and wait for the god to come back to us, when we have proved ourselves worthy.

The ship continued on.

And, to her surprise, so did she.

Jean-Luc Picard stepped onto the bridge of the new vessel - and drew a deep breath.

This was his ship, he thought with a sense of satisfaction he had never felt before.

His - and his alone. Never under the command of another master, never under the control of another crew.

It was his - to do with as he could; to maintain the noble lineage of the fine name of the ship - of keeping its family traditions, he added with more than a wry sense of humor.

The Enterprise D, he sighed, looking around the bridge.

I'm home.

She didn't hear the knocking, didn't hear the pounding. She barely felt the hands that reached under her, lifting her emaciated body in their easy grasp - then set her down minutes later, cool damp grass beneath her back, strange warm sunlight on her face.

Achingly, she opened her eyes - and would have gasped, had she been capable of it.

The face that stared at her was not her own, nor anything like hers, nor anything like any face she had ever known, except in the nightmare stories that had haunted her dreams.

She tried to pull away - but if the screaming pain radiating throughout her body hadn't stopped her, the gentle but inescapably strong hands holding her down would have done so.

"Please," she tried to whisper, but her mouth parched to tissue dryness after so many days... weeks? she wondered... without water, wouldn't cooperate.

The being, huge, brown skinned, with four fingered hands, and a face gnarled with bumps and bony protrusions stared at her - then murmured a soft ululation at another of the massive beasts - and a small cup of fluid was pressed to her lips.

Water! she gasped silently, trying to swallow the cup in one gulp - but the hands slowed her, forcing her to swallow each drop slowly, bit by tiny bit, until it the cup was dry - then placed back beside her as she was lowered back to the cool grasp.

She turned her head, staring at the cup, aching for another drop of the water - and saw.

Stretched out beside her was a body, almost unrecognizable for the burns and broken limbs... and another beside that one. Bodies, some covered, most revealed - but all clearly dead - covered the open field.

Dead? But...how? she wondered - then saw the wreckage of their ship in the distance - and began to understand.

To understand that the ship had crashed - and to understand that she had allowed her people to die, unshriven.

She gave a forlorn howl, softened by the dryness of her throat, shaking her head at her unforgivable failure. Her people, her responsibility! She had failed them - and they had died, alone, and filled with sin, and it was her fault. Her fault!

Giving a plaintive wail, she pushed herself up on her broken arms, dragging herself to the nearest body - and pressed a hand to the temple. If there was even a trace of the life that had been here once...

She closed her eyes, pressing herself into the mind that once had been, reaching out for any trace of sin, trying to draw it into her soul. The gods would forgive him, she thought to herself; even though they were dead, she was alive; she could take on their sins...

She uttered the words of absolution, then looked to the next body - and began to drag herself toward it.

She cried out as the hands that had held her moment before reached for her again, protesting the need, the duty, to free the dying crew's souls... but to her surprise, the hands didn't try to restrain her. Instead, the giant creature lifted her up once again, then carried her to the next body, then set her down.

One by one, they carried her to the bodies, allowing her to touch them all one last time, to say her farewells to the last of her people, to free their souls.

Then the creature raised her up, lifting her into its massive arms once again.

She looked at him - and gasped as she felt a gentle touch in her mind, a touch that transcended mere words.

_Safe. Help. Heal. Home._

Home, Andile thought.

Home, Jemat sighed at last.

I know where your homes are now, he thought to them both. I know how to bring you each home.

He opened his eyes - and looked at the surgical team, still working feverishly on the woman's appendages.

Not the time to interrupt, he knew - for any of us, he added to himself.

He closed his eyes, and let himself drift back.


	128. Chapter 128

**Chapter 128**

Beverly Crusher ran the medical scanner over the inert form of the first Breen guard, then shook her head.

"Damn it! What the hell were they thinking?" she swore, then hurriedly set the scanner down and started running her hands over the armor. After a moment she looked back at Riker, adding, "Don't just stand there, Will; help me! If we don't get this off him, he'll die!"

Will stared at her for a split second, about to call her away from the body - then decided against it, knowing it would only provoke an argument which he would not win. Instead he gestured at the two armed Security guards, motioning for them to enter the tiny space, then turning the field on behind them.

"If he - it - makes a single move, shoot to kill," Will said firmly.

The two guards raised their phaser rifles, training the sights on the seemingly unconscious Breen.

Will leaned over the body, cautiously at first, then realized that standing in this position, he wasn't going to be of any assistance to Beverly in removing the awkward armor - but the only way he was going to have any leverage would be to straddle the being, putting himself and Beverly in an incredibly vulnerable position. If the Breen soldier were really conscious, waiting for an opportunity, one sudden move on the Breen's part and they could both be dead.

But if Beverly were right, and the guard was dying, then any information they could get about the captain and the Breen ship would be lost - not to mention that the death of a Breen - a death they might have prevented, a death of a Breen soldier while in custody on the Federation starship - could be the very thing that provoked an interstellar war.

Gently pulling Beverly away, Will positioned himself over the guard, his hands running down the side panel of the armor, looking for the usual place for the armor to attach - and found nothing.

He swore to himself, moving his hands further and further under the soldier's body until he found the tiny indentation, not unlike the release clamp on their own armor - but so inconveniently located that he doubted the soldier could have been able to remove the armor on his own.

"Bad engineering," he muttered to himself, as he pushed the indentation further - then heard the click as the first piece released.

"The headpiece," Beverly said, hearing the sound. "Hurry, Will, he's running out of air," she said.

Riker hesitated, startled by the announcement - then redoubled his efforts, searching out the headpiece attachment. "What do you mean, 'he's running out of air'?"

"I mean he's running out of air. The suit seems to have either a limited air supply or limited recirculation abilities - but in either case, if we don't get that headpiece off..."

A second click, followed by a rush of air - and suddenly three bodies took a deep breath; Beverly and Will in relief - and the guard as the cool, sweet air rushed in to replace the fouled air of his suit.

Still he didn't move - not even an involuntary flinch of the muscles as the suit was opened - and the two Starfleet officers looked at each other anxiously. They were about to go where no one had gone before; to date, Will thought, no human had ever seen a Breen in the flesh. At least, he added, not and returned to tell about it.

He looked at Beverly, then muttered, "Here we go," - and slowly lifted the headpiece off the body.

For a moment, he gaped at the face that lay beneath the mask - then turned to Beverly, astounded.

"Dominion?" he asked, horrified.

Beverly looked at the face, humanoid in design, but less distinct, the surface flatter, less defined, the facial features almost absent, the ears and nose reduced to almost nothing, the eyes deeper, the mouth reduced to a thin line - then shook her head. "No. Not Dominion. The Dominion don't send their own out as assault troops. What he looks like is one of the creatures Jean-Luc and I saw when we were following Professor Galen's trail, years ago. A Progenitor," she said - then pulling out her tricorder, added, "Or something very much like them. I'm going to get some blood samples, tissue samples... but definitely oxygen breathers," she added, looking at the readout. "His oh-two saturation levels are rising... "

Turning away from the patient for a moment, she reached for the armor, quickly passing the scanner over it. "Geordi's going to have a field day working this over," she added. "The bio-filters are far more advanced than ours...

"So how did it fail?" Will pressed her.

"I don't know that it did," she answered. "I'm not seeing any signs of failure here - but it could be our technology is so out of tune with theirs that we can't detect faults in their systems," she admitted. "But I don't think so," she continued after a moment's thought.

"Then what happened?" he repeated. "Was it damaged when we hit him with our phasers?"

"There's no sign of phaser damage... Will, I don't think the suit failed," she replied. "I think this was supposed to happen."

"'Supposed to happen'? Why?" Will replied incredulously.

"I can think of a lot reasons," Beverly answered. "Kill the occupant so they couldn't talk if they were captured..."

"A suicide pill could do that - and more effectively," Will countered.

"To prevent a soldier from defecting - that catch is in an awkward place - it may be that the Breen require having a second person on hand to remove a suit - and thus to escape, alone, is suicide."

Will shrugged; that catch had been awkwardly designed - but not so awkwardly that it couldn't be opened by a reasonably resourceful individual.

"But my best guess is...They wanted to see if we would open them," she finally reported.

"What?"

"A test, Will," she repeated. "They wanted to see if we would, one: analyze the environment of the interior and discover it was compatible. Two: if so, would we determine that it was failing and their guard was in danger? And three: would we open the suit? Would we take a risk of an unplanned attack in order to try to save one of their people?"

"You're joking!" Will spluttered. "They would risk one of their people's lives..."

"Why not? We do, every time we go on an away mission... and even when we don't," she added, her voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper.

Will turned to her, surprised by the unexpected pain he heard in her voice.

He lay his hands on hers. "We'll get him back, Beverly. I promise," he said quietly.

"This time," she said emptily.

For a moment, Will fell silent, then gave a slow nod of his head, understanding all too well. "There are always going to be risks, Beverly; it's the nature of what we do."

She looked back at him silently - then looked back at the body, the personal worry quickly replaced by her professional concern. "And, it would appear, in the nature of what they do, Will. This was a calculated risk on their part, I think - to see what kind of people we are." She raised her head, looking at the guards watching the soldier. "Check the other Breen. My guess is his suit is also about to fail. If it is, open it," she ordered him.

The two guards looked at each other, silently agreeing on how to divide their duties. With a nod, the second one turned, shut down the forcefield, then left.

"So if this was a test, how did we do?" Will asked the physician.

Beverly shook her head. "As Deanna said, Will, we have no grasp on their perspective. For all we know, this was a monumental failure - because it reveals so much about us. We're compassionate, even to our enemies; we can't allow someone to die without trying to save their lives. It tells then that we are, by our very nature, curious creatures. It's who we are - but whether they view those attributes as strengths or weaknesses depends on their cultural bias.

"Unless, of course, that was the purpose of the test - to simply have us reveal our true selves," she added.

"But if we have acted otherwise, their people might have died," he reminded her.

"I'm aware of that, Will - and I suppose they are as well. I have to guess that self-sacrifice may be a standard form of behavior in their culture," she added, "but for all we know, they may have planned on beaming them back at the moment the suits failed."

Will opened his mouth to protest - then stopped. There were no shields present to prevent such a beam out, he reminded himself... and wasn't that just the damnedest coincidence?

He tapped his commbadge.

"Riker to LaForge..."

"LaForge here. Commander, I was just about to contact you. We've found what was interfering with Data's processing capabilities. There was a small metal fragment wedged into one of his neural transfer pathways."

Will sighed, partly in frustration, partly in relief. Frustration - because, despite his uncertainty about the lieutenant, he had been pinning a reasonable amount of hope on Data's conclusion - that she was attempting to relay information via the implanted device, and relief because the fragment was obviously just a piece of debris that had entered Data's braincase when she had removed his head. At least she hadn't deliberately tried to damage him.

Except Data's brain case was hermetically sealed; even in removing his head, nothing should have been able to enter those vital areas.

"Geordi, was there any information on the fragment?"

"No, sir - which doesn't make any sense!" the engineer added frustratedly. "Why would Biji open his brain and put the fragment there, unless she wanted us to find it?"

"So there's no chance that it's just a piece of debris?"

"None, sir," Geordi agreed.

"Commander?" Data interrupted, his voice coming over the first officer's communicator.

"What is it, Data?"

"It is possible that the damage to the lieutenant's extremities affected her ability to correctly place the fragment. She may have been attempting to stimulate a specific area of my brain with the placement of the fragment - and simply missed."

"So what do you think she was trying to stimulate?" Will replied.

"I am uncertain - but I would like your permission to have Geordi attempt to stimulate the surrounding area with a probe, to see if stimulates any strong memories," he said.

"Memories?"

Geordi spoke up. "Yes, sir. The area of Data's brain where the fragment was placed is the android equivalent of the cerebral cortex, where memories are stored."

Will hesitated for a moment, thinking - then decided there was no harm that could be done.

Probably, he added.

"Go ahead - but Geordi?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Back up Data's memory engrams before you start. I wouldn't want to find out Data's lost his memory because we touched the wrong thing."

He could almost see the engineer grinning at the remark - and the confident look in his eyes. "Already done, sir."

"And Geordi?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"I have an idea about the tendrils that are draining our shields."

He could hear Geordi grinning again. "As do I, Commander. Amazing, isn't it, that they just are draining the shields - and none of the other ship's systems?"

Will nodded, appreciating once again his Chief Engineer's perspicacity - and his brilliance. "Then proceed with what you're doing - and I'll be down shortly," he said - then looked at Beverly again. "Anything else I can help with here?"

"Aside from telling me exactly what species these people are, and why they look like the Progenitors, and why they risked two of their own people?"

Will nodded. "Yes. Aside from that."

Beverly smiled tiredly and shook her head. "Can't think of a thing, Commander," she answered.

He nodded. "If you need me, I'll be in Engineering..."

"You might want to make a stop on the way," she interrupted.

Will gave her a curious look. "Oh? Where?"

She nodded. "Sickbay. Deanna should be out of recovery by now..."

She was about to add that Alyssa hadn't called her to indicate that there were any complications, and that a brief - very brief - visit by the ship's first officer might help the empath's morale - but she would have been speaking to the air.

Beverly nodded approvingly - then turned back to the unconscious soldier.

"All right, Data; we found the fragment placed between the transducers at zero-four-three A and zero-five-seven D. Assuming she was using the standard three by three grid layout, there are eighty-one possible bridges she could have been trying to make," Geordi informed his friend, staring at the array of blinking lights revealed when he folded back the android's hair and scalp covering.

"Or none," Data added. "The lieutenant's intentions may have been to stimulate a single thought, no to create a bridge."

"So it adds eighteen more possibilities," Geordi agreed. "That's not a lot; it shouldn't take too long to recreate the bridges. The longest part is going to be listening to what you say, and trying to figure out what message she was trying to send us."

Data would have nodded, having adopted that human mannerism long ago, but he knew better than to do so when Geordi was manipulating his brain. Still, he turned, looking back over his shoulder as Geordi approached with the long, narrow probe.

"Hold still, Data; I don't want to accidentally poke anything that shouldn't be poked," he said, teasing the android gently - and reminding himself how easy it would be to do just that.

Data obediently followed the direction - then suddenly turned again.

"Data!" Geordi barked frustratedly. "Hold still!"

"Yes, Geordi," he replied - then added. "Geordi? Before you begin, I have a request."

The engineer looked at his friend, curious - and taken aback by the concern he heard in his friend's voice.

"Sure, Data. What is it?"

"Geordi, when you are stimulating the memory processors, I will be revealing certain aspects of my memories that I may have not disclosed to you - or to anyone - before. Such revelations may be... awkward," he conceded.

Geordi smiled. "Afraid I'll hear your innermost secrets? Don't worry Data; I can keep my mouth shut."

"Even if the revelations are... unanticipated?"

The engineer gave his friend a curious look. "Unanticipated? Data, what have you been up to?" he asked, half teasing - half serious.

"Nothing inappropriate, Geordi - but there are certain aspects of my evolving personality that I would be... uncomfortable with having become public knowledge."

Geordi raised a brow in surprise - and curiosity - then lowered it again. If Data wanted privacy, privacy was what he would get.

"Don't worry, Data; what happens in Engineering, stays in Engineering," he assured his friend. "And in any case, I think these memories are old ones," he said, studying the exposed circuits. "This section was laid down before you added emotion to your evolving personality - so I don't think there's much that's going to be revealed. But just in case..."

He looked around the room, making sure it was empty, then touched a button on the console to close the door behind them.

"Okay. Your memories are safe from prying ears, old friend. Now let's see what Biji was trying to do."

He explored the circuits with a probe for a moment, then made the first trial connection. "Anything?" he asked, craning his head to see the android's face.

"A memory of playing chess with Chief O'Brien. He moved his rook to level three..." Data began.

"That's probably not it. Let's try again." He moved the probe, then looked again at his friend's face.

"Cmdr. Riker preparing an omelet..."

Geordi shuddered, remembering the event all too well. It had taken him days to get the aftertaste of the eggs out of his mouth. "Not a keeper, Data; want me to purge that one?" he asked.

"No. I am the sum of all my memories and experiences; to lose one - even that one, would lessen me," Data replied.

"Well, it would definitely lessen you as a chef," Geordi agreed, then moved the probe again. "Data these really are old memories. I wish to hell I knew what Beej was trying to do when she was in here... " He stopped suddenly as he heard a gasping inhalation, then felt a slight shudder in the android's shoulders.

"Data?" Geordi said worriedly, leaning forward to look at his friend's face - and stopped, stunned.

The android was crying.

"Data? What is it? What's wrong?" he asked. "Am I hurting you?"

"No... It is... I am... Geordi?" he tried again, his voice choked with emotion.

Geordi set down the probe, coming around to the front of the chair where his friend sat, and look at the android. "I'm right here, Data."

"Data, Andile is an extremely careful engineer," he reminded the man.

"I know, Data."

"That she was unable to precisely place the fragment suggests... the damage to her extremities was severe. It may be irrevocable - and it is my fault. I... should have listened to her," he said softly.

Geordi let out a long sigh. "Oh, Data," he said softly. "You can't blame yourself. You did what you thought was best at the time. In retrospect, you may have been wrong - but that's the luxury and the curse of hindsight; we can examine what happened, and rethink it and wish it were different - but we can't change it. All we can do is learn from it," he advised his friend - then looked at him curiously.

"I thought you said your emotion chip was off," he reminded the android.

"It is," Data agreed.

"Then why are you crying?" he asked his friend worriedly.

Startled, Data raised a hand to his face, touched one of the oily tears that was streaking down his cheek - then pulled it away, studying it. "I do not know. Perhaps the internal on/off mechanism has been damaged."

Geordi considered - then looked his friend directly in the eyes. "Or perhaps, Data, the switch is working fine."

"But... I am crying," Data said, showing the tear-stained finger to his friend.

"Because you're feeling sad, Data. You - not the chip - are feeling," he added.

"But that is not possible!"

"Why not? Data, you were designed to learn - and that's what's happened here. You've spent the past five years with an emotion chip teaching you what feelings are, when they are generated, how to express them - at some point, the chip became superfluous; you didn't need it anymore, because everything you were - are! - feeling, is coming from within you."

"But... I don't want this!" the android protested. "I do not wish to feel this way!"

Geordi sighed. "I know Data - but this, too, is part of becoming human."

"Then I do not wish to be human," Data replied angrily.

Geordi shook his head. "Data, I think it's too late. But, if it helps, you should know that humans can learn to control their emotions; you won't be able to turn them on and off at will - but you will be able to limit their effect."

To a degree, he added silently.

The android was silent for a long time, then said, "It is ironic, is it not, Geordi? That for so long I wished to be human - only to realize that my evolving humanity is preventing me from being what I was meant to be."

"Or maybe it's not, Data," Geordi offered. "Perhaps this is what Dr. Soongh wanted for you all along. To discover the joys - and the pitfalls - of being human."

Data considered - then nodded. "Perhaps," he agreed, then added, "we should continue."

"You sure you're all right?" Geordi asked.

"No. But I will learn to be... all right," Data answered.

Geordi nodded, not as certain as the android, then reached for the probe. "Let's try this one."

"Hi, beautiful."

Deanna tried to force a smile to her lips - but it hurt to smile.

It hurt to breath, to smile, to try to squeeze the gentle hand that was wrapped around hers... it hurt to do anything - except to look into Will's eyes, beautiful and blue, shining with relief - and tears.

_I'm sorry..._ she managed silently.

Will looked at her, taken aback by the sorrowful plea.

_Sorry? For what, Imzadi? You have nothing to be sorry for_, he insisted. _I'm the one who's sorry; I wasn't there when you needed me..._ he thought, the tears welling in his eyes.

She wanted to reach up and brush them out of the way - but it hurt too much to move.

_You were, you are, always with me,_ she answered him, _where it matters,_ forcing herself past the pain, reaching up - and laying her hand on his chest.

He captured the hand, then bent done to kiss it softly. "I love you," he whispered softly.

Alyssa Ogawa touched Will's arm gently, smiling at him when he turned to look at her.

"I need to give the counselor her medications, Commander," she informed him. "We need to get her ready to move to a regular bed."

Will turned back to Deanna, smiling widely. "Hear that, Imzadi? You're well enough to move to regular bed," he said - then glanced at Alyssa as she prepared a hypo.

"She is going to be all right, isn't she?" he repeated worriedly.

"The counselor is doing very well, Commander," she assured him, smiling at his protectiveness, then turned her attention to Deanna. "You are doing well," she confirmed to her patient. "Do you know why you're here? Do you remember what happened?" she asked.

Deanna moved her lips, trying to answer - but the effort was obviously too painful. Instead, she managed a weak nod of her head.

"Good. I'm going to give you something for the pain now," Alyssa continued. "It's going to make you sleepy - but I don't want you to fight it. Sleep is the best thing right now - and when you wake up, you'll feel much better, and we'll have you in a room of your own," she added.

"Can I stay with her until then?" Will pressed concernedly.

"Until we're ready to move her," Alyssa agreed, then gently touched Deanna's shoulder. "If that's all right with you, Counselor," she added.

Deanna looked at Alyssa, then Will - and the relief on her face was an unmistakable answer.

Alyssa pressed the hypo against Deanna's neck, watched the overbed monitor for a moment - then nodded. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Commander," she told him, then stepped away, leaving the lovers alone.

For a long moment, the two simply stared at each other, then Will leaned forward, pressing his lips to her ear.

"Don't leave me again, Imzadi," he begged her softly, then kissed her ear and pulled back, knowing she was too weak to answer him.

_Never_, she thought back, her too-long-gone mental voice replied, tugging at his heart.

_Never?_

_Never._

He leaned down, brushing his lips against hers.

_Imzadi._


	129. Chapter 129

**Chapter 129**

Geordi stared at the ceiling in his quarters - or would have stared at it, had the room lights been on.

They weren't; he had turned them off, stretched out on his bed, closed his eyes, and convinced himself that he was going to get some of the sleep he had denied himself for the last two days - just as he had ordered his staff to do - but the sleep his body was screaming for was lost in the flurry of activity still racing through his mind.

The fragment Biji had put in Data's memory files had pointed to nothing; the Breen tendrils were still draining the shields just as rapidly as he found ways to rebuild them; the transmitter that Cmdr. Riker had wanted was almost finished - but without computer control, there was almost no way to lock on a beacon to transmit a message back into Federation space; the computer core reconstruction was hours behind schedule...

Geordi shook his head. The only blessing had been that the Breen hadn't made a second foray onto the ship - but that, he knew, was simply a matter of time.

Worse, the longer they waited, the less prepared everyone would be, exhausted by living for hours - now days - on constant alert, the morale dropping with every passing hour - and now that the captain was gone...

It was nothing against Will Riker, Geordi thought as he studied the stars shining above his windows; Will was a good captain, almost as good as Cpt. Picard was, and the crew had confidence in Will - but there was something about losing the captain that took the energy away from a crew, the sapped their morale, their spirit - and the longer he was gone, the harder it would be for them to recover.

In a way, he knew, it would be better to declare him lost; they had had to do that once before - and as difficult as it had been on those who had claimed him as a friend, it had been the best thing for the crew; the wound had been inflicted, the loss made public - and the healing had begun.

This, he thought, was harder. There was no knowing if he were dead or alive, no knowing if they could or should attempt to rescue him - or to abandon his body and try to make their way back to the safety of Federation space.

If Federation space were still safe, Geordi thought. If Tillerman had been telling the truth, though, there was no guarantee they would find safety there, should they manage to return.

He turned, pulling the blanket over his shoulder - though he didn't need it; the room was comfortably warm, and he hadn't bothered to change out of his uniform...

But it shouldn't be, he thought with a start, sitting up abruptly.

If the Breen wanted to capture the ship - with or without the crew - the simplest way would be for the tendrils to drain not only the shields, but the environmental power supplies as well.

Cut off life support, Geordi thought - and the crew would give itself up in a matter of hours. If they wanted the crew dead, then all the Breen need do was wait a few hours more - and the bitter cold of space would do the grisly work for them.

He considered the idea for a moment.

If that's all that was needed to capture the ship, why hadn't the Breen done so? Certainly not for technological reasons; they were readily able to drain the power system for the shields, which was an infinitely more complex system.

Hmmm... Maybe they _couldn't_ drain two power systems at once, Geordi thought - then dismissed the idea. The energy adsorption curves he'd seen on the sensors as the Breen approached showed a broad gap in the EM spectrum; the Breen were absorbing the ambient radiation from the surrounding space easily enough - taking it from the ship should be even easier, providing them with a cleaner, purer power source.

That was settled then, Geordi thought. Which left... what?

What did Data always say when they were playing Sherlock Holmes on the holodeck? When you have eliminated all the probable explanations, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth?

Well, if Holmes was right, then the truth must be...

"LaForge to Cmdr Riker. Sir, I need to see you!"

Will looked at Geordi, standing before the display terminal at the front of the conference room table, and raised a brow.

"You're certain about this, Geordi?" he asked.

Geordi shook his head. "No, sir. I'm not certain about a damned thing - but this is the first time the pieces have begun to fit together since this whole thing began. It's the only explanation that fits. The Breen don't intend to capture the ship. Those tendrils are there to absorb the shields - and only that. If the Breen wanted to, they could have drained us dry. That they didn't means they don't want to."

Data gave a slight nod of his head. "Geordi may be correct is his analysis of the situation, Commander - though it does make certain assumptions of which we cannot be assured," he offered, looking at Riker, then slowly turning to study the others at the table, gathered for the impromptu senior staff meeting. "It could be that there has been an untoward event on the Breen ship which had precluded their advancing their pre-planned activities," he offered by way of suggestion.

"Do you have any data to support that idea?" Will asked.

"None. Indeed, the complete lack of supportive data would place the likelihood of such an event at less than one in one hundred forty-three thousand, two hundred and sixteen," he added.

"Meaning Geordi may be right," Will said.

"There is also no data to support that contention, Commander - but since the premise is that the remaining proposition is also the least probable, statistical analysis would be unrevealing," Data concluded.

"In other words, you don't know."

Data shook his head. "No, sir; I do not know."

Will let out a long sigh, then looked around the table. "For the sake of argument, let's assume that Geordi is correct: that the Breen's intention is _not_ to capture the ship or the crew. What, then, is their intention?"

"They may have captured the ship with the intention of kidnapping the captain," Worf offered.

Beverly gave a slight shake of her head, accenting the skeptical expression on her face. "That's possible, Worf - but it's a rather elaborate way to go about it, Worf," she said. "If Tillerman was right, the Breen have had contact with Starfleet for some time, and access to Federation information. If they had wanted to kidnap the captain, they could have done so far more easily while he was on leave. He was scheduled to be gone for almost a year! They could have taken him when he was on the transport to the Ba'ku homeworld - and no one would have been the wiser for some time."

"And yet they have him," Worf countered.

"Yes - but why?" Will asked.

Worf looked up at the first officer, surprise on his face. "Capt. Picard _is_ the senior officer on the flagship of the Federation..."

"But, as Beverly just pointed out," Will reminded him, "he has been away for some time - and the ship has been in refit for an equally long time. That means the knowledge he has about current Starfleet and Federation strategies is out of date - and even if it wasn't..."

Will hesitated for a moment - then plunged ahead, voicing what they all knew was the truth. "Even if his knowledge wasn't out of date, the captain has fallen out of favor with the Admiralty," he said quietly. "It has been almost three years since he has been given a front line assignment; currently, he is politically persona non grata in Starfleet. No; unless the Breen have a personal interest in the captain himself, there is no reason for them to have taken him."

"So why do they have him?" Geordi asked. "For that matter, why are they here at all?"

"I don't know," Will conceded - then looked around the table. "Ideas?"

"If what Ambassador Tillerman said was correct, it could be that they simply wanted additional subjects for their psychological studies," Beverly reminded the others. "Wasn't it one of the Breen's demands? That at least some of the crew had been through recent traumatic events? And Jean-Luc history _would_ make him a particularly interesting subject."

"But as you pointed out, it's an extremely elaborate way to go about it," Geordi countered, "and there's every chance it could have failed. If that had happened, any secrecy they wanted would have disappeared instantly - and Starfleet's involvement would have become public knowledge."

"More significantly, even the Admiralty couldn't have been certain that the captain would have been back from his leave when the Breen requested the subjects," Will reminded them. "Remember, the captain had requested leave for almost a year's duration - and to be blunt," he added, giving Beverly an apologetic look, "I'm not sure he intended to return."

Beverly nodded, any personal feelings she might have been feeling carefully suppressed. "Still, it would be significant if we knew _when_ the decision to send the Enterprise on this mission was made; if it was prior to the captain's return, we would know he was not a target; if it was after, it would be a clear sign that he was the objective - or at least one of them."

"Let's assume, for a moment, that kidnapping the captain - our captain - was not the goal of the Breen's mission," Will continued. "If that was not their goal, why did they take him? - and let's be clear on this, they did specifically take the captain, not just a person at random."

"Are you sure about that?" Geordi asked.

"There's no question about it Geordi," Will replied. "The Breen maneuvered the activities on the bridge so that a series of negotiations would occur; they positioned themselves to find out who had the authority to act on behalf of the crew - and only after that had been established did they take him."

"Not as captain," Worf said, thoughtfully, "not as the titled head of the ship, but as the individual who _acts_ as leader." He nodded, thinking, understanding the Breens' motives. "A good military tactic," he said approvingly. "Determine the true leader - and take him away, leaving the others in disarray and panic."

"And see what happens!" Geordi said, snapping his fingers as the puzzle pieces began to fit together. "That's it! They took the captain because they wanted to see what we did in response!"

"Like rats in a maze," Will muttered

"You may be closer to the truth than you think, Will," Beverly added. "Think about it; the first stage in any experiment is to get a baseline understanding of the subjects. That's been done: the Breen have taken ships before, which means they have ample opportunity to study the psychological and social dynamics of groups whose leaders have been taken. The second stage is to apply stressors and see how those stressors affect performance."

"If you are correct, Doctor," Data interrupted, "then we may be seeing a change in the nature of the Breen psychological examinations. Having completed their preliminary investigations into the military and structural relationships of humans, they are now delving into the infrastructure of human emotional relationships."

"But that presumes that there is an existing emotional relationship in the first place, Data," Geordi pointed out. "That's not something the Breen could have known for sure. Not if Starfleet simply sent any ship at random."

"Then you are saying the Breen did deliberately select the Enterprise?" Worf asked.

"If we're right in what we think the Breen are doing," Geordi replied, "then yes."

"It would explain the haste in preparing the ship for mission," Data added. "The Breen may not have specified the Enterprise, per se, but the sudden availability of the captain - with his unique psychological profile - with a crew whose loyalty to him was well known, would make the ship an ideal subject."

"But there's no way that the Federation could have manipulated the Cardassians and Romulans into a peace conference at precisely the right time," Geordi protested.

"The timing of the peace conference was coincidental, Geordi," Data replied. "Had the captain returned a month earlier or a year later, another premise would have been found, though," he added with a quiet bitterness, "the loss of the mission with all hands, including the Cardassian and Romulan delegates, would serve the three governments advantageously."

Geordi looked at his friend, suddenly realizing the pain the android must be in - and grimacing at their - his - blindness to his friend's agony.

"Everything we've talked about may explain why the Enterprise and her crew were selected, and why they took the captain - but why did they take Biji, too?" Geordi asked on Data's behalf.

"She was working for them," Worf growled. "They had to remove her in order to protect her..."

"Then why bother to say she wasn't working for them?" Will reminded him. "If you're going to do that, then why not leave her here?"

Worf growled, unable to answer the question.

"Possibilities," Will continued. "One, she was chosen at random, to suggest to the crew that any of us could be taken. Remove the leader, instill fear - and watch what happens."

"Possibly, Will - but the Breen had already had sufficient chance to study human fear responses. Remember, there's a new variable involved this time: the two Breen soldiers," Beverly reminded him. "What happens when a loyal crew, faced with the loss of a well-established, cared for leader, is threatened, both as a crew and as individuals - but is giving an outlet on which they could vent their anger?" she asked them. "They've put their people in harm's way - but for the sake of an experiment?" she asked skeptically. "It seems like a huge risk."

"Not really, Doc, "Geordi objected. "The Breen have to know that Federation regulations would protect them..."

"Regulations are often the first thing lost when fear takes over, Geordi," Will reminded him, "and the Breen made damned sure they're soldiers were completely vulnerable to whatever our fear led us to." He looked at the blank expressions on Data, Geordi and Worf's faces. "The body armor they wore contained a limited air supply," he explained. "We had to remove it in order to keep them alive."

"Vulnerable, indeed," Data replied. "Out of their armor, they would be dependent upon us to provide the appropriate environment to ensure their survival. Even a minute error in the combination of gases in their environment could cause death," he said - then frowned. "Though such an error could be unintentional as well as deliberate; the loss of their people through such an accident would prove nothing - not even deliberate carelessness, as environmental control on a ship that had been as damaged as we have been would be problematic at best.

"Only if it was problematic for us, Data," Beverly replied. "The Breen are oxygen breathers."

Geordi's eyes widened. "Oxygen breathers? But why would anyone go to all the trouble and inconvenience of wearing and e-suit if..." He stopped, then nodded slowly. "I get it. Another... ruse. Another set-up. They're manipulating us, keeping us in the dark for as long as it fit their purposes, setting us up for their studies."

"Not a study," Worf grumbled indignantly, "but a test! They are testing us, seeing what we do!"

"So what _do_ we do?" Geordi asked. "What is the 'right' answer to this test were taking?"

"There is no 'right' answer, Geordi," Will replied. "We still don't know what their societal foundation is; the fact that they're willing to risk the lives of two of their people may indicate they value life far less than we do."

"Or that they may value other things more: scientific knowledge, for example," Beverly offered.

"Agreed," Will said. "What they're trying to learn is what we do when we're confronted by specific problems. And what we're going to do is what we always have done: treat the prisoners as prisoners - with the appropriate care due them - but we will question them. We will continue to find a way to repair the ship and get out of here - and we will continue to study the Breen, just as they study us."

"And the captain?" Worf asked.

"We'll get the captain - and the lieutenant - back," Will assured them all.

"How do we even know they are still alive?" Worf asked - then looked at Beverly, his eyes apologetic for asking.

"We don't," Will conceded. "But we can assume that just as we're being studied, the captain - and Biji - are being studied as well. If would do the Breen no good to kill them - at least, not immediately," he added, a hint of worry growing in his expression.

"Then we must act - and soon!" Worf announced.

Will smiled - the first genuine smile any of them had seen from him in days - then he looked at Geordi. "And we will. How's that communication relay going, Geordi?"

"I was almost finished when I went off duty, Commander," Geordi replied, a little taken aback. "It should be up now - but we won't have sufficient control for any long range communications until we have computer back..."

"Computer control shouldn't be necessary for what I have in mind," Will replied. He looked up, speaking at the ceiling communications loci. "Computer, isolate and access the aft external communication module; adjust the angle to narrow width - and open a secure channel." Will waited a moment for the computer to comply.

"Channel open," the computer said after a moment's pause.

Will nodded, then looked at the others - and spoke.

"Ambassador Tiron."

Tiron? Beverly gaped, looking at the others in confusion. What did Will want with Tiron? For that matter, where the hell had Tiron been for the last day?

"Here, Commander," boomed back the Romulan's voice.

"Ready to come home?"

Home? Beverly thought, perplexed. What the hell was Will talking about?

"I am - as are your shuttle pilots," Tiron added.

Beverly, Geordi, Data and Worf looked from one to the other, the astonishment on their faces unmistakable. Tiron has the pilots? But... how?

"Your captain's yacht is a fine vessel," Tiron continued, "and as much as I have enjoyed piloting her, I think your people are anxious to return to their home."

"We're ready for you. Our shields are down - and we're opening the main shuttlebay doors," Will informed the Romulan, looking to Geordi at the same time to give the order to the shuttlebay team. "We'll meet you there."

"I look forward to it," Tiron agreed. "Calypso out," he added.

The faint sound of static faded as he cut the transmission, leaving the remnants of the command crew to stare at the first officer.

"The captain's yacht?" Beverly asked numbly.

"I detected the ship separating from the Enterprise," Worf muttered, "but thought it a malfunction - another computer error."

"You're up to something, Commander," Geordi said, "but I'm not sure what. The narrow band transmission would keep the Breen from hearing you, Commander - but there's nothing we can do to keep them from seeing her. I don't know what you had in mind - but once they see the yacht, you'll have lost the advantage of surprise."

"As you said, Geordi - once they see her," Will agreed. "However, that's not going to be a problem - at least, not for a while."

"How do you figure?" Geordi replied, curious.

Will grinned. "Ambassador Tiron came on the mission prepared to offer whatever he had to in order to ensure the Romulans getting what they wanted and needed from the talks. To that end, he was empowered to offer terms to the Federation to use their cloaking technology - and as a symbol of his good faith, he brought with him..."

"A sample of the prototype cloak!" Beverly managed.

Will nodded. "He offered its use - with the understanding that the use of it would weigh in his favor in the negotiations - and I agreed."

"Then the captain is not aware of the presence of the device?" Data asked.

"No. I was on my way to tell him when the Breen showed up," Will agreed.

"Then the Breen would also not be aware of the existence of the device - or of the return of the captain's yacht," Data concluded.

"They will not know that we are attempting to retrieve the captain!" Worf roared triumphantly.

"Let's not go that far, Worf," Geordi cautioned. "Those tendrils can't all be power absorption conduits. Some of them have got to serve as some form of sensors. We hit the wrong one the wrong way, and, cloaked or not, they're going to know something's up. Worse, we could find ourselves with all our power drained. No, we need to know what we're up against before we go in there."

"Can we find that out?" Will asked the engineer.

Geordi looked back at the first officer, thought for a moment - then nodded. "I've got the staff working on restoring the sensor grids, Commander. We should be able to get some preliminary data back in a few hours. It won't be detailed, but at least we'll have a good idea of what's what around the Breen ship. Maybe enough to get you close enough to use the yacht's transporters to beam in," he added.

"I'd like something a little more definitive than that, Geordi. I'm not going to risk the captain's life on a 'maybe'; not if I don't have to," Will said.

"Understood, Commander." The engineer hesitated for a moment, thinking - then looked at Data - then back at Will. "Give me an hour," he added mysteriously.

"You've got an idea?" Will asked.

"Not an idea. It's just... something I just said - and one of the memories Data had," he said.

"From the area where Lt. Andile left the fragment?" Will asked.

"That - and the fragment itself," he said. "But it's just an idea. I want to check it out. Give me a hand?" he said, turning to his android friend.

Data nodded - and the two looked to Riker for his approval.

"One hour," he countered - then watched as the two hurried from the room.

"You intend to trust the information the lieutenant left?" Worf said disapprovingly.

"Worf, we may not know Biji or the Breen well - but I think we've eliminated the possibility that they are going to use the most elaborate means possible to accomplish a simple task. If she had wanted to sabotage our escape plans, all she had to do would be - nothing. Instead, she may have left information. Of course I'll evaluate it appropriately - but in light of what she went through to get the message to us, I'm leaning toward believing whatever she has to say."

Worf gave the man a puzzled look. "What she went through?"

"Worf," Beverly interjected, "Andile's hand were badly damaged in the fire in the computer core. We regenerated most of the tissue - but there were problems with the new growth. Prior to her EVA, I had to give her a series of hypos to increase the circulation to her extremities. Even so, the duration of her EVA was beyond suit tolerances; by the time she reached the safety of the ship again, her hands and feet would have suffered severe vascular insufficiencies. What her status is now, I don't know - but my guess is that she will, at the very minimum, lose her fingers and toes; more likely, she may lose both her hands and feet. If the necrosis progresses untreated, she may lose the limbs entirely. And still she managed to remove Data's head, plant a message - and attempt to negotiate the captain's release on the bridge. So, at this moment in time, I don't want to hear that we should treat her information - or her - with anything but the greatest respect," she informed him sharply.

Worf stared at her, dumbstruck by the tone of her voice - and astounded by the news.

"I... did not know," he admitted.

"Well," she replied, chagrined, surprised by her sudden attack on the Klingon, "now you do."

"And now she's on the Breen ship," Will interrupted the two. "Innocent or guilty, we need to get her back; the last thing we want to do is leave someone that determined and that capable in the hands of the enemy."

"Or that vulnerable," the Klingon added quietly - then looked at Will.

"Anyone can be broken, Commander - even someone with the lieutenant's strength of will. We cannot allow her to become a pawn on behalf of the enemy. We must retrieve her," he agreed.

Will nodded approvingly, relieved that the Klingon had finally made his decision about the tiny engineer - even if it was weeks late. "I know we're working blind - but scan the records; find out what you can about Breen ship design..."

"I will not need to scan the records, Commander. I was held captive by the Breen during the Dominion War. I am familiar with their ship designs."

"Then start planning your assault," Will said firmly. "Just remember, this is a mothership, not a warship; we have no idea what the internal security precautions will be like."

"I will plan for the worst," Work countered. "With your permission?" he added, looking at Will.

Again, Riker nodded his approval for the man to leave the room - then looked at the one remaining person in the conference room.

"Beverly, earlier you said you thought the Breen may have taken Biji as a random act - to instill fear in the crew, so they would think they could be taken just as easily," he said.

"I said that was a possibility," she corrected him.

"Which means you think there are other possibilities as well," he countered.

Beverly nodded.

"And...?"

"I think that the Breen had no intention of taking her, Will - but when they suddenly were confronted by two people, Jean-Luc and Andile, each a leader in his or her own way, each equally dynamic, strong willed and convinced of the essential need to protect the crew, they did what they had to in order to make sure that their experiment wasn't disturbed: they took her as well," she said quietly.

"It probably took them by surprise," Will said with a tired smile.

"I'm sure it did - and that's what has me worried," she added.

"Why?"

"Because it changes the basic hypothesis for their experiment: one ship, one leader. Instead, they find two. If we're lucky, they'll conclude that by removing them both, the experiment can proceed - and nothing will change."

"But if we're unlucky?"

"They may realize that the structural command is far more complex than that of a single leader and multiple followers. This ship has other leaders as well - and that even with the loss of a friend, the command structure - and the ship itself - will continues. And that, Will, would make the premise of the entire experiment invalid. And if that happens..."

"If that happens," Will continued for her, "they may simply stop the experiment," he said, looking at the physician.

She nodded soberly. "We need to get them back."

"I know," he said. "But we also need to be prepared for the possibility that we can't. And if that happens, Beverly..." His voice trailed off.

"I know, Will," she said quietly. "I know."


	130. Chapter 130

**Chapter 130**

Pain, excruciating and unbearable, radiated up Picard's arms, drawing a sharp cry from his parched lips even as his hands contracted into fists as the thick scar tissue around his wrists tightened, making the pain even worse.

He stared at the hands, hating them, hating everything they symbolized, hating the surgeons who wouldn't listen, who forced them onto his arms, performing the surgeries over and over, watching as the tissue rotted off - then starting again, starting with artificial bones, grafting tissue from all over his body, implanting the nerves one by one sending new and unending waves of pain through her body, even recreating fingerprints - as if these were real hands, as if they were hers...

As if she was worthy of having them!

Varel! she screamed, crying out to the dead child, the headless body lying inert on the cell's floor, her hands still wrapped around the baby's head, blood spraying from her arms where the hands had been...

As it should be, he thought, staring at the hideous appendages the surgeons had made for him.

I don't deserve these, he thought, reaching for the knife.

She stabbed the blade deep into the tissue, severing the flesh, driving it deeper into the bone, trying to pry the metal and bone joint apart.

Not my hands! she screamed angrily. Not mine! Not mine!

He jabbed the blade into the joint again - but the nurse grabbed his hands, prying the blade from one hand while trying to staunch the blood with the other, screaming at him all the time.

Picard tried to shake the nurse from him, fighting desperately, determined to sever the unwanted, undeserved limbs from his arms - but the nurse was too strong, too powerful. Even as he fought, he felt the blood loss taking its toll, sapping his strength - and in return the nurse's grasp softened, his voice growing gentler, quieter...

A finger peeled back his eyelid, and a light flashed in his eye - and a voice spoke.

"No evidence of swelling in the optic nerves; reflexes approaching normal."

He heard the words - but they didn't register, even though he knew he should understand the language. He heard it before, been taught the words - but his mind couldn't quite grasp the meanings.

A moment later he felt the sleeve on his arm being pushed back - then felt a sharp prick, and a second, less satisfied sound.

"He's dehydrated; the stimulant's effect will be exacerbated - and may wear off more slowly. Encourage him to drink; otherwise, we'll need to start intravenous fluids."

A quiet discussion followed, heard but not quite understood - then, as Picard's vision began to focus, he watched one of the two creatures who were standing near him walk out of the room.

His attention turned to the remaining, closer being.

The creature looked vaguely human - and vaguely familiar. Befuddled, unable to concentrate, Picard stared at the creature - and slowly realized the creature was staring back, his lips pulled back in a tolerant, patient smile.

"Hello," it said in flawless, unaccented Federation Standard. "How are you feeling?"

It took a few moments for the words to register in Picard's mind - and a moment later for him to formulate an answer.

"Tired," Picard answered in dull honesty, suspecting that there had been a time and place when he had been capable of a sharper response.

"I'm sure you are, Captain," the creature replied gently. "Normally, I'd suggest you rest - but I would like to talk to you - if feel yourself capable of it," the creature added hastily.

Picard stared at the being a few moment longer, then managed, "You're... a Progenitor?" he asked in dull disbelief.

The being's smiled deepened, revealing row upon row of razor-sharp teeth - but the light behind the being's deep-set eyes showed no animosity. "You honor us," he answered with a soft laugh.

"Breen," Picard said on his second attempt.

"Yes. A genetic derivation of the ancestral species, as are most of the bipedal humanoids in this region of space - but we do pride ourselves on maintaining our close outward appearance. Or rather, some of us do," he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "There's been a tendency toward cosmetic gene manipulation in the past few generations - but children will be children," he reminded the man - then gently released the wrists he held captive.

Picard stared at the man, too overwhelmed with the irrelevant information to be certain to know how to reply.

Instead, he slowly turned his eyes away, trying to look around him, trying to identify where he was.

The Breen ship, certainly: that much he remembered. But aside from that...

He turned his head - and gave an involuntary gasp as a sharp stab of pain radiated up through his neck.

"I'm sorry," the creature replied instantly, his hand reaching to Picard's head, gently easing it back against the pillow, then adjusting the cover over the man. "It would be best if you didn't move too much."

A pillow, Picard thought, and covers; I'm in a bed. In the brig? he wondered, a little perplexed, unused to a cell being so accommodated.

"We don't have a brig," the creature replied. "The Breen don't find brigs - or jails or prisons - necessary - but that is a conversation for another day. You're in what will be, while you're on the ship, your quarters. Not lavish, certainly not what you're used to - but you won't be with us long enough to worry about it," he said, then added as a worried look came over Picard's face, "And don't worry about that, either. It doesn't mean what you think it means," he reassured the human with another toothy smile.

Picard stared at the creature, then managed, "You heard what I was thinking. You're a telepath."

The creature nodded.

"But the Breen aren't telepathic," Picard continued. "Starfleet Intelligence..."

The Breen smiled again. "Starfleet Intelligence knows what we want it to know, Captain - and we didn't want them to know we are telepathic. Not yet, at least. Would you like something to drink? I imagine you're quite thirsty," he said, easily changing the topic.

Picard was about to protest, more interested in what the Breen had hidden from Starfleet - and why - then realized he was, indeed, thirsty. Quite thirsty, he added - then decided it must have been hours since he had had something to drink.

"How long have I been here?" he managed.

"By your time standards, about a day," the Breen replied. "Here," he added, sliding one hand behind Picard's head, lifting it carefully as he held a cup to his lips.

A day? Picard thought - then understood the sharp pain at the back of his neck and the crushing headache that was beginning to announce itself.

He had been drugged. Drugged, interrogated - and God alone knew what else they had done. For a moment, he wanted the Breen inquisitor standing beside him to leave, anxious to strip himself of the pyjama-like garments they had given him and search his body for signs of any surgical implantations like the Cardassians had given him- but the creature before him didn't seem ready to leave, Picard thought.

Indeed, he seemed quite anxious to stay and assist the man - and probe his mind further? Picard wondered.

For a moment, Picard hesitated - but whatever the Breen had wanted from him, they had most likely gotten - and his only chance in escaping - if that were possible - would be in recuperating from what they had done to him first.

And, damn it, he _was_ thirsty. He pushed himself up, trying to avoid the Breen's assistance, and sipped at the liquid in the cup - then pulled away sharply.

He had expected water - but the cup that was brought to his lips was filled with a hot liquid, unexpectedly salty and slightly spicy.

Startled, Picard looked up at the caregiver, who smiled again. "_Ehr'laq_ with _vors_. A mild tea, nothing more. Nothing dangerous to humans - or Breen. We find it a pleasant restorative, not unlike your esteemed Earl Grey - but without the stimulants; indeed, the salts help to replenish the body's electrolyte balance..."

"Spicy," Picard said, tasting the slightly peppery under-tone.

The Breen gave him an amused look. "Of course. Have you ever tasted plain salt water?" He gave a shiver. "Dreadful. Here, drink some more," he said, pressing the cup into the man's hands, then, sliding one hand beneath Picard's back, eased him up, supporting him while he hastily rearranged the pillows behind him, then carefully lowered him back, easing him to a seated position.

"Better?" he asked concernedly. "Any pain? How is your lower back? Our surgeons didn't want to risk a surgical repair of the injuries incurred on your ship - we know enough about human physiology to know that such injuries are best left to the experts - and to know we are not those experts. However, they did stabilize the broken bones with a fixative which should hold until your people can properly address the damage."

"Then... my crew... they're still alive?" Picard said. "You haven't begun to bring them over?"

The creature started to jerk his head back, then stopped the action, making a calculated nod of his head instead. "They're on your ship still."

Picard studied the being for a moment. "Why?"

The Breen smiled. "I think that's a matter for another discussion, Captain. For now, I'd like to discuss another matter with you..."

"It's an experiment," Picard interrupted.

The Breen stared at him, clearly taken aback by the remark - then shook his head in another calculated motion.

Human physical mannerisms were different from Breen, Picard realized - and realized as well that this being was making an effort to communicate with him not only through words but actions as well.

It also meant he had had sufficient exposure to humans to know what those mannerisms meant - and when to apply them.

The missing ships, the captured crews...

A surge of fury built up in him - then faded back.

"You show restraint, Captain - and wisdom. Most of your compatriots haven't been able to see past the image we've wanted them to see. You, on the other hand, use your mind. I'm impressed. Drink your _ehr'laq_ - and then we'll talk."

"A test?" Picard tried.

"Your _ehr'laq_, Captain," the Breen repeated.

Picard stared at him, then said, "You're a physician," recognizing the same dictatorial tone that Beverly used with her most recalcitrant patients - which usually included him.

Some things, Picard thought, were the same, whether Breen or Federation

The Breen smiled. "I am... though it is not my primary duty on this ship. I am Jemat, ship's _outo_," he said - then extended a hand toward the human.

"Jean-Luc Picard," the captain replied, taking the hand.

They held hands for a moment, each staring into the other's eyes - then Picard broke the grasp, raised the ehr'laq to his lips and taking a second sip. The salty tea would never replace his standard...

He suddenly raised his eyes to the Breen - who still stood there, silent - and smiling.

"How did you know I preferred Earl Grey?" he asked.

Jemat smiled - then turned reached for a chair and brought it close, then poured himself a second cup of the tea, sprinkled the red spice mixture into it - and to Picard's surprise, seemed to murmur a brief prayer before sipping from the cup.

Having done so, he eased himself into the chair.

"Not by telepathy, if that was your concern. Nor by the deposition..."

"Deposition?" Picard repeated - then, suddenly understanding, raised his hand to the back of his neck, feeling the swelling beneath the thick layer of bandages there.

"A... procedure, Captain," Jemat conceded unhappily. "Not a pleasant one, for which I am truly sorry - but one we find necessary. However, we do not depose our subjects for such trivial matters as their preference in teas. That would be like using a photon torpedo to kill a fly.

"No, I knew about the tea, because, like so many things, it is in your personnel dossier," Jemat informed him. "Your name, age, parents, siblings, marital status, sexual preferences, performance record, commendations, athletic records, preferences in food and drink," he rattled off, ignoring or oblivious to the expression of outrage - and embarrassment - that crossed the Starfleet captain's face as he spoke, "all those things that Starfleet prides itself on noting and documenting. There's something interesting in that, Captain," Jemat continued. "I would argue that an excellent understanding of the military mind of the humans in the Federation could be ascertained more easily by studying their document than by deposition of their memories.

"But I digress. I doubt it will come as a surprise to learn that your Admiral Czymszczak had provided us with a copy of the files of almost every crewperson aboard your ship, so that we would be able to monitor the actions and reactions of each crewmember with an understanding of their psychological profile."

Picard started to agree - the checked the action. Friendly as this being might seem, and as innocuous as the questions appeared, the easiest way to gain entrance into a prisoner's mind was through the clever manipulation of incidental responses. Whatever they hadn't gotten from him in the interrogation, he was not going to reveal freely.

To his surprise, however, Jemat didn't press the matter. "Ambassador Tillerman relayed them to us - as you must also know already." He took another sip of the tea. "An interesting human, your ambassador - very unlike so many we have studied thus far. I must confess... he troubles us."

"Indeed? How so?" Picard answered, surprised and cautious - but unable to check his curiousity.

Jay troubled them - but why? He was their agent - wasn't he?

Jemat smiled as he looked at the human. "You're inquisitive, Captain - another attribute we hadn't expected."

"It's part of our nature, Jemat," Picard replied.

"Not of all your natures, Captain. Many of your people are satisfied enough with simply answering question, and not pursuing the questions further," Jemat said.

"And you learned this through your 'depositions'?" Picard asked caustically.

"Yes," Jemat replied bluntly, unapologetically, "In part. I regret the pain the deposition causes, Captain; I regret that some of your people - and people of other species - have died in the course of this investigation. That was never our intention - but the deposition provides us with information we cannot gather any other way."

"But you're telepaths!" Picard protested.

"Telepathy has its strengths - and its weaknesses, Captain; it's very useful for prying out factual data - but other than during the Dominion War, we've never been interested in your tactical strategy - other than to stay out of your way. But telepathy is only as accurate as the individual reading the subject; it is, by its nature, colored by the perception of the receiver. It becomes difficult, if not impossible, to determine where the subject's existence ends - and the receiver's begins."

"And this... deposition?"

"It allows us to investigate the more vital aspects of an individual's self - through their activities, perceptions - and through the course of time," Jemat replied.

"You could just ask us!" Picard snapped back.

"If that would provide the answers we seek, then we would," the Breen replied in a conciliatory tone. "And, indeed, we have - but we quickly learned that humans color their own perceptions of their lives and their pasts with the events of their experiences. They... edit... their recollections. Unfortunately, that yields information that is no more objective than having one of our people read them. What we seek, what we need, is the pure remembrance of that moment, untarnished by time.

"It's not unlike a concept with which you, with your studies of xeno-archaeology, may be familiar: the Kirlan civilization believed that an individual is composed of many different individuals within them. We agree - but we believe those people, those individuals, carry characteristics of who were are at that moment. Deposition allows us to seek out those moments, those memories, of who you were - then, and all the intervening 'thens' until the present. By studying the evolving sense of self - and understanding the events surrounding the individual, we can better understand the people you are now. And in doing that, we learn more about the society and culture from you which you derive than we could in any other way. Regrettably, it is painful; unfortunately, it is occasionally fatal," Jemat said sadly. "We have tried to perfect the drugs and the delivery system to minimize both effects - but human physiology is as diverse as is human culture."

"There are those, myself included, who would view your 'deposition' as an assault - and as a brutal invasion of privacy!" Picard retorted, his anger rising.

"Perhaps - but it is necessary," Jemat said quietly, rising from the chair.

"Why?" he protested angrily.

Jemat studied him, started to speak - then stopped again. "For now, Captain, you must simply take my word, that our work is crucial. For our people - and perhaps, Captain for yours."

"I don't care for riddles, Jemat," Picard grumbled.

"Indeed?" the Breen replied in a puzzled tone. "Your personnel file would suggest otherwise. There are multiple references to your adventures on your holodeck in the guise of 'Dixon Hill'..."

"That is a game! This is reality - and I don't like playing games when real lives are at stake!" the captain retorted.

Jemat looked at the man, the said softly, "There are things more important than mere life, Captain."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Jemat smiled, but said nothing.

For a long moment, the awkward silence continued, then Picard spoke. "Where is Ambassador Tillerman?"

"Resting in his quarters, I believe," Jemat answered. "I would prefer he remain there, if possible, for the... duration."

"Until this test is over," Picard clarified, challenging the Breen to disagree with him.

Jemat smiled - though the grin was a more reluctant one this time. "For the time being," he concurred at last. "Your ambassador... he troubles me."

"In what way?" Picard asked.

"He insisted on being present during the induction phase of your deposition," he added quietly, his disapproval unmistakable.

"Induction? I don't understand, Jemat," Picard replied.

Of course he didn't, Jemat realized; being subject to an experiment certainly didn't make one knowledgable about the procedures that underlay the process.

"Induction is the initial phase in which the probe matrix is affixed to the base of the skull, and the probes introduced into the spinal cord. It is extremely painful for the subject - and disturbing for those in attendance. Because of the nature and level of our telepathic communications within our own species, pain inflicted upon one of us is pain that is shared, hence we do not enjoy inflicting pain on others unless there is no other option. When that occurs, when we find no other choice, we must prepare ourselves to confront the suffering of a fellow creature - and in those not properly prepared, it can cause severe psychological trauma. Even among our better prepared members, observing the suffering of a fellow being can be disabling. That is why I try to be present during every induction; if one of the _uz'ma_ becomes too troubled, I can help him until a replacement can be brought in."

"Then an _outo_ is a counselor of sorts?" Picard said.

"Of sorts," Jemat agreed. "When I realized the ambassador's intentions, I prepared myself to serve as _outo_ to the ambassador, to assist him as he became aware of the trauma inflicted upon you and Garave - but..."

"He wasn't affected by what you did," Picard replied.

"Oh, no! Quite the opposite!" Jemat exclaimed - then hesitated, thinking - and looked directly at Picard. "Ambassador Tillerman not only requested to see your induction, but I felt a sensation of... pleasure, retribution, even joy! - as he watched you suffer. I had not felt those sensations from humans before, Captain; I had not known there were those among you who could take pleasure from another being's pain," the Breen admitted softly.

"It is not a common attribute in humans, Jemat - but it does exist. As it does in other cultures," Picard added quietly, glancing at his wrists, remembering all too well the expression of unabashed pleasure in the guards' faces as the cold Cardassian manacles were closed around his wrists and he was raised from the prison floor, left dangling, suspended from the ceiling all that long night, hanging there, naked, cold, the pain mounting with every passing moment, the fear growing, never knowing what would happen next, the only certainty being... pain.

Oh, God, the pain! he cried, gasping as the device implanted in his chest was triggered again, sending waves of pain directly into his body, driving him to the floor, writhing, screaming, begging...

"Captain!" Jemat cried out, grabbing the man's arms as they convulsed against his chest spasmodically.

The Borg pressed the device to his head - and his body responded, his arm jerking up, locking itself into place as the Borg began to graft on the cybernetic arm, the device cutting into his flesh, melding itself into his bones, his muscles, his nerves.

Picard didn't flinch; his body was under the complete control by the Borg nanoprobes, preventing him from moving, reacting, screaming, crying, as his body was cut, sliced, mangled, butchered into the form of the Borg Locutus - but they did nothing to stop the pain that coursed through him. He screamed silently, begging for release, praying for death, in pain beyond anything he had ever known...

"Captain!" Jemat called again.

Picard wrapped his EV suited arms around the limp body, then hit the thruster control panel. If he could just get Jack back into the ship in time, if he could get him to Sickbay...

He looked down at the knife sticking out of his chest - and began to laugh...

... the axe sliced through the air, severing the dead child's head and her hands off in a single blow..

...she grabbed the knife, driving it into the thick white bands of scar tissue that surrounded her wrists, trying once more to sever the hands, to cut them from her body, to cut them off, to cut them...

"Captain!"

Picard opened his eyes, gasping, panting, his throat sore from his screams, his body soaked with sweat - and found himself staring into an alien face.

For a moment, there was no sign of recognition in the human - then he blinked, twice, and his eyes began to clear.

"What..." he said weakly.

"An after-effect of the deposition, Captain," Jemat said apologetically. "Typically, they resolve within a few hours - but in your case, the effect may last for some time - though we have no reason to believe the condition is permanent," he hastily assured the captain. "We were forced by circumstances to allow the neurotransmitter destabilizers to remain in your cerebrospinal fluid longer than is advisable..."

"What circumstances?" Picard interrupted.

Jemat hesitated. "The female who was transported with you was badly injured. She was suffering from insufficient circulation to the extremities, caused by your extravehicular suit design. The tissue damage had progressed to the point where the tissue had become necrotic - had died," Jemat explained, "and we needed to remove it before it contaminated her body. We needed you to assist us - or rather, to assist her."

"Assist who... her... you - how?" Picard replied warily - and wearily, his mind slightly befuddled once again.

"As I explained, our people share pain; this has disadvantages, as I'm sure you can imagine - but there are advantages as well. Sometimes, when no other option is available, we can allow a number of our people to share the pain of another one. This can aid an individual who has been injured can be spared the trauma of the suffering, and heal more quickly.

"It can also be done when an individual is sensitive to our anaesthesia, and cannot receive the more common medications; we can induce a state that allows other to share the pain, and permit a surgery to be performed that would otherwise be impossible."

Picard stared at Jemat, trying to force his fatigued mind to think - then nodded, understanding. "You did something similar to the lieutenant... You said your physicians weren't comfortable repairing the broken bones in my back; for a similar reason, they didn't want to drug the lieutenant."

Jemat nodded. "But we are unfamiliar with the human psyche; I couldn't ask one of my people to receive her pain directly..."

"So you... what? Passed it on to me?" Picard said angrily.

"In a manner of speaking," Jemat agreed, no hint of apology in his voice now.

Obviously, Picard thought, asking this sort of favor from one Breen for a fellow creature was not an imposition; in fact, he added, judging from Jemat's behavior, it might be some sort of an honor.

Not one he cared to share in the future, Picard thought grimly, beginning to realize where some of the more horrific nightmares of the past few hours had come from.

"You had been through induction; your mind was completely open to the lieutenant's," Jemat continued. "I had brought your mental state far back enough so that pain did not register as a traumatic event in your mind - then opened myself, through you, to receive the physical aspect of the surgery."

"Then something went wrong," Picard interjected. "That's why you woke me," he added.

Jemat's face turned a slightly darker shade of grey - though whether that was a blush or a paling of his face in surprise, Picard didn't know.

"Not... wrong," Jemat said quietly, seriously. "But there are questions we need answers for - questions that perplex us." He considered for a long time, then looked to Picard.

"Tell me, Captain, would you like a tour of our ship?"

Picard's eyes widened in astonishment. No human had ever toured a Breen ship and returned to tell the tale - and the fact that Jemat was making the offer might be the sign that he was about to seal Picard's fate, adding his name to that list of doomed visitors.

But sitting here in this bed like a damned invalid, he would learn nothing at all. If there was a chance, even the smallest one, that he could learn something and bring it back to Starfleet...

Picard glanced down at himself. "I would - but..."

Jemat managed a very human smile this time. "Your uniform was irretrievably soiled, Captain - but I think I can find something more suited to a human of your position. Finish your _ehr'laq_, Captain, and I will be right back."


	131. Chapter 131

**Chapter 131**

Jean-Luc Picard stared at himself in the mirror.

The clothes that Jemat had provided were perfectly cut, immaculately tailored - even vaguely militaristic in their style - suiting his taste, his physique and his rank - but there was something unsettling about the garments, he thought as he studied the image in the mirror.

Perhaps it was the fact that they did fit him so well that bothered him, giving him the evidence he had needed, but didn't really want, to support Jay Tillerman's assertions that Adm. Czymszczak had indeed sold them out; the Breen had had enough time and enough knowledge not only to plan out their strategy, but to even prepare minor details such as clothing - and quarters.

And, he thought as he stared into the mirror, looking at the image of the room surrounding him, they had prepared his quarters well.

Admittedly, there were no viewports curving gracefully over his bed as he had had aboard the Enterprise, but the wall opposite the bed had been outfitted with a liquid crystal screen that had been programmed to provide a similar view, granting him a vision of the same stars that he had seen from his own quarters only a day before. Near the bed, a few bookshelves had been installed - and supplied with several selections from his preferences in Earth literature.

A low wall divided the bed from the rest of the room, where a couch, two chairs and a table were neatly arranged, and throughout the room, artifacts from archaeological digs across the quadrant had been carefully arranged.

Turning, he picked up what appeared to be a Corlesian _sher'ar_ that had been placed on the bedside table - then instantly, and very gingerly, set it back down.

Stunned, he crouched before the table, staring at the miniature figure - then with a tentative hand, reached out once again, picking it up - and studying it once more.

Aside from a holographic image, he had never seen one of the figurines before; no living person had. Indeed, Picard wasn't even aware that any examples of the delicate porcelain figures still existed after the destruction of Corles during their civil war - but he had seen the images often enough in his studies to be able to identify them - and upending the piece, he studied the base.

After a moment, he sighed, relieved at not being able to find the nearly invisible striping left by the multiple layers of translucent glazes that gave the piece the characteristic and unmistakable depth of color; for the Breen to have presented him with a previously unknown archaeological treasure would have suggested they knew there was going to be a need to keep him challenged, involved and active - and that would not be necessary if this was going to be a short stay.

But as it was a replica - a damnably fine one, he admitted - but a replica nonetheless, its presence simply indicated that they had studied his personnel file thoroughly and were...

He froze, his eyes suddenly spying the delicate and almost imperceptible line indicating the layers of the glazes that had been so painstakingly applied tens of thousands of years before.

It was real.

A part of his soul surged with the thrill of holding the piece, aware of its significance in the study of that lost world and their history - while another part felt the crushing weight of loss as the significance sank in.

The Breen were not going to send him back, he realized at last; his life, as he had known it, was over.

Not through death, of course - the Breen could have done that easily enough when they first captured the ship, killing any or all of them from afar, just as they could have killed him when they had captured him - and as they came close to doing during the deposition, he thought, raising his hand to the bandages affixed to the base of his neck and feeling a slight wave of nausea at the sensation.

But the life he had known - as a Starfleet captain, a Federation citizen - even as the erstwhile vintner of a family vineyard - was gone.

Oh, the Breen would keep him busy - busy, interested, even challenged, he knew with certainty; the artifact announced that intention by its presence in his room; not every part of his life was over, he realized. Indeed, the thought that for the first time since... well, for the first time ever, realized with a start... for the first time, he would have the chance to study archaeology the way he had always wanted.

Despite himself, the possibility filled him with a sense of potential he hadn't felt in years; the chance to study - and to do so with a culture that had somehow managed to find such an artifact...

He felt a thrill building in his heart - then quickly quenched it. He could study, yes - but it would always be as a prisoner, a subject of a world who had stolen him from the life he had chosen.

And who would do the same to his crew, he reminded himself.

How dare they! he raged silently. How dare they destroy his life, the lives of his crew - and for what?! Some insane desire to 'study' them?

We aren't animals! he screamed silently; we aren't some inferior species whose needs and feelings are inconsequential! We are sentient beings, with rights!

And it is my responsibility as their captain to make sure those rights - especially the right to freedom - are maintained!

His eyes panned the room, desperately searching for an exit, a way out of the gilded cage of a prison in which they had placed him - but aside from the door - a door that he knew with an unreasoning certainty would be amply guarded, there appeared no exit.

Enraged, he raised his hand, the delicate _sher'ar_ clenched in his fist, and moved to hurtle it against the barricade that was keeping him here, away from his crew, his ship - his life.

A gentle knock on his door stopped the man in mid-motion; startled, he stared at the panel that barred his way to the outside world - then looked down, suddenly aware, once again, of the object in his hand. He studied it for a moment, feeling his racing heartbeat slow, his rasping breaths calming, then carefully, delicately set the object back on the table and turned to the door.

"Come," he announced, forcing himself back to a calmness he didn't feel.

The door slid open, and Jemat entered the room, his face covered by an expression the captain had already come to know as "professional concern."

He raised a brow, thinking the obvious question at Jemat.

"Yes, I heard you, Captain, Jemat answered, quietly, but unapologetically. "It is my responsibility to ensure your health and safety while you are on this ship, Captain. Until you have fully recovered from the effects of the deposition and your union with Garave, I will be monitoring your thoughts."

"A rather discomfiting idea, Jemat," the captain replied as calmly as he could. "Humans are raised to consider their thoughts sacrosanct, safe from unexpected intrusion."

"A naïve idea, Captain, especially in a species who chooses to travel with and among telepathic races," Jemat countered.

"Perhaps," Picard conceded, "but it is the paradigm in which we function; without it, we would spend our days in constant analysis of every thought, every action - until we bind our own hands with second guesses and retrospective studies - and accomplish nothing."

Jemat nodded, understanding - and agreeing. "I understand. But please understand my concerns as well: under typical circumstances, I would expect you to be confined to our medical ward for several more days, under total mental and physical observation. Deposition - especially one that involves prolonged exposure to the denaturing neurotransmitters - is traumatic, and can have severe sequelae. I would be remiss in my responsibilities to you and to my people if I were to permit you to come to harm solely because you are concerned that your thoughts my embarrass you - and you must admit, Captain, that the anger you were beginning to feel was uncharacteristic for you. "

Picard opened his mouth to protest the remark - then closed it, realizing Jemat was right; he had been angry - angrier than he could remember feeling for years, wildly angry... irrationally, inexplicably angry - and he had not even realized it.

And he didn't know why.

Stunned at the realization, Picard stared at Jemat, confused.

Jemat smiled reassuringly. "Troubling as it may be, Captain, what you are experiencing is not unusual. Youthful behaviors and misbehaviors, loss of control, uncontrollable emotions - unwelcome as they are, these are to be expected as a result of the deposition. Harder still to accept is the fact that the deposition can traumatize the spirit, revealing memories long-forgotten, renewing hurts and bruises to the soul that the subject had thought healed long ago. Re-opened, those hurts can assault the soul once again, and in force, Captain - and left unguarded, unwatched, the subjects can do harm to themselves or those around them. Until I am certain you are well, I will watch your thoughts."

"So you do it to protect me from myself?" Picard replied caustically; whatever Jemat had seen in his history and in his emotions, he had not found any trace of suicidal tendencies, he thought to himself.

(andile were not permitted suicide)

Startled, he glanced around him, searching for the source of the voice - then glanced at Jemat.

The Breen, however, didn't seem to react.

He hadn't heard the voice, Picard realized. Perhaps there were other things Jemat could not hear as well, he thought... Or perhaps, he added grimly, there had been nothing to hear.

For a moment, he worried over his sanity - then decided that worrying accomplished nothing. Shaking his head, he looked back to Jemat, who was explaining, "Harm can be done in other ways, Captain. Please understand that deposition gives us access to your memories - not insight into your soul. That requires an understanding of you as an individual - something that comes only with time."

Time, Picard echoed - meaning that you expect me to be here long enough to have the time to make that understanding. It won't happen! he raged silently. I'll find a way out of here!

"However," Jemat continued, as though he hadn't heard the defiant thought, "we know enough about humans to understand that, above all, your greatest fear is not of pain, or even of death - but of humiliation, of embarrassing yourself before others. You, Captain, are exceptionally confident in those aspects of yourself that you willingly display to others - but how would you respond if you inadvertently began to display those behaviors you are usually careful to withhold?" he asked. "Anger, passion, joy, love... You have these within you, Captain - but the times and the places at which you display them are carefully selected, painstakingly chosen - to begin to display them at times you would normally feel inappropriate - it would embarrass you," he informed Picard. "It would harm you as the person you have become.

"If it is any consolation, please know that as _outo_, and as a physician, there are professional ethics to which I adhere - just as your adhere to your own. While you are under my... observation..." he said with a half-smile, "any mental aberrations, any untoward thoughts, or emotional outbursts that you would not normally express will be noted only as the possible indicators of underlying physiologic changes - and not for content. And I will not reveal them to any others unless it is essential for your recovery."

Picard studied the Breen for a moment - then gave a grudging nod. "I suppose I'm going to have to make do with that."

"For a short time only, I hope," Jemat replied in a conciliatory tone. "Once I'm sure that you've recovered fully, such monitoring will no longer be necessary. And toward that speedy recovery, I would suggest we take a walk. Increased circulatory rates will speed clearance of the drug, you know - and I did offer you a tour," he added.

Taking Picard by the arm, he stepped toward the door, then stopped the human as he started to walk toward the closed panels.

"Our door mechanisms are not triggered by proximity devices, Captain," he explained, raising his palm to a screen that had been set into the wall at eye level and placing it against the mirrored surface.

Nothing happened - or so Picard thought - but a moment later, the door slid open.

"The door has been programmed with your hand print; all you need to do to enter or exit is to place your palm on the door - and it will open," Jemat explained.

I'm not a complete prisoner then, Picard thought - but neither am I completely emancipated. "As it opens to yours," Picard noted.

Jemat nodded. "For now," he demurred. "The door will open to your hand print, mine, Kurget's..."

"Kurget?"

"The ship's surgeon," the _outo_ explained. "While you are recovering..."

Picard raised his hand to silence the Breen; he had heard a similar spiel often enough from Beverly during the past fifteen years that he knew the speech by heart. His life would be lived under circumspect - but inescapable - monitoring, until Jemat - or Beverly or Kurget or whoever - was satisfied. Some things, he thought, must be the same throughout the universe. "Will anyone else have access?"

"Captain Huziah..."

"I would like to meet your captain," Picard interrupted.

"And you will," Jemat assured him - then added, "shortly. After we talk. Security has access, of course,' he continued, "though, as with your Security teams, there must be a proper override given first. We, too, enjoy our privacy," he informed Picard.

The remark forced an inquisitive expression to Picard's face. "Indeed? I would have thought with a telepathic people that privacy was difficult - if not impossible - to achieve."

"No more so than privacy is difficult for your people to achieve in a crowded room," Jemat answered. "You have ready access to a hundred conversations - and yet, you learn to make the conscious choice not to listen in to those discussions not directed at you. Indeed, the choice is so ingrained that often such crowded locations are chosen for intimate or confidential communications. Like you, we learn to select the conversations so that we only hear those intended for us - and disregard those of others."

"The concept of privacy varies by cultural context, then," Picard said.

"As do most aspects of a society, Captain," the _outo_ agreed - then turned and looked at the human. "I suspect that as we get to know each other's cultures, we may find more similarities than differences. Something, I think that you have already discovered with the other cultures you have encountered," he added.

Picard studied the man in return. "We have found similarities," he conceded, "including more than a few of which we are not proud."

The Breen sighed in resignation. "I, too, dislike it when I find disagreeable behaviors in other cultures - then realize we embody then in our own society," Jemat replied. "Nonetheless, what we, as individuals, want does not always coincide with what we, as subjects of a greater authority, require."

"_We_ have the ability to make those decisions for ourselves," Picard countered sharply.

"Indeed?" Jemat asked with an inquisitive - and mocking? - tone. "And that is why you stopped how many civil wars? Rescued how many primitive civilizations from extinction by natural disasters?" he pressed gently.

Picard froze - then glared at Jemat. "The Prime Directive requires that we not interfere in the development of less developed cultures that we encounter," he said angrily.

"As our 'Prime Directive' requires that we fulfill our mission with equal dedication. That means that sometimes we do things that violate our consciences - but while those same guiding principles can provide a greater good, it does so at the cost of the individual. This is one reason every mothership carries at least one _outo_, to help the crew remember why they do what they do - and to help them know when that ultimate rule can be bent or broken. But we, like you, can, and have, set aside that directive when time and circumstance tell us to do so," he informed the human.

Picard hesitated - then gave a slow nod of grudging understanding. It wasn't personal, he knew - just as it would not be personal when he found a way to get off this ship and to get his people out of here, he added, wondering if Jemat heard the thought - then refusing to allow himself to worry whether he had or not.

After all, it couldn't be that unusual a thought, he decided; a race that had captured as many humans - as many Starfleet officers - as the Breen had could not help but be aware that escape was one of the forces that drove each of them; escape to save their own lives - and escape so that no others would ever be placed in the straits where they now found themselves.

Where I now find myself, he added, reminding himself that those earlier crewmen and officers - those earlier 'subjects' - had obviously failed in their attempts to escape.

Escape would be all the harder now for those earlier failures, alerting the Breen not only to the determination of their prisoners to return home, but to every weakness in their defenses.

Well, perhaps not _every_ defense, Picard reminded himself.

"The tour?" he reminded Jemat.

The Breen smiled and gestured for the captain to proceed down the hallway.

It was, Picard thought as they walked, an exceptionally well-designed space, luxurious even - even if not what he would have considered as appropriate for a starship - let alone for a prison. The corridor walls, colored in soft pastels, bordered wide hallways covered with dense carpeting, soft yet firm beneath his new boots. Doorways - undistinguishable from his own, he noted - were wide, ample enough for moving people or equipment in and out easily - and each labeled with a small sign. Probably intended for naming the contents of the space or the occupant within, he decided - though without any knowledge of the Breen script, he admitted he was guessing.

Applying human cultural standards to a foreign culture, he reminded himself: a dangerous practice - especially if he intended to find a way off the ship.

"Are these crew quarters?" he asked.

"Visitor quarters, primarily," Jemat replied. "Crew quarters are in other areas of the ship," he added vaguely. "They are not dissimilar in design, but they are somewhat more... personalized," he said with a smile. "These are more generic - though we have tried to accommodate some of the preferences indicated in your personnel file - as we have for Ambassador Tillerman. I do regret that we did not receive Garave's file in advance - but we have the ability to replicate personal items if required."

Picard glanced at the Breen, wondering if there had been a slight inflection at the last word - or if it had just been his imagination.

"Preparing to make my crew feel at home?" he asked.

Jemat smiled, gave an indeterminate tilt of his head - and gestured for the human to continue walking.

There was something there, Picard realized suddenly; what it was exactly, he didn't know - but Jemat was hinting at something.

Not hinting, he corrected himself - but something subtler, something that he wanted Picard to reason out - for himself.

"For now, your palm print will open any of these doors; you are welcome to investigate them for yourself - to see if there is a different space you would prefer. For the most part, however, the rooms are very similar to the one you now occupy."

Another hint, Picard realized - though this one was far from subtle; if the rooms were no different from his, there was no possibility of escape from them, either.

He sighed, wondering if he should waste the time examining them nonetheless - then decided against it.

Jemat smiled approvingly.

The expression registered in Picard's mind - but the significance seemed lost. He closed his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, trying to chase away the oncoming twinges of a headache.

"Captain?" Jemat said quietly, the worried look returning.

"I'm fine," he insisted, rubbing his bridge of his nose once more - then focusing on Jemat once again.

"There are arboretums on each level," Jemat continued, gesturing at a double door, "and communal food areas as well," he added, indicating a door that marked the end of the hallway.

"Communal areas?" Picard asked in surprise.

"We're aware that your people often prefer to eat in their own quarters - and there are replicators in each residential area, as well, Captain," Jemat explained. "But we have studied your people long enough to know that a common area to allow free socialization is essential in a healthy human society. And a healthy Breen society," he added.

Picard raised a brow at the remark. "That surprises me, Jemat; as a telepathic society..."

"You would think that the constant mental contact we experience with each other would eliminate the need to share time with one another," Jemat concluded for the man - though there was no hint that he had read the human's thoughts.

Instead, it seemed a more practiced answer, as if he had said this a hundred times before - which he may well have done, Picard reminded himself, remembering those earlier lost vessels - and feeling a surge of anger growing.

But why would Jemat make a point of rubbing salt into the open wound of their losses? another, more rational part of his mind asked. To incite this anger he was feeling? he wondered - then dismissed the idea. To study his reaction, to discover if it were rage or bitterness - or apathy?

For a people who deemed themselves sociologists, it was possible... but unlikely, he conceded. Perhaps in the first days of their investigation, yes - but these people were far beyond that rudimentary investigation.

But if the comment was not to poke at his soul, Picard continued, there had to be another reason for the speech to sound so practiced, so studied.

Just, he added, realization beginning to dawn on him, as there had been a reason for this tour.

It wasn't to orient him to his new home, he realized - it was to open a conversation.

Pushing back the anger and the incipient headache, he cleared his mind and his emotions, focusing his full attention on Jemat's words.

"As much as we enjoy our privacy, we enjoy the company of each other as well," the Breen continued. "In fact, that interaction is essential," he added.

Picard studied the being for a moment, knowing the words were an open invitation to a discussion - a discussion Jemat wanted them to have.

"Essential in what way?" Picard replied, taking his cue.

Jemat hesitated for a moment. "It might be easier for you to understand if I gave you a brief history of the Breen. Like you, like most bipedal species in this galaxy, we believe ourselves to be the product of genetic material left behind by the Progenitors eons ago. We share many of the same physical attributes - two arms, two legs, one head, bipedal locomotion - even the basic chemistry of our bodies is similar in design. But unlike you, we developed as a single-sex species. We reproduce by asexual reproduction - by budding, to be specific, so each offspring is genetically identical to the parent. We believe this is how our telepathy evolved - that it was present in the genetic material of one of our precursor species - and that gene was key to survival as primitive creatures. It remained, and became an essential trait.

"The disadvantage of asexual reproduction is that there is no sharing of genetic materials. What little diversity you will see in the physical characteristics of the Breen were caused by mutation. Of late, intentional genetic manipulation for cosmetic purposes has become more common - but those changes are superficial; we have yet to discover a way to manipulate our genes at the basic level needed to move evolution forward.

"For all practical purposes, we reached the genetic endroad of our evolution long ago."

Picard nodded, understanding - and curious. "How long ago?" he asked.

Jemat smiled. "By your calendar, approximately three hundred thousand years ago."

Picard's eyes widened at the number. "Three hundred _thousand_ years ago?!" he gaped. "Three hundred thousand years ago, homo sapiens hadn't even appeared on Earth!" he protested.

"Asexual reproduction meant that much of the time your ancestors spent on developing successful sexual reproduction methods were not wasted on us," Jemat explained. "We found a successful method - for our species and our planet - earlier in the evolutionary path - and were able to evolve from that point more quickly. But speed is not always the optimum path, Captain," he said - a little sadly, Picard thought.

"Because of the limiting factor on genetic diversity," Picard replied.

"Yes," Jemat agreed. "Genetic diversity has presented greater options to other races. As a group, you can live in more environments than we can; you can explore greater areas with fewer boundaries; you increase the total range that you, as a species, encompass. While a single one of you is not capable of covering every aspect of your potentials, as a group you can. And that ability - to allow some of you to experience what others cannot - and to bring those experiences, and the subsequent problems and needs back to the group as a whole for investigation and solution, gave you the ability to expand yourselves beyond your personal genetic limitations."

"I'm not certain I follow you, Jemat," Picard replied. "Certainly you're not saying that your people are incapable of solving problems simply because you lack genetic diversification. This ship - and everything we know of your technology - would give evidence to the contrary."

"Intellectual problems, technological problems - yes, those are finite problems, solvable by an expansion of the mind, by working together and sharing what we know. But there are some things we cannot know, because our genes won't let us transcend the state to which we have evolved. We can, for example, develop equipment and materials that allow us to live on an ice world; we cannot, however, develop additional hair, epicanthic eyelids, or increased internal production of essential nutrients needed due to the reduction in skin exposure to sunlight - all evolutionary responses that your people did develop.

"Short of mutation, we have no way of changing our genetic materials to create variation. Your people, on the other hand - that is, the other races brought about through the actions of the Progenitors - have retained that ability to share genes. Sometimes it requires intervention - but more often than not, cross-breeding is possible."

Jemat made a short, barking sound, startling Picard - until he realized the sound was actually a laugh - though a sharp and bitter one.

"Possible?" he murmured, speaking to himself as much as to the captain. "No, more than possible. Essential. That was the intention of the Progenitors all along - to allow their gifts to develop independently - then, at a time when knowledge and ability allowed us to come together, to begin to become one. To share their gifts, to allow us, as one species, to move to the next stage of our evolution."

Picard stared at the man, stunned at his interpretation of the Progenitors' gift to the galaxy.

Years ago, when he had completed Professor Galen's search to find the pieces of the puzzle that had led to the message from the Progenitors, he had assumed the joining of the species those ancient people referred to had meant work, for the intellectual and societal benefits. It had never occurred to him that they had intended the joining to be a more... physical one.

Obviously, though, Jemat had interpreted the message differently... but perhaps, he conceded, no more incorrectly than they had. After all, he mused, who was to know what the species, lost for millions of years, had intended for their descendants.

Oh, Picard thought sadly, would that they could be here now to clarify their intentions - but whatever it had been, he added angrily, it was the decision of the peoples who had come to inhabit the galaxy to decide their own fate - not the Progenitors - and most definitely not, he thought defiantly, the Breen.

"And this is why you've been capturing ships, torturing people - as part of some grandiose, inter-species breeding plan?" he snapped angrily.

Jemat looked at Picard, clearly stunned by the accusation. "Breeding plan?" he echoed in cull astonishment. "You think that we...?" he began - then pulled back his lips in a toothy grimace - and started to laugh, heartily and deeply.

"Jemat, I..." Picard began - only to be cut off by another round of laughter.

"You think we are..." Jemat managed - then found himself laughing all the harder.

Picard glared at him, feeling the anger that had been running just beneath his thoughts starting to well up once again, his face beginning to redden with anger - and instantly, Jemat ceased laughing, his hand reaching out for the human's arm - and a look of sincere apology on his face.

"Captain, please accept my apology. I was not laughing at you - or your people," he said quickly.

Picard stared at him, the rage less willing to fade this time - then slowly, he felt the anger recede, his usual control slowly forcing itself to the front once more.

"I, too apologize," he managed a moment later. "But from what you were saying..."

"Yes, yes," Jemat nodded, "in reflection, I can see how you could have interpreted my words as you did. It was not what I meant - but neither did I mean to slight you - or your fellow beings," he hastily added.

"But, to be honest, I had never even considered such a thing as being necessary - and knowing your people - and the other species we have studied - as I do, it would not be desirable. Forced matings can be productive in terms of offspring - but the societies that arise from those people are generally unhealthy. But even the work we have done has not been without controversy," he added quietly.

"The work you have done," Picard echoed, the questioning tone of his voice unmistakable.

Jemat nodded. "Three hundred thousand years ago, we realized we would not evolve - and yet, we knew that the progress of every species revolves around that continuing growth toward a higher, more complex being. We believed that the Progenitors had placed their gifts throughout the galaxy so that we could evolve as the individual species we are - first - then come together, in time, to form that more complex being."

"To create God," Picard interjected, understanding at last.

Jemat gave a nod. "Yes, God. Not a supreme being in the sense of that a religion would place upon it - but a race of transcendent creatures, amalgams of the genetic gifts of our individual and joined species.

"However, we also knew that our limitation - our inability to share genetic material even within our own species - would mean that our contribution would be lost to the gestalt beings we knew would be the future of us all. We, the Breen, could not be part of God - and if we were lost, would God be lost as well?" he asked the starship captain.

"We would not risk the gift and the potential the Progenitors left to our care. Millennia ago, we began to travel the galaxy, to find the other worlds that the Progenitors had seeded. With each species we found, we removed a number of the groups we found - small societal gatherings that could survive in a new environment - and populated new worlds with them. In each, we introduced a small number of the genes that we possessed - but that did not appear in other cultures, ensuring that our unique gift would be represented - if and when the species came together."

"What genes?" Picard asked.

"Telepathy, for one," the Breen answered. "Exceptionally robust immune systems for another. Delimitation of cellular regeneration for a third..."

"Delimitation?" Picard interrupted.

Jemat nodded. "A common trait in many lower species. Each time a cell dies, it is replaced. In more complex creatures, that ability is limited; a cell may be replaced one time, or a hundred times - or never - but the end effect is that, over time, there are fewer cells performing the same tasks. The quality of function decreases. Humans call the process aging, and accept it as a norm. We, on the other hand, see that same process as pathological - an abnormality that we would address with medical treatment."

Picard froze. "Are you telling me that you - that the Breen - are... immortal?"

Jemat started to tilt his head in negation - then changed the motion to a clear shake of his head. "Not immortal, Captain. Long-lived, perhaps - but we can still be killed by injury or severe illness. Nonetheless, we find our usual good health and extended life allows us to focus not on personal survival, but on other aspects of our existence."

"But limiting death rates - that could send a race into overpopulation and death in a matter of a few centuries," the starship captain protested.

"Uncontrolled, yes. Hence the other genes we have shared; better health - so that the strength and energy of youth need not be limited to a younger generation; telepathy to allow people to share the thoughts of one another - so the emotional support you find in a family can be provided from a larger - and often stronger - group of others adults. And..." He hesitated.

"And what?" Picard prompted.

"And, because the enhanced immune structure makes achieving and maintaining pregnancies more difficult," Jemat admitted. "Population growth can be extremely slow - and we discovered that in an environment with a large number of threats to the people, it can be too slow. We lost many of our original colonizing groups to predators and natural disasters.

"In time, we learned to utilize what you call terraforming technology to create worlds that had minimal natural obstacles - and we placed some of our colonies there," he continued. "Some thrived - some failed. Some we lost to unforeseen disasters: wars, meteor and asteroid strikes - several disappeared without known cause. We implanted the colonies, left - and when we returned there was no trace of the people."

"You left?" Picard asked.

"We felt we had to," the _outo_ replied. "On more than one world, the colonists came to see us as gods. Even limiting our visits to rare appearance to check on them did not work - indeed, it made it worse. They tried to worship us. Tried to beg favors from us. They looked to us to provide solutions to their problems - ignoring the fact that they, as individuals or as a society had been given the genetic resources to be self-reliant. We learned we could not participate in the colonies we implanted, and limited ourselves to viewing them from a distance, checking on them ever few hundred years."

"What happened to those people?" Picard asked, his eyes narrowing.

"As I said, some succeeded," Jemat said. "Have you never wondered why there are so many diverse yet similar inhabitants throughout the quadrant? The Progenitors could not have seeded that many worlds and have them succeed - but with developed, sentient creatures to transport, we could. Unfortunately, some failed - and some simply disappeared. On one world..." Jemat gave a sharp tilt to his head, looking over one shoulder in sorrow, "on one world, we made a terrible error. We transformed a planet close to the galactic center - and failed to properly calculate the stability of the sun. We thought we had ample time to observe their progress - but when we returned a few centuries later, the entire system was gone; the sun had novaed and the world was destroyed. A shame, Captain; we grieved for their loss as for no other, for they had been the only group in which we had managed a completely successful engraftment of all the genes.

"Sorrowful, too, for at that time we found ourselves more and more limited in what we could do. We could no longer remove small gathering and relocate them, because their disappearance would itself affect those left behind. Similarly, any genetic manipulation performed in a developed colony would have profound societal effects. Any active work on our part would affect their development as a culture - and thus, we found ourselves stepping back, becoming merely observers. We came to realize that if our work had failed, there was nothing we could do to change it. We could not become a part of God.

"It took us a long time to accept that possibility - though we continued to hope. But we are a pragmatic people above all; when we realized we could do nothing more, we chose to become as you see us now: scientists, studying each race as it truly emerges into the galaxy as an independent race, studying the genetic and societal potential it possesses."

"What do mean, 'societal potential'?" Picard asked.

"Characteristics, behaviors, social norms... We want to know what makes up the races who will become part of God; we want to know who you are, what drives you - what makes you you. Call it morbid curiosity, Captain," the Breen confessed, "but if our work has failed, if we cannot be a physical part of God, at least we would like to know what God is."

For a long time, Picard studied the Breen, seeing the hard work and desperate hope of three hundred millennia of his people reflected in his face - and, he realized, hearing the faintest echo if the _outo's_ thought in his own mind.

What they had done to him, to his people - and to hundreds and thousands - or even millions of people, across generations, across species and across the galaxy - was inexcusable, unforgivable, and, by his standards, completely unjustifiable.

By his standards.

By theirs, however... They had done what they must do - and gambled three hundred thousand years of their existence to do it.

Just as they had gambled with the lives of their countless victims.

To have all that work, all those centuries of effort come to nothing...

The captain stared at the _outo_ - then slowly said, "Jemat... those people. The ones on the planet that was destroyed. They were humans, weren't they?"

Jemat looked back at him, taken aback by the question. "Why, yes, they were," he replied in curious surprise. "How did you know?" he added mildly - then felt the flurry of thoughts racing through Picard's mind. "How did you know?!" he repeated, his voice growing louder, tinged with excitement - and desperation.

He grabbed the front of Picard's tunic, pulling him close, so that the rows of shiny teeth were mere inches from the human's face - but the voice that issued forth held neither threat not intimidation - only a beseeching plea for understanding - and help.

"Captain, we have worked for three hundred thousand years to try to preserve our miniscule place in the evolution of all our species. By all that you hold dear, by all that you respect, Captain, please, tell me: how did you know?!"

Picard stared into the black limitless pools of the being's eyes, then looked down at the hands clutching his shirt.

Gently, he pulled them free, then released them back to the Breen, before carefully smoothing the wrinkles from where Jemat had grabbed at his shirt.

"I know... because I don't think they all died in that nova, Jemat," he said quietly. "I think some... I think one survived."

Jemat stared at him, perplexed - then drew in a sharp breath. "The ship," he said understanding, remembering the female's vivid memories. "They were off the planet when..." he began - then jerked his head in negation. "But no! That world was destroyed over fifteen thousand years ago! She couldn't have been there..." he insisted.

Picard stopped him with a touch on his arm. "She was," he said softly. "Your genetic manipulation worked."

For a long moment, their eyes met - and then Jemat knew he was right.

With a soft sound, half of grief, half of supreme joy, he sank to the floor and began to cry.


	132. Chapter 132

**Chapter 132**

Picard stared at the sobbing man, taken aback by the unexpected display of emotion - then quickly reminded himself that the being was a Breen, not a man - and that his personal ideas of how an officer should behave in front of others had absolutely no application to these people.

What did apply - or rather, applied according to his own personal code of behavior - was compassion. Or at least as much compassion as man as reserved as Jean-Luc Picard could manage.

Quietly moving to Jemat's side, he tentatively laid a hand on the man's shoulder - then finding it neither rebuffed nor apparently overly comforting, crouched down beside the being.

"Jemat..." he began softly - but even as he spoke, he was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps racing down the hall.

Startled, he looked up - and found himself confronting a half dozen Breen, four of whom were heavily armed - and their weapons were pointed at him.

The Breen in the front, thinner and taller than Jemat, his face adorned with a very human beard, studied the scene before him, then barked an unintelligible - but unmistakable - order at Picard, an order whose meaning was made even clearer as one of the guards jerked his weapon upward.

Picard froze - then very slowly and very deliberately raised his hand from Jemat's shoulder and began to rise to his feet.

"I..." he began to explain - but was silenced by another bark.

The Breen guard made a second gesture, motioning the Starfleet captain away from the fallen _outo_, then glanced at the taller Breen and gave the jerky motion Picard had come to associate with a human nod.

The tall Breen moved forward, lowering himself to the _outo's_ side, his hand resting on the being's shoulder, just as Picard's hand had done moments before.

Picard watched the two for a moment, startled by the still-unfamiliar display of open emotion and empathy in starship officers - then found himself staring into the hostile eyes of the guard who had stepped between them, his weapon still raised - and Picard noted, fully charged.

He understood instantly.

This wasn't simply a matter of protecting the ship's _outo_, Picard knew; this was more. The guard standing before him, brandishing the weapon, wasn't just any guard, he thought, noting the creature's clothing. His uniform was slightly different from the other guards, with an accent of metallic trim on the collar and sleeve.

On another day, in another place, Picard would have smiled; Jemat was right, he decided; they were more alike than either of them would have admitted.

Just as in Earth's military, ornamentation on uniforms held significance - and judging from the slight variation in his uniform, this guard probably held an elevated position over the others, Indeed, Picard thought, he was probably the head of the department.

And considering how this Breen was acting, securing the area - and the prisoner - before permitting the tall, bearded Breen to advance, there was little doubt in Picard's mind who the new person was.

The captain.

He started to sigh - then checked the action, not certain if the Breen had been briefed on the import - or rather, the lack of import - of such human mannerisms. Instead he let the exhalation out slowly, deliberately - and let the disappointment wash over him.

He had wanted to meet this starship captain, his equivalent - but he had wanted it to be on better terms, as equals, or as near as circumstances would allow - but not like this; not at gunpoint, and certainly not with his only contact lying on the ground, crying.

And most definitely not, he added emphatically, with another Breen standing behind the guards - especially when that Breen was covered in blood.

He considered the possibilities.

First, he thought, it was obvious that something had happened, something that had changed his status on the ship from being relatively at liberty to being dangerous enough to merit a team of armed guards.

An attack by the Enterprise? he thought hopefully. It would explain the guards and the injured Breen - but unlikely, he admitted, dismissing the idea. No alarms, he thought to himself - then realized that on a ship of telepaths, there would be no need for an audible alarm. Everyone would know instantly.

Including Jemat, he reminded himself, trying to recall if there had been any indication of a change in the _outo_ - and realizing there hadn't.

Furthermore, Picard thought, if there had been an attack, one strong enough to have injured one of these beings, the entire ship would have been affected - including the deck on which he was quartered... probably, he added, reminding himself just how massive the vessel was - and just how advanced the Breen technology was.

Federation starships could damp down a huge percentage of the effect of an attack; the Breen, with their far more developed technology might have installed even more sophisticated inertial dampeners that could have completely canceled the effect of an attack - but if the inertial effect was lost, then how had the Breen standing before him been injured? he wondered.

And Will would not have initiated an attack, he knew - not unless he was reasonably certain he could both win the fight and get the ship out safely afterwards. Based on the last report he had heard before being transported over, he didn't think that was likely; at best, they might have restored a portion of the ship's functions; shields probably, weapons possibly - but warp drive? No, not for several more hours - and not, he reminded himself, until Will was certain that there was no hops for a rescue.

Could that be it, then? Had Will managed to find a way to penetrate the tendrils that enveloped the Been ship? Had he decided to try a rescue mission - and encountered this Breen in the process?

Possibly, Picard decided - and it would explain the bloody injuries of the Breen; uncertain if their weapons might set off sensors, Will might have ordered the assault team to use hand-to-hand attacks, he thought.

Possibly - but it didn't explain what he was seeing now. If this injured Breen had been attacked by a rescue team from the Enterprise, why was the captain so focused on Jemat? Unless an _outo_ was somehow related to the ship's internal security, he mused - then discarded that thought.

Jemat was no security officer, Picard knew - or if he was, he was damned bad at it, he added, remembering all the hints Jemat had made about the ship, all the small details he had revealed. No, whatever an _outo_ was, it was not a security officer.

But it was important, Picard realized, seeing the unmistakable concern on the captain's face, suspecting that the thoughts the beings were exchanging were as compassionate, as gentle as any he had ever spoken to a troubled friend.

Or perhaps even more so, he added with a tinge of regret as he watched the Breen, admitting to himself that he had never been the soul of compassion, finding that a cool distance between himself and others made his work as a starship captain easier - even as it diminished him as a man.

For the first time since he had been brought aboard, he found himself wondering if there wasn't something, beyond the technology, the weapons, and the tactical advantages, that both he and humanity could gain from an alliance with these people.

As he watched, the Breen stroked Jemat's back, his head pressed close to the _outo's_.

_Jemat? Old friend? Please. I need you. We need you. Please._

For a moment, the pleas fell on a mind that couldn't respond - then slowly, Jemat turned his tear-stained face toward his friend.

_Oh, Huziah..._ he started - then felt the joy, and the tears, returning.

_Jemat..._ Huziah tried again, _Jemat... we need you. Your crew needs you,_ he added, a bit more sternly this time.

Hearing those words, something in Jemat stirred; he stared at Huziah - then, seeing the worry in his friend's face, hastily brushed at the tears on his own face.

_What is it? What's happened?_

For a silent moment, the two communicated - then the Breen captain took Jemat by the arm, gently raising the Breen to his feet, steadying him - then, assured that his friend was all right, turned and glared at Picard.

"Take him," Huziah snapped, his Standard flawless, his accent imperceptible.

Picard started, taken aback by the language as well as by the order, barely noticing as one of the guards grabbed his upraised arms, manacling them together in front of him, then roughly prodded him with the point of his weapon into following the two senior Breen down the corridor, the bloodied Breen following close behind.

The guards quickly positioned themselves around him, their weapons at the ready, forming a protective barrier between the Starfleet officer and the Breen captain - just as the captain positioned himself between them and the _outo_ who walked before him.

He was guarding Jemat, Picard realized, startled. But... why? Certainly not because he perceived Picard as a real threat to the _outo_, the Starfleet captain knew; weaponless, surrounded by armed guards, still reeling from the effect of the deposition, he doubted he was a threat to anyone. And even if he could somehow defeat the seven Breen, where was he to go?

Aside from the small section of the ship he had been shown, he had no idea about the layout of this vessel, let alone the location of any transporter or shuttle bays - and even less idea how to translate the written language, symbols or technology he found into something he could understand and operate.

No, he decided, he was not a threat to anyone present - and yet, there was no doubt that the Breen felt threatened. But by what?

A rescue team? he wondered, the hope building in him once again. It was possible - but that must have been a possibility the Breen had considered even before their capture. Why then give him quarters in an area where he might so easily discovered and freed? Why not just put him in... wherever they were moving him to - the brig?... in the first place?

He shook his head, dismissing the idea - but finding himself at loose ends both as to why they were moving him, as well as for understanding what had happened.

They reached the end of the corridor, and as the doors of what appeared to be a lift opened, he was roughly herded into the opening, the guards carefully positioning themselves once again between him and the captain - and the captain placing himself between them and Jemat.

Whatever the devil an _outo_ was, Picard decided, it was damned important.

The individual Picard had deemed the Chief Security Officer palmed the panel by the door, then quickly punched in a code.

No voice-recognition software, Picard realized, reminding himself once again that a telepathic culture would have slightly different requirements than a verbal one - but, he added, noting the pattern of lights beside the panel, there were some in common.

Just as on the Enterprise, the panel displayed the motion of the lift - as it traveled through a rough outline of the ship.

For the first time, he knew what the Breen vessel looked like - and he knew where he was in that vessel.

Though the ship's basic form defied description - it appeared, in silhouette, as little more than an amorphous blob, vaguely spheroid in shape, with odd projections here and there - attachment sites for the tendrils? he wondered - it was clearly divided into four separate sections, though whether the sections existed in reality, or were simply mental divisions used to help define locations on the ship, he didn't know.

In either case, where he was now - and where he had been - appeared to be in one of the lower quadrants, near the center of the ship. A logical location for crew quarters, he thought - or for a brig, he added - though the lift was moving them away from that level, moving them upwards - and then, he realized, feeling the shift from vertical to horizontal motion in the lift, outward.

He risked a glance at the display, hoping to confirm the sensation without alerting the Breen to the fact he now had some idea about the ship's layout, trying to blank his mind to any thoughts that would alert Jemat to his discovery.

But if the Breen knew - or cared - about what he had found, there was no sign of it on his face - nor was there any trace of the elation he had seemed to feel only moments before.

The sudden change in Jemat startled the Starfleet captain; the elation, the pure joy that the _outo_ had expressed at the discovery of the Lieutenant's existence had been so real, so palpable, that even though he hadn't been a member of that three hundred thousand year search, Picard had felt a part of the joyous finding.

And yet that joy had disappeared in an instant, vanished in the space of a few moments, dying almost as suddenly as it had come upon the _outo_...

Dying.

Dear God, Picard thought, suddenly aghast at the thought that filled his mind. Was that it? Had something happened to the Lieutenant?

Had she died? Had she been killed?

He turned to look at the bloodied Breen - and felt the worry surge. The blood that covered the being was already drying to a crusty burgundy - but at no place on his body was it appearing freshly red.

It wasn't the Breen's blood, Picard realized - it was hers.

"What's happened?" he burst out. "What happened to her?"

Before Jemat or the captain could answer, the Breen guard pivoted, swinging the butt of his weapon around -

- and was stopped in mid-blow by the hand of the Breen captain.

The captain looked at the guard, question and caution in his eyes - and Picard was surprised to see an expression of surprise - and shame - in the other's face. Clearly ashamed - and confused - the being returned his weapon to its original place: armed and focused on the Starfleet captain.

Brutality toward prisoners was not a standard behavior then, Picard thought - though not without a sigh of relief. More importantly, however, he realized that brutality in general was not a common behavior in the Breen - if the expression on the guard's face was legitimate.

He had not intended to hit Picard, the human realized; he hadn't even intended to threaten him - but something had possessed him, taken over his emotions in that moment - and had the Breen captain not stopped him, Picard doubted he would be standing at this moment.

He nodded to himself, understanding all too well the surges of rage and fury that had possessed him too often during the last few hours...

He stopped, wondering. Could that be it? he asked himself. Could there be some form of psychic spillover from the deposition that affected the crew as well as the participants? Could the rage that I have been feeling have somehow washed over the Breen as well?

It would make sense, he thought. Perhaps that was why those who had undergone the procedure were usually kept under watch for days after, to prevent just such an occurrence - and why the presence of Jemat - or someone like him - was so essential on a Breen ship.

No wonder his safety was so important, Picard thought; he may well be the only defense the Breen had against the outpourings of rage that possessed their victims, to help protect them against the reflection of the psychic trauma they inflicted on their prisoners.

A trauma they clearly were not used to dealing with, Picard added, remembering the horror in the Breen guard's face.

For a moment, he was tempted to apologize to the guard - until he reminded himself that he had tortured by these people; apologizing to them for the consequence of their actions seemed more than a little perverse, he decided.

Instead, he spoke again. "Tell me what happened to her," he repeated, more forcefully this time.

Huziah turned and glared at him, even as the lift stopped. Ignoring the guards between them, he grabbed Picard's arm, almost jerking him off his feet, pulling him down the corridor - then shoving him into a set of open doors.

"This," the Breen captain said coldly, "is what happened."

Picard froze, and felt the nausea rising in his stomach.

Blood, human blood, dark burgundy and glistening, was splattered on virtually every surface in the room, pooling beside the bed that had been arranged at the center of the space, staining the bed linens there, dribbling down the wall in thick drips that had clotted and dried, covering every panel in reddish smears, spread along the floor in long swatches that moved back and forth from panel to door.

"She tried to kill Kurget," the Breen captain continued, inclining his head toward the bloodied Breen.

And so you brutalized her in response? Picard wondered - but refused to allow himself to grieve. "I doubt that," he replied sharply. "She was weak, injured, still recuperating from the effects of what you had done to her - she would not have been able to overcome one of your people. But that she tried to escape, I have no doubts," Picard countered defiantly. "It is the responsibility, indeed, the obligation, of every Starfleet officer to attempt to escape when they are captured by an enemy force - but using only the force necessary. She didn't not try to kill your physician," he continued. "Subdue him, yes - but not to kill. There was no reason for your people to do... this..." He gestured with his manacled hands at the blood-soaked room around him, "... to her."

Huziah stared at him - then turned and stared at Jemat.

"Captain," the _outo_ interrupted, "we did not do 'this'. She did."

"What?" Picard gasped, then shook his head. "I don't understand."

The bloodied Breen stepped forward. "The female suffered massive vascular failure in her extremities; the tissue in her hands and feet became necrotic, and could not be salvaged. Our medical technology was not designed with humans in mind, so we had to resort to surgical restoration. The initial surgery was successful - I had returned here to prepare her for the next stage - engraftment of an epidermal layer."

Picard looked around the room - and for the first time, realized it was not another set of quarters like his, but rather a glorified Sickbay compartment - a hospital room, he decided.

Not the place for a person terrified of physicians and medical procedures to regain consciousness, he thought - at least, not alone - and certainly not when the first person to enter the room was a Breen.

"She must have regained consciousness before I entered the room - though," he added, looking at Jemat with an expression of confusion, "I did not detect any presence of conscious thought."

Perhaps, Picard thought with a rush of surprise, because you couldn't. Perhaps the lieutenant had greater telepathic skills than even you realized, he thought - then chased the idea from his mind, knowing his skills were far less advanced. Pursing his lips, he refused to allow himself to think about the levels of the human telepath's abilities, knowing that everything he kept secret from the Breen was one more weapon in their arsenal, one more chance they might have at making their escape from this place.

"You were looking for the signs of wakefulness that a Breen would present," Jemat counseled the physician. "Human telepaths may present differently."

"In retrospect, I realized that," Kurget agreed. "However, at the time, I was looking for the more typical human reactions of returning consciousness: increased respirations, movement patterns..."

"What happened next, Kurget?" the _outo_ interrupted.

The physician blinked, obvious confused by being cut short. "Umm... Yes. I was removing the bandages from her hands... there was unexplained and unpredicted scarification of the tissue, and I was concerned that we might have to remove the surface layers before proceeding... I was concerned about proceeding without adequate anaesthesia... "

Kurget had been thinking about pain, Picard thought, pain and surgery and flaying away layers of skin from hands that had known little more than pain for the last four years...

And that was the first thing the lieutenant had sensed when she awoke.

No wonder she had panicked when she awoke, he thought - then corrected himself; the lieutenant didn't panic. No; she had awoken, and found herself confronted with the possibility of reliving the nightmare of the past four years - but rather than panicking, she had waited for the opportunity to subdue her supposed assailant - and struck.

"... and I awoke by the door," the physician concluded, gesturing toward the blood-smeared wall.

Picard scanned the room, again, seeing it through the perspective of the new information - and began to understand.

The blood smears weren't evidence of a brutal retaliation, he realized; they were the trails she had left as she subdued the Breen surgeon, then began to explore the room, searching for a way out.

She must have found the scanner by the door relatively quickly and identified its purpose - only to discover her hand wouldn't open the door.

"She must have realized the door were palm print activated and dragged Kurget to the activator panel in order to make her escape," Huziah said, confirming the thought.

"And the blood?" Picard interjected.

"The scar tissue was quite thin," Kurget told him. "It would have ruptured as soon as she bent or flexed her hands and feet. In order to ensure proper oxygenation of the tissue, we had increased the vascularity by a factor of fifteen percent..."

That explained the appearance of the room, Picard thought, trying not to imagine what the woman must have endured as the tissue tore and split as she moved, leaving blood everywhere, smeared on almost every surface, clearly outlining what she had done, where she had gone - right up to the door leading into the hallway.

He stepped toward the bed that had been hers, studying the stained linens and the pool of still wet blood that had formed on the floor beside it - then felt a wet drop fall onto the back of his hand.

_Hello._

The voice, so new and yet so familiar, set loose a wave of emotions so intense that he felt himself staggered back.

_Careful,_ Andile admonished him.

He placed a hand on the bed to steady himself, as if fighting off the nausea and fatigue which Jemat had warned him of earlier.

_No telepathy,_ he cautioned. _They're monitoring my thoughts..._

_Don't worry, I'm shielding you - for the moment. All they hear is your worry. But I can't keep it up for long,_ she added. _The stuff the Doc gave me wore off hours ago. Damn! I wished I kept up with practicing - but who knew I'd ever use it again!_ she added to herself in sharp rebuke.

He gave a slow nod of his head to acknowledge the warning, then crouched down beside the bed, dipping a finger in the pool, studying it - then wiped his hand on his pants leg, smearing it - and the fallen drop - into obscurity.

_You're in the ventilator?_ he asked as he rose to his feet, moving away to examine another blood smear - then turning back, noting the location of the ventilator shaft directly over the pool of blood - and noticing the long slow drop that was beginning to fall from the panel.

She gave a mental nod.

Picard acknowledged the thought with a nod of his own, concealing the motion as he studied the bed.

She must have moved the bed close enough to climb up there, Picard decided - but in the chaos of the room, the Breen hadn't yet noticed the change in the bed's placement.

_We need to get you out of there. Can you move?_

_Yeah. It's just my hands and feet that are a mess. I can crawl._

He nodded. _Good. They've given me quarters..._

_I'm not sure that's a good idea,_ she cautioned worriedly. _I'm making a mess up here; if they figure out that I'm came up here, they're going to have no problems following me..._

_A risk we'll have to take._

_But a needless one,_ she protested. _Whatever you have in mind, we can communicate this way..._

_Until you exhaust yourself, _ he countered.

He could sense the protest rising in her mind - and quickly quashed it.

_If either of us is to get out of here, I'm going to need you to interpret the Breen engineering systems,_ he reminded her.

There was a soft hint of skepticism in her thoughts - then a sigh of resignation.

_Do you know where your quarters are in comparison to this place?_ she asked at last.

"Uh-huh," he murmured softly, moving from the bed, resuming his slow scan of the room while picturing the ship's schematic in his mind as he had seen it on the lift panel.

_If their duct system is like most, it should parallel the corridors,_ she answered. _Okay. I'll meet you there,_ she said - then once again he felt the touch of her mind slip from his - and with it, the return of the same sense of loss.

A sense, Picard thought, that Jemat might well perceive.

Or not, he added; time for a little acting - and a little hope that he wasn't quite as bad at it as Beverly had once said.

"So she's escaped," he said nonchalantly. "What do you expect me to do about it?" he added.

"We expect you to help us find her!" Huziah replied forcefully. "Now tell us where she is!"

Picard felt himself taken aback by the unexpected anger in the Breen captain's voice. Surely the lieutenant couldn't pose a threat to them, he thought to himself; even in her best condition, she was but one person - one devilish clever person, he admitted - but one person nonetheless, and a person who was alone, on an alien vessel, surrounded by a people, language and technology of which she had no understanding.

So why was he so angry? Picard wondered - if it was anger, he added.

But if not anger - then what?

The realization came upon him in a flash.

Huziah was scared.

Of what, Picard didn't know - but fear drove men in different directions than anger; fear could be used, manipulated...

He smiled coldly. "I wouldn't tell you, even if I knew," he answered.

"You must know!" Huziah snapped. "She was in your thoughts when we took you from your ship; she is in them now..."

"She isn't," Picard countered calmly.

"She must be!" Huziah retorted, starting to move toward Picard...

... only to be stopped as Jemat stepped between them, studied Picard - then turned to his captain.

"She isn't," Jemat replied, his voice lower, softer. "I have been with him since he awoke - and he has not heard her."

Huziah stared at him, skeptically at first - then with an expression of growing disappointment and worry. "She has escaped. I thought... I assumed that since she was in contact with you on your ship, that she would speak to you here as well," he admitted - then gestured at the security officer.

Picard braced himself as the being approached, his weapon still trained on the Starfleet captain - then gave an involuntary sigh as the guard slung it across his shoulders, reached forward to unlock the manacles and release Picard's hands - then aimed the weapon at the man once again.

The captain was still the captain, Picard realized, and still under the protection of this guard.

"Telepathy is extremely rare in humans, Huziah," Jemat explained quietly. "The female has the gene; Captain Picard does not," he explained. "She is the one who initiates and maintains contact. If she chooses not to reveal herself to him, there is nothing he can do about it."

Huziah looked at Picard as if for confirmation - then realized the human would not reveal anything willingly. "We must find her," he said.

Picard shook his head. "Not with my help," he replied. "Even if I knew where she was, I will not betray her - or Starfleet."

"Instead, you betray your ship - and perhaps all your people," Huziah countered quietly.

For a moment, Picard stared at the Breen, confused. "What? Betray my ship... my people... How? I don't understand," he finally said.

"We cannot let her reach your ship, Captain," Jemat replied, his voice growing as quiet as Huziah's - and, Picard thought, as sad. "If she does..."

"If she does," Huziah continued, "our hands become tied. Knowing what they know, what she can tell them, we will not be able to permit your ship to return. We will be forced to destroy your ship."

Picard stared at the Breen, stunned. "You would kill my crew..."

Jemat raised his hands in protest. "Not your crew, not the others on your ship; we are not punitive. No; they would be captured, brought aboard, and taken to one of the worlds we have prepared for them - but the lives they lead now would, in effect, be over. And we would be forced to begin again."

He drew a long, slow breath. "You see, Captain, you were closer to the truth than you knew when you called this an experiment. It is - one that we have performed on races throughout the quadrant since space travel began. We study a people until we understand their strengths and their weaknesses - then we provide a challenge, a problem to solve..."

"A problem your minds must solve - not your technology," Kurget offered,

"So you place my ship in jeopardy - and then remove our technology," Picard replied.

"Not all of it," Huziah offered. "That would prove nothing; no, we leave select technologies - or parts of them - but ones that must be utilized in manners outside the norm."

"We are searching for intelligence, Captain," Kurget offered. "Not learning, not rote training - animals can be taught to mindlessly repeat tasks - but the application of knowledge in ways that transcend what has become routine. We're trying to find out if your people can think."

"That's not entirely the case," Jemat interjected. "We know some of you can think - yourself being a prime example - but we're looking for intelligence in the population at large. Hence, we remove enough of the technology to eliminate the anticipated sources of resolution, but leave sufficient to solve the problem - if the proper application can be determined," he added.

"And kidnapping me...?"

"As I indicated, Captain, you have proven yourself to be a capable leader, and innovative thinker. Leaving you in charge would prove no test of your people. No, it is essential that we remove the key focal points as well," Jemat added.

"I'm not as essential, Jemat, as you may think. I have absolute faith in my people," Picard began in automatic rebuttal to the Breen's remarks - only to stop as he saw the expression on Jemat's face.

"Under normal circumstances, perhaps, Captain," Jemat replied, "but we have already tested your people under normal circumstances. And your people succeeded - or you would not have progressed to this level. But warriors are not civilians. We needed to see how your less prepared members cope with similar situations."

"Less prepared?" Picard echoed - then shook his head. "Jemat, everyone who is in Starfleet receives at least the same basic level of training..."

"But emotional traumas can and do affect their performances, Captain; that much we had discovered in our initial investigations. We requested that Admiral Czymszczak ensure that at least twenty-five percent of the staff have experienced a recent emotional trauma, ranging from recent mating - wedding?" he tried, uncertain about the word, "to a death of a mate, sibling or parental unit, to the recent budding... birth... of an offspring. These events, along with other, psychologically based insults, should provide the variable necessary to continue with our investigation of your people."

Picard stared at the Breen, stunned - and understanding.

At last.

Dear God, it was beginning to come together, beginning to make sense - a grisly, horrific, macabre sort of sense.

The unexpected, almost unheard of race to re-staff his ship in those last few hours, the massive numbers of his regular crew who couldn't be found - and all the unexpected and tragic changes in the lives of so many of the recent transferees - all done deliberately, to weaken his crew, to deprive them of the normality that served as a foundation to their normal behaviors - all done, by his people and by these creatures, as part of this obscene experiment!

Fury surged through his soul, driving his voice into a low hiss. "How dare you?! How dare you?! You tortured me, tortured my lieutenant, attacked my crew, killed their friends, their families, caused them to suffer - just so you could see how we would react under stress? Just so you could discover which aspects we might bring to this 'God' of yours? How dare you!" he seethed.

As his voice trailed off, the worst of his rage faded with it - and left the Starfleet captain staring at the seven Breen - who were staring back in complete - and shocked - silence.

"I... don't understand, Captain," Huziah said at last. "What killings? We have not killed anyone," he said innocently.

"The friends and family of many of my people were killed, seemingly by accident, illness or injury - but, according to Tillerman, on the orders of the Admiralty - and now, we learn, at your request," Picard replied angrily.

Huziah stared at Jemat, who looked to Kurget - then back to Picard. "Captain, we asked your people to provide us with a variety of individuals of different emotional and experiential background - but we never - never! - suggested that anyone be harmed in order to secure those candidates! Indeed, we had requested that your crew be staffed with those in the greatest of need; not only would we get the fullest diversity of your people's emotional needs, but whether you succeeded or failed the test, we hoped we might be able to bring some direction to those injured lives. We are not barbarians, Captain!

"In fact, we only made one direct request, regarding a specific individual - and that was your first officer," Jemat added.

"Cmdr. Riker?" Picard echoed, taken aback by the revelation. "What did you do to him?"

"We asked your Admiral Czymszczak to inform him that he was no longer being considered for a promotion to captain," Jemat said. "We felt that psychological trauma would invalidate his efficacy as a key focal point, leaving him in a position of power - but without the capabilities a leader evidences. It would have been too obvious if we have removed you both."

Removed from the captain's list? Picard gaped, horrified at the effect that removal would have on his first officer - then nodded to himself.

Of course, he thought to himself; that would explain everything he had seen in Will over the last few weeks - the unexplained depression, the loss of focus, the anger - and, he thought with a hint of triumph, the sense of determination that he had seen returning to the man in the last few days. Will would not let Czymszczak win, Picard knew - and by default, he would not let the Breen win either.

"Of course, should your people complete the experiment successfully, I am sure he will be reinstated," Huziah continued.

Picard stared at the Breen a moment longer - then closed his eyes.

If they survived, he thought, if the ship, if Will, made it back to the Federation, the last thing that would happen would be Will's reinstatement, he knew. Will knew too much - about the Breen, about Czymszczak, about the lieutenant's past... no, he knew too much now; Czymszczak wouldn't risk allowing him back onto the Captain's list. Or back into Starfleet, he added, knowing already how the summary courts-martial would turn out.

Will would be dishonorably discharged, his name and reputation ruined - if he was lucky. If not...

If not, Will might well become the next victim on Czymszczak's list.

He opened his eyes, staring at the Breen before him.

If for nothing else, Picard thought, if for nothing more than to avenge what these people, intentionally or not, have done to Will, I will not these people win.

Resolved, he stared at Jemat once again, his glaze hard, his eyes steely.

"And the lieutenant?" Picard pressed. "Why remove her?"

"Her removal was unforeseen - but necessary," Jemat replied. "Had we seen her file before her selection for the crew, we would have requested her removal."

Picard nodded to himself, remembering her last minute addition to the crew's roster. Tillerman did not know she would be aboard - and her file was one of the few to which the Breen didn't have advance access.

But it made sense, he added; given the opportunity to rid himself of one of the few individuals who was aware of his plottings with the Cardassians, Czymszczak must have jumped at the opportunity to send the lieutenant off on what he presumed would be a one-way journey.

"But you _did_ remove her," Picard pointed out.

Jemat continued. "We had no choice, Captain. When we realized what she had done - her unannounced arrival on the bridge with the android's head, her innovation, her ability to act not only without orders but in contradiction to those orders - no, we knew she, too was a key focal point, just as you are - and one that would taint the experiment as severely as your own presence would have done. We had to remove her as well."

"And it is that innovation that we are concerned about now, Captain," Huziah interjected. "If she makes it back to your ship, she will give them an unexpected advantage in executing their escape plans that would taint the entire exercise - and we will have no option but to terminate the experiment. You would condemn your people to a life in our sphere - and perhaps condemn your race to a worse fate.

"You have been weakened by your recent wars, Captain," Huziah reminded him. "You have suffered losses of people, materiel and spirit. An alliance with the Breen at this time would strengthen your position militarily, strategically, and technologically - but alliance will only come at the conclusion of our experiment."

"You mean, if my crew finds a way out of here, if they can prove to your satisfaction that they are a part of this 'God' of yours, you'll proceed with your plans to make peace with the Federation," Picard attempted to clarify. "But if the lieutenant manages to get back to the ship and helps them, you'll imprison my crew, and back out of the deal with Czymszczak, and risk sending the Federation back into war."

"In essence, yes," Huziah agreed.

"So your discovery about the lieutenant..." Picard began, looking at Jemat.

"She may be the one we have searched for," Jemat demurred, suddenly rescinding the enthusiasm he had displayed a brief time before. "However, she may also be nothing more than a genetic accident, exhibiting some of the attributes we have searched for - but not be a true descendant of our people."

Picard raised a brow in surprise at the rapid back-pedaling of the Breen - then lowered it, understanding the expression of fear that had covered the three alien faces for the last few minutes.

For the first time in three hundred thousand years, they had found the chance to grasp real immortality for their people - and they had let it slip from their fingers.

"It becomes essential, then, that we disregard that possibility until a later time, and focus on the issue at hand; we must apprehend her quickly, and allow the experiment to proceed, unaffected," Jemat continued - then added, "both for our purposes - and the sake of your people, of course."

"Of course," Picard echoed.

"Then you will assist us in locating and capturing her," Huziah said, relieved, a toothy smile cutting across his face.

Picard smiled right back at him. "Captain, I have not, nor will I ever, willingly betray another Starfleet officer in the performance of her assigned duties.

"As far as I am concerned, gentlemen, you can all go to hell."


	133. Chapter 133

**Chapter 133**

"It has been one hour, Geordi."

Startled, Geordi looked up from the console at which he was sitting - and found himself looking into the impassive face of Data.

"An hour?" he echoed.

"You informed Cmdr. Riker that you would explain him about your idea in one hour. That time interval has now elapsed. May I inquire that the idea was?" the android added solicitously.

Geordi stared at Data for a moment longer, the blank expression still covering his face - then shook his head and sighed.

"I haven't been able to work it out, Data," he admitted unhappily. "I keep thinking there was something in the memories that Biji was trying to activate, some message she was trying to tell us... I know the message is there - but somehow, I just can't put it together!"

Data stared at his friend, considering - then noticed the miniscule fragment of material that Geordi was rolling between his fingers.

"Is that the fragment that Andile deposited in my brain case?" he inquired.

"Hmm?" Geordi said, then glanced at the tiny shard. "Oh, yeah. I had almost forgotten I had it. I meant to throw it out..." he admitted - then began to roll it between his fingers again.

"May I see it, Geordi?" Data asked, extending his hand to his friend.

For a moment, Geordi stared at the out-stretched palm, then looked at his hand once again - and sheepishly deposited the fragment in Data's hand. "Sorry," he said. "I just can't seem to put it down."

Data nodded as though he understood - then examined the shard in minute detail.

It was only a tiny piece of sensor cable sheathing, barely five millimeters in length, and a tenth that size in diameter - and yet, this tiny fragment had wreaked havoc with his positronic net, slowing his processors, inhibiting his functions, rendering him virtually useless to the crew at their time of greatest need - and all simply to trigger a memory.

But which one, Data admitted, he did not know.

Even now, with the fragment in his hand rather than in his brain, and his usual processing speed returning to normal, he still found himself lost at trying to understand what it was that Andile had been trying to tell them - and why she had chosen such an obscure method. Would it not have been simpler just to find the correct memory and link it to a delayed activation circuit, allowing him to access the intended thought at a later time? he wondered.

No, he decided a split second later, it would not have been simpler.

Accessing such a circuit would have required more sophisticated equipment than she had, as well as greater dexterity... dexterity she did not have, he reminded himself slowly.

Data stopped in mid thought process. "Geordi?" he said quietly, his eyes locked on the fragment that had so fascinated Geordi a moment before.

"What is it? Did you find something?"

"Yes," Data replied simply. "I have found - this," he said, holding out the fragment.

Geordi smiled. "Data, if you want to be picky, _I_ found it - in your head."

"And what did you find?" Data asked.

Geordi stared at his friend, confused - then gave a shrug, deciding to play along. "It's a piece of optronic cable sheathing, about one-eighth of an inch long, probably from one of the damaged consoles on the battle bridge..." He took the fragment back, staring at it studiously, then continued. "Blue insulation - standard high pressure cryoformic polymer fibers..." He fell silent, staring at the fragment - then raised his eyes to Data's. "Damn!" he muttered beneath his breath. "We missed it, Data; we were staring at it all along - and we missed it!"

"Perhaps - or perhaps not," Data countered. "The uncertainty of our conjecture would suggest that we confirm our beliefs before informing Cmdr. Riker."

Geordi stared at the fragment a moment longer - then nodded. "Come on; short range sensors are working. Let's find out if Beej was right."

Ten minutes later, Geordi grinned wildly at his friend, then enthusiastically slapped his commbadge. "LaForge to Riker. Commander, I think we've got it! I think we know what Biji was trying to tell us - and I think I know how we can get them back!"

Sickbay on the Enterprise had seen more than a few strange events since her commission - the birth of dozens of aliens, the deaths of a few as well, the invasion of Borg drones, radical and inventive surgeries and therapeutic treatments - but this, Beverly Crusher thought, was the first time it had ever played host to a bridge staff meeting.

The decision to have the meeting here had been a concession on Will's part, a compromise she had insisted upon after Will had insisted on Deanna's being present for the meeting with Data and Geordi. Under more typical circumstances, she would have permitted the woman to be transferred to the usual observation rooms where their meetings were usually held - but with the transporters out, and the interior of the ship still requiring long walks through some areas still filled with debris, Beverly had been adamant that if Will wanted Deanna to attend, he would have to make the meeting in Sickbay.

But it was a day for firsts, she added; never before had a bridge staff meeting included a Romulan and a Cardassian - and certainly never two who were on close terms with each other, she added as she looked at Zumell and Tiron, sitting next to each other in the cramped space of the impromptu meeting space - the hastily converted triage area.

Fortunately the space was not currently needed for its primary purpose, she added; the worst of the injuries had been treated, with the most severely injured now residing in the quieter ward areas, and those with less severe wounds having been released back to duty or to their quarters.

If they could reach those quarters, she added, glancing at the figure that was shuffling into the meeting space, seeking out the closest chair.

Beverly smiled sympathetically at Deanna, wondering which bothered her more - the healing wounds, or the fact that her quarters were currently inaccessible, courtesy of a collapsed bulkhead - and with it, all her personal effects.

Gone - for the moment - were the elegant and form-fitting robes that she had worn in her previous Sickbay stays, the combs, brushes and pins that she used to style and secure her long black tresses, her make-up kit - even her slippers! All were trapped behind the collapsed wall - and, as a result, had relegated Deanna to using the standard Sickbay patient supplies.

Not that she complained, of course, Beverly reminded herself - but the Sickbay-issued attire did nothing to make Deanna look like the recovering patient that she was.

The pale blue robe was both the wrong color and far too large, hanging over her in heavy folds that threatened to dwarf her while the pastel color made her look even more wan than she really was - just as her hair, as kempt as the standard issue comb and brush could make it, fell in messy curls around her face, the dark color serving only to emphasize her still-pale skin that cried out for the touch of blush and shadow that it now lacked - and those slippers...

Beverly shook her head.

The slippers were an unattractive brown, badly worn and far too large, staying on Deanna's feet only through the dint of her slow shuffle - and still slipping off every third step - but Deanna had refused the offer of another pair, regardless of condition or fit.

Beverly understood; they were Will's slippers, she knew - and while she wasn't sure that she would have wanted to share that piece of apparel with her lover - if she ever had one again, she added - it seemed to bring both Deanna and Will a sense of comfort and closeness.

And God knows they both need it, Beverly added.

Hell, we all need it, she added, dragging her hand through her hair in frustration and fatigue, brushing back her own wandering strands of hair, wondering if, after all that had happened, Deanna wouldn't end up as the best rested of them all.

Even Data looked tired - impossible as that was, Beverly thought as she watched Geordi and the android enter the room; somehow, his steps seemed slow and awkward - as though somehow he, too had been affected by the events of the last few days...

Of course he had been affected, Beverly chided herself sharply, reminding herself that his emotions were just as real as hers were - and probably even harder for him to cope with. Until a few weeks before, Data had never known love - and now to have that love threatened... She shook her head, wishing she could help him - but knowing that the pain never got easier.

Never, she repeated softly.

How many times have we been through this, Jean-Luc? she asked him softly, wordlessly. How many more times must we go through it in the future - wondering if one of us won't come back from a mission, until, one time, one of us doesn't? How many more times must we each hold our breath, waiting, wondering, worrying?

I didn't think it would be like this, she thought. Despite everything he told me, despite every briefing Starfleet gave to the spouses of their members, I never really thought Jack wouldn't come back to me, to our life; I always thought that we would be safe, somehow exempt from the realities and the terrors of living on the edge of the universe - and then one day, he didn't.

I remember that day, she thought, the day he died, the day you called me with that terrible news. It wasn't real, Jean-Luc; nothing was real that day - or any of the days that followed. It wasn't even real when you brought his body home. It couldn't be real - and how could it? How could there be reality without the man I loved beside me?

For years I lived in the dis-reality, knowing at one level that death was a real threat, a too-real possibility for everyone who served in Starfleet - and yet I never believed it, even as I saw and treated and cured and lost hundreds of patients, survivors and victims of that same reality.

I didn't believe it could really happen, Jean-Luc; it was all an illusion, a dream - and in that dream, the people I cared for couldn't really die.

Until the first time you didn't come back.

Oh, yes, you returned - in time, she added. But not before the world I lived in collapsed - and I finally understood that every mission we took, every time we left the ship - even those times we didn't leave the ship - our lives were at risk.

And I began to realize just how easily you could slip from my life.

That's when the world finally became real, Jean-Luc; that's when I realized I loved you.

Loved you enough to keep putting myself through this hell, time and again, worrying over you, wondering if you'd make it back in one piece this time - or at least in enough pieces that I could put you back together - loved you enough to sit up nights with you, holding your hand when you cried out from the pain and terror, sleeping beside you when the nightmares wouldn't fade - loved you enough to make sure you were strong enough to go out there one more time - so I could worry once again.

And wonder if this would be the final time you left me.

I should go, she thought; I should come to my senses and leave this place, go somewhere that I can work without waiting to hear the inevitable news - and yet, here I stay, my life in stasis, waiting - and worrying - wondering if this is the time you won't come back.

"Beverly?"

Startled, the physician looked up - and smiled at the Betazoid standing beside her, a hand resting on her arm in sympathy and understanding.

Beverly forced a smile to her face. "I'm fine, Deanna," she said without waiting for the expected platitudes of "He'll be fine," or "We'll get him back." She'd heard them before, a hundred times - a thousand times! - and suddenly a part of her knew that if she head them again, she'd scream.

Instead, she coaxed the woman's hand from her arm, gently guiding her back toward the table, murmuring, "You're supposed to be sitting, Deanna - or you can be taken back to your bed - and sedated," she added firmly.

So firmly that Deanna wasn't entirely sure that Beverly was joking.

A little startled by the unexpected intensity in the woman's voice - and the severity in her emotions - that Deanna meekly complied, taking her seat again.

Before she could attempt to analyze the unusual emotions, however, she heard the sound of the Sickbay doors opening - and felt the unmistakable glow of warmth, love - and passion - of Will Riker flood over her.

She turned to look at him, oblivious to the presence of Worf walking in beside Will, unable to stop the smile that crossed her face, knowing it was so inappropriate for these troubled times - and yet unable to resist the feelings that welled up in her soul as she looked at him.

Just as he was unable to resist his own feelings; staff meeting or no, acting captain or not, he came to her first, lowering himself to her level, staring into her face lovingly - then softly murmured, "You're so beautiful," before rising, giving her a gentle kiss in the center of her forehead - then taking his place at the head of the table.

"I'm not going to waste time on the usual formalities," he announced as he and Worf found their places at the makeshift conference table, "other than to thank Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell for attending. In light of the current circumstances, I felt their participation might be invaluable."

"Especially as our lives are as much in the balance at the turn of events as yours are," Tiron remarked.

Will nodded. "Please feel free to offer any thoughts, opinions or ideas you may have," he told the two, then turned to Geordi. "You're on, Geordi," he said. "What have you and Data found?"

"Biji's message," the Chief Engineer announced. "We think we know what she was trying to tell us."

"You think?" Will echoed. "I need something a little more certain than 'you think', Geordi," he said brusquely.

"Commander," Data interjected, "providing that our surmises are correct, the probability that we have correctly deduce her meaning exceeds eighty-three percent. That is," he repeated, "providing that our surmises are correct."

"And those surmises are?" Worf asked.

"Let us first dispose of our earlier conclusions," Data replied. "We assumed that Lt. Andile had placed the fragment in the specific area of my positronic matrix for the purpose of keying in a specific memory that was relevant to the topic. We now believe this to be in error."

"Why?" Will asked.

"I do not believe the lieutenant would have been capable of performing so selective an activity," Data replied.

"But Beej knows the physiology of a positronic brain almost as well as Geordi or I do," Beverly pointed out.

Geordi nodded, agreeing. "She knows the physiology - but selecting specific memories requires equipment that she did not have with her."

"When my body was removed from the battle bridge, a complete survey of the materials found in the room was performed - standard operating procedure three one seven point three six," Data reminded them. "The only equipment found was her tool kit, and the tools I had been using to attempt to repair the damaged conduits. None of the material needed to locate and access specific memories was found."

"I'll admit that under other circumstances she could have been able to improvise - but..." Geordi hesitated, looking at his friend - then seeing the slight nod from the android, continued, "... I don't think she had the capability of performing the fine work involved."

"Why not?" Will pressed.

"Lt. Andile had exceeded the tolerances allowed in an extravehicular activity," Data replied solemnly, unemotionally. "Her extremities were severely damaged; judging by the scent emanating from the suit she wore, her increasingly limited mobility and her expressions of discomfort, I suspect the necrosis had begun at least an hour before her arrival on the battle bridge."

Tar Zumell shook her head. "Necrosis? I do not know this word. What is this 'necrosis'?"

Tiron tuned to her. "The _baj_ tried to save us by walking outside the ship to get help," he explained, simplifying the events somewhat. "Even in the best of Federation environmental suits, there is a limited amount of time before the cold affects the body. The hands and feet are affected first, the tissue freezing - then dying. Her hands and feet were dying, the flesh rotting..."

Zumell stopped him with an upraised hand - then turned to look at the android seated beside her, her eyes heavy with shared sorrow and pain. She reached for his hand, wrapping it in her own aged and fragile one, and closed it gently around his.

"I am sorry for you," she said softly. "But there is something that can be done?" she added, turning to look at Beverly.

"If we get the patient into treatment within a few hours, yes," she replied. "It's possible to restore or regenerate much of the tissue - and where that isn't possible, to graft and clone new tissue to the existing musculature. But it's been more than twenty-four hours now," she added grimly. "At this point..." Her voice trailed off as she gave a slow nod. "At this point, the damage is irreparable. Amputation and surgical engraftment of prosthetics is required - providing that gangrene or an opportunistic infection has not set in," she added ominously.

"But... can not the Breen do this?" Zumell queried.

For a moment, the table was silent, the possibility having never occurred to any of the others.

At long last Beverly answered with a hesitant look and a questioning raising of her shoulders. "I... don't know. The surgery itself is quite basic - but the understanding of the physiology and related medications usually requires training in human medicine."

"They've been studying your people and mine for centuries, Doctor," Tiron pointed out. "I suspect their understanding of our physiology is better than any of us would care to admit."

Worf growled at the reality of the statement, the only voice in a room silenced by the grisly notion - then the silence was broken as Will spoke again.

"If I'm understanding you correctly, gentlemen, you're saying that Biji had neither the equipment or the ability to select a specific memory."

Geordi nodded. "Yes, sir."

"But if she wasn't trying to direct us to a specific thought, why place the fragment in Data's head? Why place it in the processor they way she did?"

Despite the gravity of the moment, Geordi felt a smile come to his face. "Because that's the easiest part of his brain to access, Commander; one basic tool - and she could have held it with her teeth if she needed to - and the covering would open."

"More importantly, however, is the fact that any debris in this area would affect my cognitive processing speed..."

"Meaning there was no way you would miss sensing the fragment there - once you were conscious," Beverly said.

"Precisely," Data agreed.

"But why put it in your head in the first place, Data?" Deanna asked. "Why not just give it to someone? Or leave it in the battle bridge with a message? We would have found it - eventually - and it would have saved time..."

"Yes," Zumell agreed. "If her hands were as severely injured as you indicated, why would she have spent the time necessary to deposit this item in your head - especially as she was intent upon offering your head in exchange for our lives?" she added. "For that matter, why remove your head at all? Were you incapable of accompanying her?"

There was silence around the table as Data did something he rarely did: he hesitated.

"I... believed my place was to remain on the battle bridge," he finally explained. "Despite her assertions and arguments to the contrary, I did not believe we should attempt to return to the main bridge," he explained.

Zumell stared at him clearly astonished. "You mean you did not trust her?" she gaped. "You are in love with the little one - and yet you did not trust her?!"

Beverly cringed inwardly, watching as the remaining heads turned to stare at Data, dumb-founded at Zumell's statement.

"Data? You and Beej...?" Geordi began teasingly, a half-grin on his face.

But Will interrupted, his hand raised to silence any other remarks.

"Later, Commander," he informed Geordi - then looked at Data. "You said you refused to return to the bridge? What happened then?"

"The lieutenant feigned being overcome by the anaesthezine gas that I had used on the bridge. When I reached her side, she... " He hesitated again, glancing concernedly at Tiron and Zumell, not certain if he should reveal the secret - then admitted, "turned me off."

"Without disarming the battle bridge force fields," Geordi continued. "I don't know if that was oversight or if she thought she wouldn't be able to get Data to go along with her plan fast enough - but in the end it that meant she couldn't get Data out of there through the main doors; if she was getting out, it was the same way she got in.

"And she was in no shape to drag Data through the ventilator shafts - even if he could have fit," he added.

"Thus, she removed my head," Data concluded, "and implanted the fragment."

"But why?" Tiron pressed. "Why perform that level of work, especially if she were injured, if only to exchange your head for the lives of the crew?"

"We're back to guessing here, Ambassador," Geordi answered. "Whether or not she really thought she could talk the Breen into taking Data's head in exchange is questionable. She had no more information about them than we did..."

"So she claimed," Worf growled.

"...so offering them his head - his knowledge - in exchange for our lives was a gamble at best. I suspect she knew they wouldn't take it - but it gave her an excuse for having his head with her - and leaving it on the bridge where we could get access to it later."

"But why put the information there at all, if she didn't think they'd take him?" Deanna asked again. "After all, she'd still be here..." She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth falling open - then stared at the others. "My God! That's it! That's why she put the information in Data's head!"

Will shook his head, not understanding. "Explain, Counselor."

"She knew they wouldn't take Data's head; she had heard enough about the Breen to know that what they wanted was to study us, not - forgive me, Data," she apologized, "an encyclopedia of human psychology. That's why she put it there - because she knew they wouldn't take him - and because she had to be sure that the information stayed here.

"Biji was intending to offer herself to the Breen all along."

Silence enveloped the table for a moment - then exploded in a half-dozen voices.

"She was a traitor..."

"She is just a child..."

"How could she be so stupid..."

"Why..."

Will let the voices argue for a moment - then raised his hands for silence, followed by a barked order when the placating gesture was ignored.

"Whatever her intentions, we do know that she never had the opportunity to make that offer," he reminded them all. "What we do know is that she was incapacitated by a Breen weapon and taken from the ship - along with the Captain - and that she went to considerable effort to leave a message behind - a message she must have believed was key to our escape." He looked at Geordi and Data. "And you now believe you know the contents of that message?"

Geordi stared at the first officer for a moment, still stunned by Deanna's conclusion - and by the possible nobility - and unquestionable pig-headedness - of his friend - then brought his attention back to the present.

"Yes, sir. We know the message - or rather, that there isn't a message. What Biji was leaving us was the fragment itself," he replied simply.

"You mean all this has been about a piece of debris she accidentally left in the Commander's head?" Worf growled.

"It's not debris," Geordi countered. "Andile made sure she left this specific fiber in Data's head. It's a piece of cryoformic polymer sheathing, used to insulate cables."

"Meaning...?" Will pressed.

"Meaning, Commander," Geordi said, then held out a slightly larger, more visible piece of the same shielding, "that cryoformic insulation has wonderful properties. It's created by spraying the liquid raw material into a super-cooled chamber, where it forms fibers that are barely a molecule in width. Once formed, the fibers have exceptional transmission qualities, and can tolerate any conditions from exceptionally high power flows, to the extremes of heat and cold, acids, bases, viral and bacterial agents, corrosive chemicals, radiation... the stuff is virtually indestructible by anything you would find inside - or outside - a spaceship. "

"With one notable exception," Data added. "It does not tolerate compression."

He reached for the piece of sheathing, taking it in the middle - and began to squeeze.

The fibers deformed for a moment as if trying to escape his grasp - then the two pieces on either side of his fingers fell away, leaving a small trace of faint blue powder on the android's hand.

Will studied the smudge of blue, the two freed pieces - then looked at the two. "Lovely. But how does this apply to our situation?"

Geordi smiled. "As I said, cryoformic polymer fibers allow for superb power transmission. Connect them to a power source, and they transmit the power with virtually no signal degradation; taken the other way around, they can drain a source in seconds. The Breen tendrils that drained our shields - are cryoformic polymer fibers," he concluded.

Will stared at the two, stunned - then shook his head. "But if these fibers are used for so many applications, why didn't anyone else recognize them before this?"

"Because when we see them, they are already shaped, molded, woven - whatever," Tiron offered. "Yes?" he added, looking at Data.

"Precisely, Ambassador," the android agreed. "The lieutenant, on the other hand, would have seen the fibers being created when she was overseeing the construction of this ship. She must have recognized them at some point after the Breen made contact with the ship - but it may have taken her some time to realize what the fibers were - at which point she could not risk openly revealing the information, lest it imperil us."

"But now that we do know, we also know how to escape," Geordi interjected. "We push. Push fast, and hard - then get the hell out of here before the Breen can reach us with more tendrils - because even with their sensitivity to compression, you put enough tendrils out there, and we won't be able to push in enough directions fast enough to keep them from draining us dry once again - and next time, they may be just as willing to shut down internal environments as well as shields."

Will considered the information - then nodded. "Make the calculations, gentlemen; how hard, how fast - and how quickly can we be ready?"

Geordi smiled. "We've already done that, Commander. Full impulse, straight at them for thirteen seconds should snap anything they've got attached to us - and then jump to warp two. Those fibers are wrapped around their ship; they can't attach them to us until they've unwound them from around their vessel - and the same principles that make them so effective against us will work for us: move them too fast and they'll snap! So it's going to take time. But we're going to have one chance only; once we've played our hand..."

"I understand, Mr. LaForge. How soon can we be ready?"

"We'll need a couple of hours to finish the implementation of the warp engines - and another to run a basic diagnostic. I rather perform a more comprehensive check - but without full computer systems, it would be meaningless." He gave a fatalistic shrug. "Then again, if we blow ourselves up, at least we'd be sure of taking the Breen with us; the cryoformic tendrils would transmit the full output of the warp core breach straight back to the ship," he added.

Which explained why the Breen hadn't attached more tendrils in the first place, Will realized; they must have lost more than a few ships by over-connecting themselves to their victims - and, in their efforts to free themselves, those victims might have sent an energy pulse back at the ships, damaging - or even destroying them - in the process.

"Three hours then?" he said.

Geordi looked at Data - who nodded back. "Three hours, Commander."

Will nodded. "Then that's how much time we have to mount a rescue and get the captain - and Lt. Andile - back. Suggestions?"


	134. Chapter 134

**Chapter 134**

Captain Huziah gaped at Picard, his dumb-founded astonishment unmistakable in any culture.

"You would risk your crew, your Federation, perhaps your entire species - rather than help us find one person?" he managed at long last.

"Risk?" Picard snapped back. "What risk? Risk implies that there is something at stake - but as far as I can tell, there is none.

"You have made no assurances that there will be a peace accord regardless of the outcome of this so-called 'experiment' of yours. At best - if my crew finds a resolution to the quandary you have given them - you _may_ move forward in your negotiations with Admiral Czymszczak - but even that is only a possibility, and one that holds no certainty of peace or prosperity for anyone in the Federation," he added with a sneer of contempt for the man.

"At worst, the lieutenant finds her way back to my ship, helps them to escape - and they report, not to Adm. Czymszczak, but to the Federation Council itself of your covert dealings with the Admiral. That would end your negotiations immediately, Captain, and perhaps even begin a war - and despite your allusions to the contrary, I suspect your worlds are in no better position to tolerate an extended conflict than ours are," he pointed out.

Jemat stepped toward the man, a very human smile on his lips, placating and patronizing. "Your argument sounds quite reasonable, Captain - until you remember that the Federation Council has been dissolved. I'm afraid there would be no one to whom your people could voice their accusations."

"Perhaps," Picard replied, Jemat's smile reflecting coldly in his eyes, "though I have no doubts the delegates from those worlds represented by the Council would be more than willing to listen to what my people would have to say - just as the delegates from Romulus and Cardassia would be equally interested to hear what their delegates have learned. In addition, I suspect that General Martok of the Klingon High Council would be equally interested in hearing about the trials of his closest advisor - and I do not believe any of those worlds will take lightly what you have done to their delegates.

"Are you prepared for that possibility, gentlemen?" he asked them sharply. "Are you really prepared for the prospect of war, not just on one front, against the non-allied Federation worlds - but on four fronts simultaneously? Against the Federation, the Klingons, the Cardassians and the Romulans - and all at once?" he pressed them - then gave a cold smile.

"If so, then prepare yourselves for finding the answer to your three hundred thousand year-long search for God - because when those worlds are done with your people, you each will have had the opportunity to meet him, face to face."

The three Breen watched him for a moment - but judging from the slight blankness in their expressions, Picard realized they were communicating with one another directly.

Calculating, Picard decided; weighing the options against the possibilities, determining what, if anything, they could risk - and, he realized with a growing sense of hope - and giving themselves away in the process.

They were willing to negotiate, he thought.

Until now, negotiation hadn't even been a consideration for them, he knew; the Breen had known what they wanted - to observe the results of the 'experiment' on the Enterprise - and would use those results to either continue the peace negotiations with the Federation or not as they saw fit. Their pretense at negotiating aboard the Enterprise had been only that - a pretense, a ruse, something to test how far they could push the humans, to determine how far these subjects would be willing to go in the effort to try to save at least a portion of the crew.

Even if they had somehow come to terms, the Breen had had no intention of honoring any deals they made, Picard realized as he watched the three; their suggestions that they might be amenable to any deals, to any compromises, had been nothing more than an intellectual exercise for them. His beseeching, his pleading, as desperate and heartfelt as it had been from his side, had meant nothing to these creatures.

They had already made up their minds, long before the two ships had even met - and they had no intention of letting the Enterprise or her crew go, regardless of what happened.

But now...

But now, he thought triumphantly, now everything had changed; now they had discovered that their original goal - finding a descendant from their centuries of genetic manipulations, the goal they had sought for three hundred millennia - might almost be in their grasp - and what had been important an hour before was now insignificant in comparison.

Oh, certainly discovering what drove human beings was still important; learning what they would contribute to the "God" entity they believed in was still an intellectually valid pursuit, Picard could imagine them thinking - but once again, for the first time in so many generations, the possibility they their species would be able to contribute something genetic to that future construct they had deemed "God" had become a reality.

And for the first time in generations, their priorities had changed.

Maybe, he conceded after a moment's thought, reminding himself that these were a people who were acted in a world of absolutes; when all was said and done, the Breen expected that things would be done their way - or no way. They might not be willing to readily give up possession of the Enterprise and her fourteen hundred crewmen - especially when the only evidence that their possible redemption from the genetic cul-de-sac in which they had found themselves was at hand was nothing more than surmise and second-hand shared memories.

No, Picard realized, they were not going to be ready to give up the Enterprise and her crew in exchange for the lieutenant.

But they might be willing to release them - for another reason.

Yet even as he rehearsed his arguments, the three Breen broke their mental contact - and to his astonishment, Huziah strode from the room, immediately followed by his guard, leaving Jemat, Kurget and the remaining guards behind.

Stunned, Picard stared at the Breen, unable to believe what the creature had done. Was that all? Picard worried. Was he ending their discussion before it even began? Or was it something else? he thought; some emergency, some internal ship's disaster?

Dear God, had they somehow found her? he suddenly worried, about to send out a desperate call to the human - then stopped himself.

Or was that it? he wondered, trying to suppress his thoughts: were they trying to trick him into betraying her presence by responding to his mental cries?

Or... could it be something else? he began to ask himself, a thought starting to form in his mind - only to be interrupted by Jemat's icy voice.

"You presume, Captain," the Breen _outo_ said coldly, his Jemat began, his formerly friendly smile now sharp and bitter. "You presume that we would not destroy your ship rather than permit it to return to your people and risk a war that you believe we fear."

Picard started, surprised at the change of tone - then smiled back, understanding.

It was Jemat's body standing before him - but the words, calculated and precise, belonged to the ship's captain - just as they had on the bridge of his own ship.

Another advantage to being a telepathic race, he thought; one could relay the thoughts and words of another, concealing the presence - or even the existence - of another Breen - or, he added to himself, concealing their action.

Picard smiled to himself, the idea that had been forming instantly confirmed, knowing precisely where the Breen captain was going, knowing of only one person who would demand the presence of the Breen ship's captain in person.

Huziah was going to see Jay Tillerman.

But the smile faded almost as quickly as it had formed. If the captain was going to see Jay, it was because he suspected the human would be as able as Picard to help them find the missing woman - and the hell of it was, Picard new, they were right.

Jay was human, he was Starfleet, and, Picard admitted, in his own way, he was almost as clever as the lieutenant - and as a result, he was going to have some pretty damned good ideas about what a human would do in these circumstances - starting with hiding in those places that had already been searched.

Like his quarters.

For a moment, he considered calling out a mental warning to the woman - then checked the idea, reminding himself that Jemat was monitoring his every thought.

Wasn't he? he added, giving a curious - but surreptitious - look at the two before him - and seeing the look of rapt concentration on both Breen's faces.

There was an obvious advantage for the Breen in being able to substitute one person for another, for being able to communicate on behalf of another Breen in situations like this, where discussion was necessary - but where concealment of presence or actions was equally important. But important as it was, that ability didn't come without taking a toll on those involved, Picard realized, suspecting that Jemat was no longer as able to monitor his thoughts as he had been a few moments before.

That explained Kurget's continued presence in the room - and, more significantly, the grim expression on the Breen physician's face. Just as Huziah was using Jemat to act as his surrogate, Jemat was using Kurget to act as his, having the physician monitor his thoughts - and, judging by Kurget's look of intense concentration, he was not about to let the ship's _outo_ down.

How then to warn her? Picard worried. I can't send a message...

Or can I? he thought.

"I may presume, Jemat - but you assume," his voice as icy as the Breen's. "You assume that the lieutenant is hiding somewhere on the ship, and that she hasn't yet returned to the Enterprise. That, Jemat, is an unwarranted assumption, because for all you know, that's precisely what she has done - found her way off this ship and gone back to the Enterprise. And as long as you don't know, you don't dare destroy the Enterprise, because you might destroy her as well - and that's not a risk you're willing to take, is it?"

He stared at the Breen, hoping the woman had heard the thought - and praying that if she had made it to his quarters, that she got the hell out - and in a hurry!

Jemat hesitated, apparently unaware of the underlying thought as he relayed the message back to Huziah - then smiled again. "We know she hasn't returned to your ship, Captain; our sensors show it has not changed position since we captured it. Had she returned, you ship would have left," he pointed out.

"Now you are the one who is presuming," Picard pointed out. "You presume that even with the lieutenant back on the ship, that it is capable of moving. You presume that the damage that was done to the ship is reparable."

Jemat stared at the man blankly - though this time from confusion, not from the relayed communication. "We were specific in our requirements..."

"_Your_ requirements?" he said mockingly. "Presumption again, Jemat; your requirements, and the requirements of Admiral Czymszczak and Ambassador Tillerman were not necessarily the same - and when it came to implementing this mission, your requirements became irrelevant," the Starfleet captain pointed out.

"Don't you understand?" he added angrily. "You presumed that your studies of humanity had given you an insight into all humans - but you were wrong. You studied only a small segment of humanity - Starfleet field officers and crewmen - assuming that because we were representative of humanity as a whole, that the reverse would be true as well. But it doesn't work that way with humans, Jemat; each of us is unique, with our own attributes - both positive and negative - and in Thaddeus Czymszczak, you encountered some of the worst.

"You just didn't know enough to realize that fact," he added icily.

"You claim you asked Czymszczak to staff the ship with Starfleet personnel who had suffered recent personal traumas in order to study their reactions under stress," he reminded the Breen. "Instead, he ordered - albeit indirectly, and probably unverifiably - the deaths of dozens, possibly hundreds of people, most likely those who would or could oppose his next promotion to effect those traumas - and then assigned the survivors to this mission. But so many losses, so closely timed?" he asked skeptically. "Unlikely; it exceeds the bounds of credulity and coincidence, Jemat. And if I and my crew can put the details together, so could those crew members - and Czymszczak doesn't dare risk their returning and letting the truth be known. No, he made sure the damage to the computer core and to the ship itself was beyond repair - despite your so-called requirements."

"But..." Jemat began to protest.

"And when our vessel doesn't return," he continued, ignoring the protest, "I suspect the Admiral will just happen to discover more than enough circumstantial evidence to suggest exactly where the ship was when it was lost - and, if it works to his advantage, that evidence will point directly at you.

"You say I presume, Jemat?" he growled. "That I presume that you will not destroy the ship and risk the beginning of a war? Well, you're right - that's exactly what I presume - because right now, the only thing you have to ensure that our people don't go to war is the existence of that vessel, intact - and her crew, with or without the lieutenant, alive.

"It's no longer a matter of the spiritual survival of your people, Jemat; the minute you entered into negotiations with a human who has absolutely no compunctions about betraying his own people for his personal gain, you lost that high-minded goal. Right now, you're going to be lucky if your people continue with their physical existence."

Picard stared hard at the Breen, his every thought focused on the idea that Czymszczak had out-maneuvered them, forcing them into a position that he knew - that he had to know, had to believe - they didn't want to be in.

That is was at best, surmise, and at worst, pure bluff, was not a thought in which he could allow himself to indulge; they had to believe him - and that meant he had to believe it himself.

And, he admitted silently, for all he knew, it could be damned close to the truth.

After all, Admiral Czymszczak had made a reputation for himself based on the peace treaty with the Cardassians - but reputations, even among Starfleet Admirals, were notoriously fickle - and always short-lived. Without something new, something even more spectacular, that reputation, that fame would fade away - as it had most likely already begun to do, Picard thought to himself.

What would be more spectacular than a new peace treaty - unless, of course, it was a new war?

A war of vengeance, a war of retribution, a war started by the aliens, with the destruction of the flagship of the Federation, a venerated and time-honored captain - and peopled with delegates from two of the Federation's newest allies - a war that would solidify those alliances.

Either way, Picard realized, the truth of the matter settling into his thoughts with a clarity he had not known before, the Breen were now at the mercy of Adm. Thaddeus Czymszczak - and there was no way out of it for them.

Unless, of course, they released the Enterprise, he added.

Released her to go on with her mission, to let the Breen continue their plans to reach a peaceful understanding with humanity and the Federation - without the loss of any more of her people, he added silently - and to effectively hamstring Czymszczak in the process.

It was, of course, the ideal solution for them all, he knew.

Jemat stared at him - then smiled again - but this time, with the gentle smile that he had come to associate with the _outo_ - and with a sigh of relief from Kurget as he relaxed the intense concentration he had been keeping.

"Ideal for you and your people, Captain - but not for us. We must know what our future is to be," he said quietly. "We cannot leave the work of our lives - of a thousand generations - to the unknown. No; give us the female - and you may go. One of your people - and only one - for the lives of all your crew, your Federation."

Picard looked at the Breen - then shook his head. "We're where we started, Jemat. I'm not Czymszczak; I won't sacrifice the life of one of my people, even for the lives of the rest," he added gently.

"There is no sacrifice," the _outo_ countered, equally gently, equally sincerely. "I assure you, she will be safe with us, even venerated..."

"You would tell her what you believe she is?" Picard asked.

Jemat hesitated, thinking over the question - then gave the head jerk that meant 'no'. "That would be... inadvisable. Whatever direction her life is to take, it must be without her knowledge of her relationship to my people... if we are related," he admitted.

"And if it turns out she isn't the one you think she is?" Picard pressed. "What would happen to her then?"

"Despite what you believe, Captain, we do not betray ourselves; we do not offer our word, unless we intend to keep it. We have been careful to make no false promises to your Admiral - or to you. Therefore, I promise you this: regardless of who she is, she will be safe with us. Always."

Picard hesitated - then shook his head. "But 'always' is a damned long time for someone like her, Jemat; true, she might be safe - but to spend... how long? A year, a century, a millennia?... safe, but isolated from her own people? That's not much to offer her."

"She could live among her own, Picard," the _outo_ countered. "We have many planets, many colonies of those humans whose ships we captured. She could live with them..."

"And her work, Jemat? She is a starship engineer; to deprive her of that would be cruelty itself," he pointed out.

The Breen sighed, then jerked his head in negation. "Perhaps, in time, we could permit the colonists - or their descendants - to leave their colonies... but not now. Not while our relationship with your people is so new, so fragile. But we would keep her busy, occupied..."

"Make work," Picard interrupted. "Tasks meant to occupy time and attention - but without purpose, without meaning. Is that the life you would offer her?"

Jemat thought for a moment - then met Picard's eyes. "Yes. We would offer it to her - and let her make the choice," he countered. "To exchange her life in the Federation for a life with us: to take a position of honor and respect in our society - and to see your ship repaired and free to leave, its crew safe and unharmed. We would make that offer to her; would you deny her the freedom to make that choice for herself?" he asked knowingly.

Damn him! Picard thought, knowing full well the woman would grab the chance to save the ship and her crew - regardless of the cost to herself.

But what cost? he asked himself soberly. Her career? he found himself wondering. No loss there: except for one brief moment, she had never risen above lieutenant, unable to accommodate herself to the need to behave in the circumspect manner needed to achieve the promotions for which she was capable. A waste of a life, he thought to himself.

And personally? No loss there, either; she was, at best, casual friends with a few members of the crew - but there had never been any deep or abiding friendships formed. And what few she did have would have been lost in the light of her actions in the last few hours on the ship, he reminded himself. She wasn't going to have many friends left after the crew realized she had cut off the second officer's head and offered it in exchange for their lives...

Picard blinked.

She had cut off Data's head, he thought to himself.

Not the second officer's head - Data's.

Her _lover's_ head.

Her lover.

Not some causal friend, not some marginal party to a trivial relationship - but her lover.

The being she had been willing to go to her death for!

What the devil...? he began - then shook his head - hard - and glared at the Breen _outo_.

"It won't work, Jemat," he said angrily, suddenly aware of what the Breen was trying to do. "I'm aware that telepaths came emotionally manipulate others - and I know that's what you're trying to do - but it won't work. I know more about her than you do - and you can't 'push' me into believing what you want me to believe. You will never convince me that the lieutenant would be better off on a world of aliens than she would be with her own people.

"No, I will not betray her - and as long as she is a member of my crew, I will not allow her to sacrifice herself to you just for my convenience - or yours."

Jemat stared at the human - then gave a deep sigh. "Then, Captain, I believe we have nothing more to discuss. We will find her - with or without you."

"It will be without me, Jemat," Picard replied determinedly.

The _outo_ sighed once again - then nodded. "So be it." He gestured at one of the guards, who stepped forward, taking the human by the arm, then gently, but firmly, guiding him out of the infirmary.

No manacles this time, Picard noted as the guard led him down the hall, back to the lift - but neither was he in the company of the ship's captain or the ship's _outo_. Obviously, one human was considered no threat to a single Breen guard, he decided as they entered the lift, the doors shutting behind them.

He turned to face the lift doors as the small room began its lateral move through the interior of the Breen vessel.

Then again, they might see me as a potential threat, he thought - but to what end?

And even if I could break free, where would I go?

Not the shuttlebay - if they have one, he added, not seeing anything that resembled the Enterprise's shuttle bay on the rough schematic on the lift panel - and even if they do, escaping the ship using their vessels was the most obvious possibility - and, he admitted, one they would have considered and guarded against.

The transporter would be the second most obvious route - but without an understanding of Breen technology and language, that was not a viable option either.

Of course, if the lieutenant were here, he admitted, she might be able to translate both...

_A pain - but at least I wouldn't have to decode the ship's shield frequencies first,_ he heard her voice whisper in his mind.

_Lieutenant?_ he called back, surprised.

_They don't have shields, Captain, not the way we do. It's quite interesting, you know, their defense systems; completely different from ours..._ she continued.

_Lieutenant?_ he interrupted.

There was a pause in her mental rambling. _Yes, sir?_

_Are you safe?_

_For the moment,_ she answered,

_Can you get to some place where we can talk - safely?_

There was a moment's hesitation, then, _Yes. But I'll need your help._

He glanced around, uncertain what he could do to assist her - but knowing he would have to try. _Certainly. What do you want me to do?_

Another hesitation, then, _Move to your right two feet._

It took a moment for the request to sink in - then Picard slowly moved the requested distance.

_And now?_ he asked her.

_And now... Don't move._

It flashed past him silently, falling down and crashing into the Breen without a sound, knocking the guard down, stunning him, knocking the air out of his lungs - but not knocking him out.

But it was enough. Before he could reach for his weapon, Picard kicked out, catching the Breen under his chin with his foot, lifting him up and sending him flying back against the wall of the lift with a satisfying 'whump'.

For a moment, the guard stared at him, dazed - then his eyes closed, and he slid to the ground, unmoving.

But alive, Picard added as he reached forward, pressing a finger against the Breen's neck, knowing that there had to be some major blood vessel there - and finding the steady thrum of some type of artery.

Satisfied, he turned to look at whatever had fallen on the guard - and smiled.

"Hello," Andile replied, smiling back up at him.


	135. Chapter 135

**Chapter 135**

"Two obvious choices," Geordi said as he faced the others, outlining their rescue options. "Transporters and shuttlecraft. Even though we're limited to short range sensors, there's no evidence whatsoever that the Breen are using any form of shielding - which means that logically transporters would be the simplest way in."

"Except...?" Riker prompted, hearing the uncertainty in the Chief Engineer's voice.

"Except for those cryoformic tendrils, Commander," the engineer continued. "As I said, they are an incredibly effective energy adsorption system; they'll soak up any form of energy - including a transporter beam."

"But cryoformic fibers can only be attuned to one frequency," Tiron argued. "Can you not just modify your transporters to use a different frequency?"

Data nodded. "If there was only a single set of tendrils - or if all the tendrils were adjusted to that same frequency, then yes, we could. However, the Breen ship exudes several hundred of these tendrils, which envelope the ship in protective layers. As far as our sensors have been able to determine, each tendril has been adjusted to cover a different wavelength, effectively rendering the ship protected against any incoming energy patterns."

"It's more than just protection," Geordi clarified, "they use the tendrils to absorb the incoming energy and use it to power their ship."

"That would not be an efficient method for propelling the ship," Worf pointed out.

"It would not," Data agreed, "if it were their only method. Therefore, it would be prudent to suspect that they have additional propulsive technology aboard - but have not chosen to implement its use thus far."

Tar Zumell shook her head. "But... why not?"

Deanna looked at the elderly Cardassian. "We don't fully understand the Breen psychological point of view, yet, Tar, but from what we have seen in our brief encounter, we can deduce that the Breen are either technologically paranoid - they do not want us to know the extent of their abilities - or, and this does fit in well with what we learned from Ambassador Tillerman - they are concealing that information for other reasons."

"And those reasons are...?" Tiron prompted.

"They are testing us, Ambassador," Beverly said. "Like rats in a maze, they want to see what we are capable of doing - and what we will do."

"In this case, if we make the assumption they can only move so fast," Geordi explained, "for example, as fast as an energy adsorption methodology would permit - which is something that we can deduce from our limited sensor findings, and something that we verified when they first approached us - will we repair our system only well enough to escape at a speed slightly higher than them - or will we repair our systems well enough to try to escape at our maximum speed?"

"But why?" Zumell asked again.

"It would give them a better understanding about our psychology, Tar," Beverly offered. "Do we limit ourselves to acting on what we know?"

"Or do we believe that 'good enough' isn't?" Will added.

"But does it not also presuppose that escape is the option you will choose - rather than to attempt a rescues of your people?" the Cardassian continued.

Will smiled at the teacher. "That it does, Ambassador - and that's what we're hoping they won't expect. If we can do it," he added, his smile fading as he grew grim once more. "Geordi, you're saying we can't transport over - but the Breen transported here, then transported themselves and the Captain back off the ship. If we can't do it, how could they?"

"Non-standard transporters, Commander," the engineer replied. "Probably phase-shifting technology."

"But I thought phase-shifting transporters can cause physiological damage," Deanna countered.

"In humanoid life-forms, yes," Beverly agreed. "The Breen, however, may be impervious to that trauma due to their physiological differences. Or they may have found a way to medicate or immunize themselves against the damage. In either case, they've found an effective way to use the technology without harming themselves in the process - though I'm not sure the same could be said for humans," she added warily. "Our experience with phase-shifted transport was unpleasant - and that was after it had been modified to allow humans to use it. Without that modification..." She let her voice trail off.

"But the Breen transported Ambassador Tillerman as well," Worf pointed out. "Would they have harmed one of their own?"

If they did, Beverly thought to herself, he deserved it, but... She sighed. "I don't know - but I can't imagine he would have been agreeable to the transport if it had been dangerous or uncomfortable - but as I said, that doesn't mean that there isn't some sort of immunization he could have been given that would have ameliorated the effect," she said.

"I, however, experienced no such effects when I was transported to a Breen vessel," Worf reminded the others.

"Different ships, Worf, perhaps different transporter systems," Geordi countered. "Can you imagine the mess you'd have if every prisoner of war came on board - and promptly threw up?"

"Or worse," Beverly said. "But... Effective, don't you think?" she added solemnly. "The mere act of transporting someone onto your ship would verify their alliance. Allies would be immunized - but no one else. Any spies would immediately betray themselves."

Data's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

"And that might have happened to the Captain?" Will asked the doctor. "You think the Captain and Lt. Andile may have been harmed during the transport?" he said - then looked at Deanna. "Can you tell if either of them has been injured?"

The empath shook her head. "I'm not sensing anything from either of them, Commander - but that may mean nothing. I'm still not that familiar with Biji's presence; even when we're in the same room, she has always been almost impossible to sense..."

"But you've served with the captain for years," Will reminded her. "Can you sense anything from him?"

"No - but... The Breen have never been subject to telepathic screening, Will," she reminded him. "We've always assumed it was because they weren't telepathic because we can't read them - just as with the Ferengi - but it could be that they simply have some sort of technological barrier - maybe even this conformation of the cryoformic tendrils - that preventing us from reading them. If that was the case, it would prevent me from sensing the captain or Biji - or Ambassador Tillerman, for that matter," she pointed out.

"Tillerman," Worf grumbled, his voice low in his throat. "If he were here..."

"Let's be thankful he's not, Worf," Geordi interjected. "The fact that Ambassador Tillerman went back with the Breen may be the way we're going to get the captain back."

The remark caused a round of raised brows. "Explain," Will ordered the engineer.

It was, Data, however, who responded. "Sir, when the Ambassador left the bridge, he took with him both his Federation communicator and the phaser he used. Both devices contain trace amounts of dichloropsylium..."

"Dicholoropsylium?" Tiron asked.

Geordi smiled. "It's an organic compound - a by-product of the breakdown of a prehistoric plankton-like creature of Diavoara Four. As the creatures died off, several million years ago, their bodies sank to the ocean floor, and became part of the sedimentary layers there."

"It is those sedimentary layers that have been used, for the past sixty years, in the manufacture of iso-linear chips," Data offered.

"The amount in the ore is miniscule - but it's the very presence of that trace amount that's caused the batch variations in the chips. That's why, in theory, any two chips should be interchangeable - but because of the dicholorpsylium contaminants, they aren't," Geordi concluded.

"Your point being...?" Will prompted the two, his temper shortening.

"Our point, Commander," Geordi replied, "is that there are iso-linear chips in both the communicators and the phasers - iso-linear chips that contain material that should only be in Federation issued supplies - but not in any of the Breen equipment. If we can get the sensors strength high enough, I can scan for the substance - and that should tell us where the Ambassador is."

"Tillerman?" Tiron interrupted. "Why would it not tell you the location of your Captain or the baj?" he pressed.

"It is unlikely that the Breen would have allowed either of them to retain those devices, sir," Data interjected. "Based on the flexibility of the components contained in the communicators, and their ability to be used in multiple applications, including those that could lead to escape, we must presume the Breen would have deprived the lieutenant and the captain of their communicators."

"But if Tillerman really was working in cooperation with the Breen, they wouldn't think to take his from him; there'd be no reason," Deanna added.

"And if we locate the Ambassador," Worf growled, "we will learn the location of the Captain. And the lieutenant," he added at Data's querulous look.

"You said you'd need to increase sensor strength, Geordi," Will replied. "How long will that take?"

"About an hour," the engineer replied. "But that's only half the battle, sir; before we can locate them, we need to get the team in there."

"Couldn't we utilize the same sort of technology the Breen are using?" Will asked. "Create a phase-shift in the transporter patterns and punch a hole through the Breen tendrils?"

Geordi shook his head. "If we had time, maybe - maybe in a month or a year - but we'd have to recreate the transporter system from the ground up. Every component would have to be re-designed to accommodate the phase shifts - and in our current condition, we don't have the equipment, the personnel - or the time - to do it."

"Which leaves the shuttlecraft," Worf said.

"That's what we were thinking," Geordi agreed. "And it solves the problem about the sensors. If we can get a shuttle close enough, we can scan for the dichloropsylium without having to boost the sensors - and that means we save an hour that we don't have."

"But," Will pointed out, "it doesn't solve the problem of how we get on board - unless proximity to the Breen ship also decreases the problems related to transporting through those tendrils," he added hopefully.

A hope that was immediately crushed.

"No, sir," Data said. "Indeed, proximity exacerbates that problem. They will absorb the energy even more efficiently."

"But can you not simply maneuver the vessel beneath the layers of the tendrils - then transport aboard from there?" Zumell asked.

Geordi nodded. "In theory, yes - but the tendrils are wrapped around the ship, like the petals of a flower around the center. There'd be no space between the tendrils for a ship to move..."

"But..." Zumell began - then shook her head apologetically. "I am sorry. I was a teacher - not a scientist. I should be silenting. I do not know of what you am speaking."

Will smiled at the elderly woman. "Tar, one of the tenets of these conferences has always been that every thought, every opinion, has been welcomed. What were you going to say?"

The Cardassian hesitated - then looked down, staring at the huge Romulan hand that was now wrapped around hers. Gently - very gently - Tiron squeezed the hand and nodded. "The baj reminded me: Narrow beams illuminate very brightly - but what is seen is only a small space. Sometimes, what we need is a wider beam, that we may see more - even if not always as brightly," he said. "What do you see, Madam Ambassador?" he asked softly.

"Just..." she began hesitantly - then looked at Data. "You said the tendrils could not be compressed without breaking."

Data nodded. "Cryoformic fibers can be intermeshed to increase tensile strength and power adsorption capabilities - but once formed into their final state, compressibility is extremely limited," he concurred.

"Then... if these layers are directly atop on another," Zumell continued, "if something hits one layer, then layers beneath are compressed, yes? Each impact of debris - and there is much debris in space, yes? - each impact could damage the tendrils. That would seem... foolish. Would they not rather space them apart so that they could accept the impacts without threatening the layers below?" she asked.

Geordi gaped at the Cardassian for a moment - then looked at Data. "She's got a point, Data - a good one," he added, looking back at Zumell, an expression of greater regard over his face. "There would have to be a gap between the tendrils."

"Indeed," Data agreed, the repeated, his eyes widening in comprehension, "Indeed! And if the tendrils were engaged - that is, if they were being used for their energy absorbing function - they would generate a slight electrostatic charge which would act as a natural repulsion system, keeping the tendrils not only spaced, but in a fixed position, relative to one another." He hesitated, considering, then looked at the others. "The engineering involved in such a feat is... remarkable," he added.

"But is the gap between the tendrils large enough for a shuttlecraft to pass through?" Will asked, getting to the real question.

Geordi and Data exchanged a glance - then Geordi gave an uncertain shrug. "In theory, yes. Using the physical dimensions of the tendril draining the Enterprise, and the power flow capability of a cryoformic fiber of those dimensions, the residual charge would be..." He thought for a moment, making the mental calculation - then glanced at Data, who gave a single nod of his head.

"It should be possible," Geordi conceded at last. "The electrostatic charge on the tendrils should allow for a shuttlecraft to pass through - but it'll be close. Less than two feet clearance on all sides. If we touch any part of the tendril, it's going to alert the Breen that we're there. It's going to take one hell of a pilot to get us through it, Commander."

"Fortunately, I'm one hell of a shuttlecraft pilot," Will replied.

Tiron glanced at the man, but said nothing.

"Maneuvering into the tendrils presents only one half of the problem, Commander," Worf countered. "First we must get there - without being detected by the Breen."

"Unfortunately, I brought only one cloaking device to the negotiation," Tiron sighed, "And there is not time to remove it from the captain's yacht and reinstall it into a shuttlecraft - nor is there space enough to fit the yacht into the interstitial space that the tendrils allow."

"But the yacht would hold one of the shuttlecraft," Beverly said.

"You mean, load a shuttle onto the yacht, cloak the yacht and move it close to the Breen vessel - and then launch the shuttle?" Geordi asked.

"That's the general idea," Beverly replied.

"Would that work?" Deanna asked.

Geordi considered - then nodded. "It should. Unless the Breen have some way of detecting a cloaking field - and there was nothing in the war that suggested they have that technology - the yacht can approach the Breen ship undetected. And once there, the repulsion of the charges on the tendrils, would, in essence, create a blind spot directly around the ship."

"That does not make sense, Commander," Zumell said. "Why such an effective protection method - and yet such an ineffective one?"

Geordi smiled once again. "It's not ineffective. Anything - from matter to energy - that touched the tendrils, lets the Breen know something's there. The odds of something managing to make its way in-between the tendrils - and thus becoming invisible to them - and not alerting them to its presence as it moves toward the ship - are billions to one against. Of course, that's only for something that isn't being guided into those layers. Hopefully, we can beat the odds - but that's going to be the real trick. We have to make damned sure we don't touch those tendrils - or they're going to know something's happening.

"Once we're beneath the last layer of the tendrils and we're adjacent to the ship's hull, we can beam in using the shuttle's on-board transporter."

"Beaming out may prove more problematic, considering the size and component make-up of the Breen vessel," Data pointed out. "The point at which you make contact with the Breen hull will be determined by the interleaving of the tendrils - and movement to and from the location of the Ambassador - and the captain and lieutenant subsequently, along with the unknown structural components of the Breen vessel itself - may render you beyond standard shuttle transporter capability."

"So we'll carry personal transporters and transport enhancers," Will countered angrily, his voice growing strident as he felt the moments beginning to race by. "Will that work? Will that let us get them out of there?"

Data fell silent, surprised by the vitriol in the man's voice - then replied, "It should. However, Commander, even with the enhanced transporters, the odds of a successful completion of the intended mission are not favorable, based on the factors, contingencies and risks we have stated."

Will gritted his teeth. "Is there a better way to get them back?" he growled frustratedly.

The android considered for a moment - then shook his head. "No, sir."

"Then we go," he announced to the gathering. "Worf, meet me in shuttlebay three in five minutes. Beverly, we're going to need med kits. Ambassador Tiron, I'm going to have to ask you to assist us in activating the cloaking device on the yacht and instructing Cmdr. Data in its use..."

"No," Tiron said flatly.

Will gaped at the man. "I beg you pardon?"

"The cloaking device is the property of the Romulan Star Empire," the huge Romulan said firmly. "I permitted your installation of the device in the captain's yacht solely on the condition that I be the one to operate it. If you wish to utilize it again, it will be under those same conditions," he added.

Riker hesitated, confused, unable to quite believe the alien. "You mean you intend to join the away mission?" he said at last.

"No, Commander," Tiron corrected the human

Will sighed, relieved at that.

"I mean," Tiron continued, "that I intend to lead it."


	136. Chapter 136

**Chapter 136**

"Don't! Don't say anything - don't _think_ anything!" Andile quickly ordered, raising her hand to stop him, closing her eyes, her face creasing in concentration - then she suddenly relaxed, opening her eyes, and staring at Picard with what could only be viewed as a look of admiration.

"What did you do to them?" she asked, the awe in her voice unmistakable.

"To...?" he replied, confused.

"The Breen! They aren't monitoring your thoughts at all anymore!" she said. "I was sure that when we knocked out Junior, here, that they'd be all over us in a nanosecond - but not only aren't they here, they're not even paying attention to you anymore," she explained. "What the hell did you do to them?" she repeated.

"I gave them something more... critical... to consider," he explained.

"And that would be...?" Andile pressed.

"I suggest that they might not be as clever as they think they are," he said. "I suggested that Admiral Czymszczak might well use the events of the last few days to his advantage - including the possibility that he could - and would, if the winds of political change required it - use the loss of this ship to start a war with the Breen."

Andile contemplated the idea for a moment, then met his gaze again, the admiration in her expression growing - along with an unmistakable grimness.

"That may have been all talk on your part - but... Czymszczak might do just that, you know," she said solemnly.

"I suggested it in order to distract them from focusing on my thoughts," he admitted, adding, "but the more I consider it, the more real the possibility becomes. Czymszczak would not hesitate to plunge the quadrant into another war if it suited him and his political aspirations."

"And with the Cardassian and Romulan ambassadors lost along with the crew, he'd have a war on three fronts," she agreed.

"Four," he corrected. "The Klingons."

Andile's widened again, then she nodded. "Yes. Of course. Worf. I hadn't thought of that. Hmmm... You've given them something to think about, all right. I'm not sure exactly what the Breen's resources are, but I doubt even they have enough soldiers and materiel to fight a battle that large. Damn! No wonder that the Breen aren't riding herd over your thoughts anymore.

"But they are still watching over you a little," she added. "They're... they're looking for me, aren't they?" she said, smiling brightly. "Well, isn't that nice? It's not every day that I'm so welcome on an alien starship!"

"Perhaps if you were to stop falling out of the ceiling?" Picard countered dryly, looking up at the lift ceiling, then back at the woman. "To be frank, Commander, I was expecting something a little more... original."

Andile wrinkled her nose in a frown. "If you were three seconds earlier entering the lift, it would have been original," she replied, equally dryly. "You and the guard would have walked in on me trying to override the control panel - and I wouldn't have been able to do a damned thing to block that guard's thoughts. As it was, I didn't hear you until you were almost at the door - and it was everything I could do to get up there and hang on."

Picard raised his eyes again - and realized that, unlike her usages of the vertical entrances and exits, this time the top of the lift wasn't open.

Instead, there were smears of blood spaced around the interior trim of the light panel above him, smears where she had obviously wedged herself between the light and the trim after hearing the two beings approached - then waited there as she realized just who was below her - and until she realized the opportunity her fortuitous position offered them both.

Fortuitous, he thought - but painful - and awkward.

And very not like the overly efficient engineer he had come to know.

She sighed. "Needs must, Captain. Personally, I would have preferred my now famous 'drop in on the aliens' approach," she said with a grin, "but after I crawled through the ductwork to the lift shaft, I found there was a ladder that ran down the wall of the shaft."

He gave her a confused look, not understanding.

She raised her heavily bandaged hands as if they sufficed as an explanation - which they did, Picard realized a moment later.

"I couldn't manage the ladder," she admitted unhappily. "My hands don't work - at least, not enough to let me lower myself down a ladder."

He started to reach for the proffered appendages only to see her pull them back, crossing her arms and tucking the blood-stained bandages under her arms in apparent humiliation.

"So since I couldn't climb down," she hastily continued, "I backtracked into the duct and lowered myself into the hallway," she said, grimacing at the memory of the sensation of hitting the floor with her equally abused feet, "then found a hiding spot and waited for the doors to open and let someone else out - which they did. Then I snuck in."

"How did you know the lift wouldn't be called to another floor?" he asked.

The question forced a smile from the petite woman. "Actually, I was hoping it would," she admitted. "I needed to see the operating mechanism function in order to learn how to override the controls. I just thought I'd have a few more seconds to find a better hiding place from which to watch them. Instead, I heard you two coming - and that's when I went up there," she explained.

"Good thinking," he said, "though it might have saved you some effort if you had known the doors are activated by palm print," he continued, raising a hand and pressing it against the panel.

Nothing, however, happened.

For a moment, Picard stared at the panel, then at his hand - then tried again.

And again, nothing happened.

"Jemat said my palm print would give me access..." he started, then silenced himself.

Come on! He chided himself harshly. You didn't really think Jemat was going to give you free reign of the ship, did you?

"Your hand probably gives you access only to those areas where they want to let you go," she replied, agreeing with his thought. "But to every place else, you're as locked out as I am." She raised her hands again at his perplexed expression - and this time, Picard noted that not only were the bandages blood-stained and dirty, but clumsily tied as well.

The Breen's idea of acceptable behavior toward their victims might be considered barbaric by any Federation civilization - but the medical care and attention detail given to him during his deposition, grueling and painful as it was, as well as his care afterward, would have matched almost any Starfleet Sickbay's efforts.

They would have treated her no less carefully, he knew - indeed, they would have given the best possible care they could afford - including, he realized, clean bandages, carefully applied - and not the bloody and dirty ones she now showed him.

Obviously she had removed the bandages - and saw what lay beneath.

"To be more accurate," she corrected him, trying without much success to be as nonchalant as possible, "I saw what doesn't lie beneath. No skin - hence no palm, hence no palm prints - hence I wasn't going to get out of Sickbay - at least not on my own," she said lightly. "While I appreciate their attempts to repair my hands and feet, it would have been nice if they had finished the job. But giving them the better of my doubts, I'll simply assume they intended to get to that procedure later. For now, however, all I have are the underlying muscles, nerves and blood vessels. No skin, very little tactile sensation, and no fine motor control. For all practical purpose, I have four lumps stuck on the end of my arms and legs. So if you're expecting any engineering magic..."

"I can attend to the engineering aspects," he replied, "although I'm not sure if I'd qualify as being a magician. I was, however, a fair engineer in my day," he added in fond reminiscence.

He smiled to himself - then looked at her again. "If we get to a point where prestidigitation is required, you may have to talk me through the procedure - if the need arises. But until we get this lift moving..."

Andile bowed her head, gesturing at the fallen guard down. "If yours won't work, try his. He was going to take you to your quarters; he must have at least some degree of liberty on this ship," she suggested.

Hauling the unconscious form up to chest height, Picard roughly pressed the hand against the panel.

A light behind the plasticene panel came to life and Picard could feel the slight vibration of the lift mechanism readying itself.

"All right," Andile said happily. "We're in operation! Now - where to?"

He frowned at the ship's schematic posted on the lift wall. "There's the layout - but I'm not sure if we can get anything useful from it. Can you make sense of it?" he asked her.

"No - but I'm not a Breen. If this was my ship, I'd know that the largest space means Engineering - but the largest space in this ship is at the center," she said, pointing toward a central opening that was easily the largest space on the vessel.

"Engineering doesn't have to be located near the engines," Picard reminded her.

"No it doesn't - but if your engineering control isn't near the engines, you don't need this much space. However, there are a number of intermediate-sized spaces around the ship; my guess is they're propulsion system is spaced equilaterally around the ship, and each with a separate control room, tasked to a master control location. Harder to overrun, and virtually impossible to capture," she offered. "But there's not much else on a ship that needs that much space. My guess is that's the ship's computer core."

"Big core," Picard replied.

"Big ship," she countered, "though I could offer a dozen explanations of why they would need that much space - starting with the basic idea that they may simply not have a medium that stores data as efficiently as the bio-neural cells. If we were still on all iso-linear chips, we'd need that much space for a ship this size. Maybe more," she added. "Or..."

"Commander?" Picard interrupted.

"Yes, sir?"

"Can we finish our discussion of Breen ship design and layout at another time?"

Andile flared red as she realized she had been drifting off the topic - again - then gestured at the schematic. "No obvious shuttlebays - so they might not have a shuttle system. That leaves transporters..."

Picard shuddered. "The transporters use some sort of phase-shifting to prevent non-Breen from coming aboard the ship..."

"Oh," Andile said suddenly, her bright eyes growing dim.

"What?" he replied, startled by the sudden collapse of the woman's enthusiasm.

"The transporter," she said soberly. "If it phase-shifts, then we probably both were sick as dogs when we were brought over, weren't we?"

He nodded.

"Which means I got sick when I was brought over," she said softly - and a little sadly. "That was how you knew I wasn't really working for the Breen, wasn't it?"

For a moment, Picard studied the engineer, stricken by the crushed expression on her face, the light that had shone in it moments before suddenly extinguished.

The light had been hope, he realized; hope that after all the accusations, after all she had done to prove herself throughout the years, that she had finally been seen for what she really was, and had been all along - a loyal Starfleet officer; hope, Picard knew, that was suddenly taken away yet again.

"Commander?" he replied.

"Sir?"

"I assure you that at the moment I rematerialized on the Breen ship, I was far too ill to note how you reacted," he said quietly.

She gave him a puzzled look. "Then how did you know...?"

"Your actions, Commander," he assured her, "not your reactions. Though in the short view, one might not see that you have the good of Starfleet in mind; in the long run, I have no doubt you are trying to act for the best for all of us - even if it doesn't always seem that way," he added wryly. "Once you complete your bridge officer's training, however, I hope you'll be able to put that dedication into a somewhat less... melodramatic... form."

Andile stared at him, her lower lip trembling - then stopped it.

No time for rank sentiment, she berated herself; there's work to be done.

"Of course, using the transporter presupposes there's a place to go," she murmured, "and I doubt that's the case. I left a piece of cryoformic insulation in Data's head. Once Geordi found it - and I'm sure he did - I put in Data's outermost access panel where I knew it would royally screw up his processing speed - I'm sure he would have recognized it for what it was; realized the compressibility deformation problem and implemented sufficient forward motion to crack the tendrils - and gotten the hell out of here, Captain," she informed him.

Picard stared at her, stunned. "Then why are they still here?" he asked.

Andile gaped in response - then shook her head. "Boarding parties," she said instantly. "The crew is fighting them off..." she began, then stopped, seeing Picard shake his head.

"No boarding parties; the Breen only sent the bridge team over - then left. They're not here to commandeer the ship, Commander; they're using it - and us - as a psychological examination, to see how the crew reacted to our removal, and see how they perform in light of our absence. But Jemat said they were still here," he added.

Andile gave a cold laugh. "Is he the one who also told you your palm print would give you access to the ship?" she replied.

"Point taken," he answered. "But I believe he may have been telling the truth, Commander. There was a level of surprise in his comments that suggested that he had expected the ship to make good her escape by now - and the fact that it hadn't seemed to bother him."

Andile considered the man's words. "Then you think Cmdr. Riker is going to mount a rescue?"

Picard gave her a caustic look. "You know his history as well as I do, Commander; what do you think?"

"I think I'm surprised that he hasn't already done so," Andile replied, "and the fact that he hasn't reinforces my worry that there was more damage to the ship than even I saw."

Picard nodded. "I've had those same thoughts - which makes it all the more important that we get you back there," he added, looking over the ship's diagram once more - then stabbed at a picture of a small alcove in one section. "What do you suppose this is?"

"Too small for a shuttle bay - but maybe a maintenance bay?" Andile mused. "Even if they don't have shuttlecraft, they'd have to have some sort of vehicle to perform external repairs. If so, I might be able to modify one."

And even if I can't, it puts us in the one position where we could meet an incoming shuttle - should the brave and heroic Commander William Riker come to rescue his captain, Andile thought to herself.

She mentally hummed a triumphant trumpet fanfare for the man, barely able to hold back the smile that threatened.

Not nice, Andile, she chided herself instantly; not nice at all! No wonder no one ever comes to your rescue - you're too much of a bitch!

I'm sorry, she apologized silently - but grinned as she replayed the fanfare for herself.

Seemingly unaware of her silent digression, Picard looked at Andile's heavily bandaged hands, then raised a brow. "What I believe you mean, Commander, is that I might be able to modify one of the maintenance ships," he corrected her.

"Ah, yes, that must be what I mean, Captain," she said, "though I'll be happy to walk you through the steps - unless, of course, you have a better idea. I suppose we could always try the transporter again," she suggested with a smile.

He raised a hand, conceding the point. "Let's reserve that for a final option. However, we still need to determine how to get to where we're going. The guard punched in a code to get here from my quarters..."

"Did you see the code?" Andile asked. "It might give me a clue to the system they're using."

Picard shook his head, cursing himself for not paying more attention to the guard's actions.

"Then did you see how many digits he punched in?" she pressed.

He thought for a moment, trying to replay the memory of the guard's actions, then nodded. "Six."

"Six," she repeated, looking up at the diagram - then looked at Picard.

"Touch that icon there, would you?" she said, flailing at the lower right hand corner of the diagram. "The triangular one in the corner."

Reaching past her, he touched the icon - and watched, to his astonishment, as the image rotated on its central axis.

Andile studied the new image the gesticulated again. "Hit this one, now this, now this, this, this and that," she ordered him, "and..."

The lift began to move.

"Six numbers," she explained.

"Two digit coordinate for each axis," Picard agreed, understanding instantly. "The triangular icon changes the perspective to another axis."

Andile nodded. "Unfortunately, three axes present a problem. Each one is adjacent to the other, so you can't tell which set they consider to be primary, secondary and tertiary. Hopefully the order is the same as in our math: x-coordinate, y-coordinate, z-coordinate; length, height, width. If not..."

"If not, we'll get the scenic tour," he replied, bemused.

"We're going to get a bit of a tour anyway," she informed him. "The coordinates are for the lift opening down the hall - I think," she admitted. "If I got the axes right, that is. Just as long as we don't land in the middle of the guard's break room. In any case, I don't want the lift to stop too close to the bay - if that's what it is. We do that, and they'll know what we're up to."

"If it's manned," he replied.

"Good point," she agreed, reminding herself that on the Enterprise, maintenance posts were rarely manned during red alerts. But, she added, the Breen weren't humans - and safe _was_ better than sorry - if not nearly as exciting.

In any case, she thought to herself, they would know the answer in just a moment, she thought as she stared at the display, watching the tiny marker that show the lift's position relative to the rest of the ship - and felt the lift slow, then stop.

For a moment, Picard was tempted to press himself against the side of the lift wall in order to conceal himself from any unexpected on-lookers - then realized that Andile was still on the floor, along with the unconscious Breen.

Whatever element of surprise they might have had was going to be lost as soon as the doors opened, he thought soberly - but even so, he leaned against the opening.

Nothing to the right, he thought, then looked down at Andile.

She shook her head, seeing nothing directly ahead of them.

He moved quickly to the opposite side of the opening, risking an unavoidable exposure, then glanced down the opposite hall - and once again, found himself looking at nothing more than the large hallways that seemed to be the standard on this ship.

Wide - but not as nicely appointed, he added, stepping into the hall to try to determine their location; unlike the passage outside his quarters, there were no carpets here, nothing to mask the sound of his footfalls.

Or theirs, he realized.

Stepping halfway out the door, he looked up and down the hall, finding it lined with closed doors.

Doors he couldn't open - but someone else could, he thought to himself.

He moved back into the open lift, then looked at Andile. "Presuming we're on the right level, where is the bay?" he asked.

"I'm not entirely sure it is a bay, Captain, but whatever it is, it should be just down the hall - maybe forty meters?" she guessed, "and on this side."

Peeking into the hallway again, he listened for a moment - then hearing nothing - no voices, no footfalls - stepped back into the lift and grabbed the Breen guard by the arms. Pulling him out, Picard dragged the guard out into the hall to the door Andile had indicated, then pulled him up to chest level, pressed his palm to the door - and smiled as it opened.

He placed the Breen body against the door, using the unconscious guard to prop the door open, then jogged back down the hall to the lift.

"Your turn," he said, reaching down to the engineer.

"What are you doing?!"

"I'm going to carry you to the bay," he replied - as though the explanation should be obvious to the engineer.

"The hell you are!" she replied angrily, slapping away his proffered arms.

"You can walk?" he countered.

"No," she protested angrily, "but I can crawl! I've got my pride, you know!"

Picard looked at her sternly. "Commander, we've no time for your pride or your righteous indignation," he reminded her. "Every moment this lift stays here - in what we assume to be a rarely used area of the ship - the risk increases that someone is going to notice. Now either let me carry you - or let's just give ourselves up to the Breen now. It's your choice," he added gruffly.

She stared at him, humiliated and embarrassed, both by her incapacity to move - and the fact that he was right. She pursed her lips, staring at him in indecision - then reluctantly raised her arms.

He bent over, letting her wrap her arms around his neck, then reached under her, lifting her easily, then turned, hit six coordinates at random, and stepped out of the lift.

The doors shut behind them, and for a moment, he stood there, listening as the lift moved away - and with it, their only way off this level.

They were committed now, he knew; either they found a way out from the maintenance bay - or they would make their stand here against the Breen.

_We can always climb to another level, Captain,_ she thought quietly, her thoughts mingling with his once again.

He looked at her hands and feet, seeing the blood still seeping into the bandages, and knew the grim truth she already had faced: she was not going anywhere. Not on her own.

_All right, _you_ can always climb to another level,_ she amended with a wry - but forced - grin.

Picard shook his head.

"I've never left one of my crew behind, Commander - and I'm not about to start now. Either we leave together - or we stay," he informed her solemnly. "You decide."

"Me?" she gaped. "I thought it was your job to make the decisions!"

"Not this time, Commander," he confirmed. "I need you to make this decision. I need to know that you're going to do everything possible that will allow us both to get out of here: no heroics this time; no self-sacrifice. No putting someone else's needs ahead of yours. This time it's both of us - or neither of us.

"So decide: do we both leave - or should I just 'call' Jemat and tell him where we are?" he asked her.

She frowned at him. "You're not going to let me be noble, are you? It'd be easier," she added, her voice dropping to a soft cajole. "I guarantee that if I stay behind, I could get you out of here and back home," she coaxed.

"Together - or not at all," he repeated firmly. "Now what's it going to be?"

Andile considered for a moment. "Oh, what the hell. Let's do it," she said. "Martyrdom's over-rated anyway."


	137. Chapter 137

**Chapter 137**

There was a long, stunned silence, then...

"Ambassador, I appreciate your concern, but I cannot permit..." Will began.

"Commander, what you cannot permit is for this ship to be left without a leader," Tiron interrupted. "With your captain in the hands of an enemy and your ship in danger, it is your duty to remain here and to make every arrangement to execute an escape should we not be successful."

Will hesitated, knowing, at one level, that Tiron was right - but knowing equally well, in his heart of hearts, that he had to be the one to rescue his captain... his friend.

But a starship captain, he reminded himself, even just an acting starship captain, sometimes has to put his personal duty, his obligation to his friends and to his family, behind his duty to his ship.

Will sighed. Maybe, he thought for a moment, Czymszczak was right: maybe he wasn't the stuff of which Starfleet captains were made. But for the moment, it was the position in which he found himself - a position that the captain had known he would inevitably face during his tenure as first officer - and a position that for which Jean-Luc Picard believed he was capable.

A position, he knew - they both had known - that might mean he would have to leave the fate of his captain in other hands.

Will felt the gentle touch of Deanna's mind in his and turned to look at her.

She smiled gently - sadly - at him, feeling the pain rolling through his soul - but knowing he already knew the truth. She nodded at him.

_He is right, Imzadi; you cannot go,_ she said silently. _Your place is here - as captain._

Yes, he thought, but that didn't mean it was Tiron's place either.

"Be that as it may, Ambassador, Starfleet Command would frown upon an away mission - and a mission involving boarding an enemy ship - being led by a foreign dignitary - especially one with whom we have no peace treaty!" he pointed out.

Tiron smiled. "Just as the Imperial Senate would frown upon my premature revelation of our key concession to the negotiations, Commander. Fortunately, your computers are no longer able to record the events that have transpired in the last few days. Commander, no one need know what has happened here - except those involved. And I believe that those here," he gestured around the room at the others present, "would be willing to... ignore... both of our breaches of protocol.

"However, should any of these untoward events come to light, it would be a matter of my word against yours - and I think neither of us would prefer to have the specifics of our actions made public, would we, Commander?"

"Damn," Will muttered beneath his breath, hating the fact - but knowing Tiron - and Deanna - were right - then nodded at the Romulan. "All right. How long do you need?"

"I must inspect the ship first. A few minutes to confirm that the connections are still in order - and to instruct your Cmdr. Data in the functioning of the device," he added.

Will looked at the man, stupefied. "But you just said..."

"I know what I said, Commander - and while I was not always a diplomat, I was always a realist. Should something happen to me in the performance of this mission, then someone must be able to utilize the cloaking device in order to return the baj and your captain to this ship. The Commander, here, is the only one capable of learning the information quickly enough.

"More importantly, however, he is also the only who, upon my request, can 'unlearn' the data - can you not, Mr. Data?" he added, looking at the android.

"I can place the information in a temporary file, that can be deleted upon request - if that is what you are asking," Data replied, "and with Cmdr. Riker's consent," he added, looking at Will.

"You have it," Will agreed.

"Will that provision - to store the data in a temporary file and delete upon request - meet your requirements?" the android asked the Romulan.

"It will," Tiron replied.

"Then give us five minutes to move the shuttle into docking position with the yacht. Mr. Worf?" he continued, looking at the Klingon. "Will you see to it?"

Worf nodded, looked at Will who nodded in agreement.

"I'll need a moment to prepare some med kits, Worf," Beverly announced. "I'll meet you at the yacht," she added, giving Will a quick glance.

He raised a brow, acknowledging the silent message - then nodded at Tiron, Worf and Data. "Five minutes, gentlemen," he said, then turned, dismissing them with the gesture.

_Just like the captain would do,_ Deanna thought to him.

_I am the captain,_ he reminded her.

_Yes, you are,_ she replied - then smiled silently. _Do you want me to tell you when they've left?_ she added softly, knowing that for as much as he loved her, for as much as he wanted to be with her this moment, his move to her side was really done for the benefit of the others - to display his certainty that they would follow his orders without question - and, she knew, to remind himself of that same certainty.

_Of course,_ he answered.

_They're gone,_ she replied. _They left as soon as you dismissed them._

A touch of surprise filled the man. Perhaps, he thought after a moment, just perhaps, Adm. Czymszczak might have been wrong about him.

He looked at Deanna. _Would you mind if I didn't give up my career in Starfleet just yet?_

_Imzadi, I knew you would never give up on anything you really want,_ she answered.

He stared into her dark, dark eyes - then leaned forward, and kissed her.

_I love you._

_I know._

Will sighed, utterly content - then drew a deep breath and forced himself up. Turning he face Beverly.

"The yacht has med kits," he reminded the physician, his attention fully turning back to his work, his career, his life.

"Standard kits, yes - but we have no idea what the Breen have done to either of them, Will," she said quietly.

He studied her for a moment. "What aren't you saying, Doctor?"

Beverly drew a deep breath. "Will, on Celtris III..." She sighed hesitating, then started again. "He was brutalized, Will, as you know. What you don't know is that there was some cardiovascular trauma from the drugs they gave him. Add to that the torture..."

"Cardiovascular trauma?' Will interrupted. "But the Captain's heart..."

"Is artificial," she agreed. "Yes, I know - but the vessels that connect the heart to the rest of his body are organic - and still vulnerable to the effects of the drugs.

She hesitated again, trying not to think too much about what had happened - and about what had almost happened - then forced herself to continue. "The drugs weakened the arteries where they attach to his artificial heart; they were losing their elasticity, beginning to leak blood into the chest cavity. It wasn't immediately life-threatening - that's why the Cardassians didn't detect it when he was their prisoner - but it was progressing nonetheless. If he hadn't come back when he did, he would have died in a few weeks.

"We didn't make that information known to anyone - you know how he is," she said, a soft, sad smile crossing her face, "and I repaired the damage. He recovered quickly and to all outward appearances, he's fine - but it did leave his cardiovascular system slightly weaker than it was."

Beverly forced another smiled. "He had agreed to having the vessels replaced with artificial ones - but there never seemed to be time when we were at a starbase - and he continued to pass his physicals," she admitted. "Still, if the Breen have used psychotropic drugs like the Cardassians used, the damage could progress much more rapidly this time - and be far more extensive. I don't want to take any chances, Will; I want the cardio-resuscitator available. It may be his only chance." She hesitated, glancing at Zumell. "I'm sorry to have brought this up, Ambassador," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Zumell looked down, shamed - then raised her head. "But I am offended," she replied. "Offended that my people - and yours, on occasion - see people as pawns in their games. But I do not deny what was done to your captain; I have seen the records. And I know he suffered then - and now. I have seen the look in his eyes when he looks at the little one. He sees his pain reflected in her eyes - and it grieves me that they were both so used."

Will looked from Beverly to Zumell. "I don't understand. The little one?"

Beverly hesitated for a moment, then said, "Lt. Andile, Will. She was sent on an undercover mission... and captured by the Cardassians."

"Andile...?" he said, disbelievingly. "Undercover? Then that holo-image...?"

Deanna nodded. "Was taken while she was on the mission. She was a covert operative for Adm. Czymszczak, Will. She was completing a mission for him when she was captured..." she added softly.

"Captured by the Cardassians," Will echoed, stricken to his very soul as the words sank in - and the reality of what had happened to the engineer began to sink in.

"But unlike the captain," Beverly continued, "Czymszczak would have nothing to do with her rescue; he had to disavow any knowledge of her activities... because Starfleet had not authorized the mission. He left her to them," she added bitterly.

The acting captain studied the women, disbelieving - and stunned.

"How long have you known?" he finally asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Since the night of the interrogation," Beverly answered, "but there's still quite a lot that we don't know. We're not sure how she survived what they did to her, and we've yet to learn how her body - what was left of it - was found, and returned to a Federation world, but we do know that when Adm. Czymszczak discovered she hadn't been killed, he forced her to remain silent about what happened - and that silence almost killed her.

"I've been treating her for the physical injuries; Deanna - and Tar Zumell - have been trying to help her with the psychological sequelae," she said. "But all of this has been done under the auspices of physician/patient confidence," she continued. "The only reason I can tell you now is because, as acting captain, you need to be as well informed of any information that may affect your decisions regarding the mission you are undertaking," she said quietly.

Will studied the woman - then nodded, understanding. "You mean you think that if it came to a decision between the captain and Andile, I would have abandoned her, because I thought she was a traitor."

Beverly met the man's eyes, tempted for a moment to deny the accusation - then nodded, knowing that she owed the captain - whoever that might be - the truth, even when that truth might be both brutal and painful.

"Yes - but she is no more a traitor than you or I, Will - and as deserving of rescue as the captain."

For a long time, he stared into her blue eyes - then he, too, nodded. "Then we'll get them both out," he said. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Beverly nodded. "Andile's hands and feet were badly hurt - possibly irreparably - during her EVA. If the Breen did not treat her - and we have no idea what their policy is regarding prisoners - they may be necrotic. Gangrenous. She may be in shock, resulting from the release of toxins into her body. Will," she added softly, "she may also be dead. If that's the case..." She sighed - then plunged ahead. "If Andile is dead, we need to retrieve the body if they still have it."

Will stared at the physician, startled by the unexpected statement. "Why?"

Beverly hesitated. "I can't tell you, Will," she admitted. "This doesn't fall under the auspices of Starfleet regulations or privilege of command. You're simply going to have to take my word that you - me, everyone in the Federation - will be harmed - possibly irreparably - if the Breen perform an autopsy on Andile," she said.

There was no guarantee, Beverly thought to herself, that even with a comprehensive autopsy and the finest of micro-biological investigations into her corpse, that the Breen would discover the secret of her longevity - but if they did...

If they did, and they became the only race in the galaxy with the extended long lives and rapid recovery and healing abilities that Andile possessed, there would be almost no way to stop them if they chose to expand their domain. One generation, and they would have enough warriors - nearly invincible warriors - to defeat any or all oncomers. Two generations, and the remaining humanoid species would be reduced to virtual slavery - if they didn't kill them outright.

Three generations... and all the universe would know would be Breen.

"If she's still there, dead or alive, you have to bring her back," Beverly repeated.

"And if we're too late? If they've... disposed of her body?" he asked.

Beverly drew a deep breath. Exposure to the intense cold of deep space would freeze-dry her body, the ice crystals that formed in her tissue destroying her body at a cellular level - and rendering every trace of her unique genetic make-up unusable to anyone who found her.

To abandon her body to the depths space would be an unfitting end for someone who had lived such a hard life, Beverly thought - and yet fitting, spending the balance of eternity among the stars - where she had spent her life.

"Then we let her go," she said quietly - then drew another breath. Andile might be dead, for all they knew - but it was equally possible she was alive - and for now, she reminded herself, that was where she had to focus her thoughts.

"I'll make sure one med-kit has sufficient anti-toxins to offset the gangrene until you can get her to Sickbay, as well as a full treatment kit for neurogenic shock," she continued. "I'll make sure Data's familiar with the protocols for the anti-toxins as well as for the cardio-resusictator. Anything else can be handled with a standard med-kit until they get back to the ship," she added, hoping she was right.

As I always hope I'm right, she added sorrowfully; I hope - and then I get Sickbay ready because sometimes hope is not enough.

She looked around the room at the few remaining crewmen who were lying on the biobeds, the silver blankets covering a few sleeping bodies, while others, further along in their recuperation, were being helped up or around by nurses and therapists, getting ready to leave her care, to return to their posts - and, perhaps, to return to these beds once again.

And perhaps not to leave the next time.

She looked across the room, watching as Alyssa reviewed the read-outs from one patient, ordered a change in a medication, then smiled at the patient, a gentle reassurance and confidence in her eye and her demeanor.

She looked across the room again, espying Greg Matthews this time, his manner less gracious, less kindly - but no less attentive to the patient on the bed than Alyssa was to her patient - and both, Beverly thought, unworn, unaffected, by too many years of worry.

By wondering, too many times, if he would come back.

She bit her lip - then realized Will was looking at her.

She forced a smile - tired and worn, but a smile nonetheless - and said, "I'll have a trauma team and surgery ready by the time their back, Will - just in case," she added.

He nodded - then gave her an equally forced and uncertain smile in return. "I'm sure it won't be necessary," he promised.

"Of course it won't," Beverly agreed softly.

The two studied each other for a moment, then Will turned to Deanna, kissed her once again, and strode from the Sickbay.

The Betazoid watched the man for a moment, love filling her eyes - then felt the upwelling of pain from Beverly.

Rising painfully room the chair, she made her way to the physician, laying a gentle hand on her arm. "We'll get him back, Beverly; he'll be all right."

The doctor smiled back, nodding. "Of course," she said - then gave the empath a disapproving look. "It's time for you to return to your bed, Counselor," she said sternly.

"Beverly, I'm fine - and Will might need me..."

"Then you can talk to him - from your bed," she asked pointedly.

Zumell reached for Deanna's arm, gently but firmly guiding her out of the room. "Come, my child; the doctor has work to do – and we can only get in her way," she reminded the Betazoid

Will squeezed himself into the yacht's cargo bay, barely able to move his body past the craft - and being impressed as hell that Worf had managed to maneuver the vessel into the tiny space so precisely - and without computer assistance.

It was a fine piece of flying, he thought to himself - not that he couldn't have done it to, and just as well...

Will stopped short.

But I can't, he reminded himself. Not this time. And if I intend to be a captain, perhaps never again.

A sense of loss welled up in the man, washing over him as he realized that should he ever be given a promotion to captain, the success he would earn would bring with it an equal measure of loss. Gone would be the ability to lead away teams, to be at the forefront of the action; in its place, he would have to trust in those who answered to him, to trust in their talents and abilities - and to force himself to help guide them into new roles, rather than to try to fulfill their roles and complete their duties himself.

Is that what I want? he wondered. To be the leader in name and authority - but not to be able to lead his people in fact?

It would be less exciting, he knew - but no less challenging, he added.

Indeed, the challenge would be even greater, he realized for the first time - and the possibilities for success equally great.

But any success the future held would always be tempered by a failure today, he reminded himself; any glory he might achieve in the years to come would have no meaning if he failed his captain today.

He pushed himself past the shuttle, letting out his held breath as he reached the nose of the vessel, making a silent resolution to lose five kilos as soon as this mission was over, then nodded at Worf, Data and Tiron, who were gathered at the front of the bay, all now clad in the standard ops uniforms of form-fitting black tunics and trousers, weapons at their hips, equipment bags at their feet - though, Will thought, the clothes looked more than a little stretched over Tiron's massive bulk.

Make that ten kilos, he amended.

"The doctor has placed the additional medical supplies in the main passenger compartment," Worf announced.

"I have reviewed the appropriate medical protocols with her as well," Data informed him.

"Mr. Data has been educated about the implementation of the cloaking device," Tiron continued.

"We believe that the shuttle will remain masked as long as it remains between the tendrils of the Breen vessel," Data continued.

"That same masking effect, however, may block out ability to scan for human - versus Breen - lifesigns," Worf said. "If we cannot detect the captain - or the lieutenant - directly, we will attempt to scan for dichloropsylium. That should provide us with the location of Ambassador Tillerman - and he _will_ assist us in locating the captain," Worf growled.

Will smiled grimly at the tone in Worf's voice - but he couldn't disagree with the Klingon's anger.

Nonetheless, a captain could not permit his personal feelings to override his professional ones. "Tillerman has been granted what could be considered asylum by the Breen. We cannot openly abduct him - and any persuasion you may wish to use, Mr. Worf, could be considered as the opening prelude to war," Will reminded the Klingon.

"Then we are to leave him there?!" Worf roared. "He will not pay for what he has done to the captain?!"

Will shook his head. "For now, Worf, we get the captain back - and if we have to risk a war in order to do that, so be it. But everything else - retribution, criminal charges against Tillerman - those we deal with later. After the captain's back - and after we get the ship out of danger," he reminded the Klingon.

Worf held his grim expression for a long moment - then gave a terse - but agreeing - nod.

Will sighed, relieved. He had informed Work of the need to retrieve Andile's body from the Breen - dead or alive - and had been truly thankful when the Klingon, true to his warrior's code, hadn't asked for an explanation. Will had no doubt the Klingon had had a difficult time accepting Tar Zumell's remarks about Data's feelings for Andile; to ask him to accept the idea that she was also a near-martyr for the Federation as well would be asking him to push the bounds of credulity just a little too far.

"Once Worf and Data get in and locate your captain and the baj," Tiron continued, "they will use the personal transport devices to transport themselves back to the shuttle - hopefully."

"Hopefully?" Will interrupted.

"Our understanding of the tendrils suggests that there is a finite distance that must be maintained between the tendrils, which means that they could not readily bar our escape by tightening the fibers to prevent the shuttlecraft from leaving. However, it is theory, only," Data explained.

"And like all theories, it may have no basis in reality," Tiron offered. "That's why Worf and Data will be carrying transport signal enhancers with them."

"Chief G'Sef indicated the enhancers will boost the personal transport signals sufficiently to allow the signal to reach the yacht should we not be able to utilize the shuttlecraft - and providing that the yacht is located at precisely the appointed coordinates," Data said. "If not... we will transport into space. There will be no opportunity to re-initialize the transporter sequence."

"I will be there, Mr. Data. I have let down one of my people recently; my disciple died because I was not there to reassure her at a time of great personal challenge - a challenge she was not equipped to address. I will not endanger the baj - or your captain - with that same mistake," he added grimly.

There was a moment of silence as the three silently reviewed the mission and their plans - then Will nodded.

"If there's nothing else," Will said, "you should be on your way. Geordi should have the warp engines ready for initialization in just over two hours. Once he begins, we'll have tipped our hands to the Breen; I don't want him to start until you're back - but at the same time, we don't know if - or when - the Breen may change their minds and decide to send another boarding party - or worse. Three hours, gentlemen; that's all I can give you," he said firmly. "You have to be back by then."

"We will be back," Worf replied, "with the captain - and the lieutenant."

"Then good luck, gentlemen," Will said solemnly, "and Godspeed."


	138. Chapter 138

**Chapter 138**

It was... awkward.

Awkward not because of her weight, Picard thought as he carried the woman down the hall - she weighed almost nothing; even less, if that was possible, than she had been the night of the interrogation, when he had carried her to Sickbay.

Nor was it particularly awkward because he had to walk so carefully, trying not to alert any Breen who might be behind one of the doors that lined the hall with an ill-placed footfall, while simultaneously glancing behind with every few steps, ever wary of the possibility of a Breen assault troop coming after them.

And most definitely not awkward because, despite her bone thinness, the woman in his arms she was still most unquestionably a woman, soft and warm, her small but firm breasts pressing against his chest, the thin fabric of her Breen pyjamas obviously not providing much protection against the chill of the seemingly unused hallway, and the close-fitting fabric of his tunic doing nothing to prevent the transmission of the sensation of her hardening nipples as her body moved against him with every step he took...

All right, he conceded, that did make it more awkward - but not nearly as awkward as knowing that she could hear his every thought.

_Nothing to apologize for, sir,_ Andile reminded him as coolly as she could. _It's the proximity effect._

He nodded.

_The closer we are, the easier it is to read one another's minds..._ she continued.

He nodded again - a little frustratedly this time; he _knew_ what the proximity effect was.

The closer two telepaths were, the easier it was to read one another - and while he was no telepath, the Breen's ministrations to his mind and body, coupled with her abilities - and the additional neurotransmitters Beverly had injected into her - had, in effect, rendered them both open to the other's thought.

And the closer they were...

In the lift, it had been easy to read her - but, with effort, he could hold his thoughts separate from hers - with effort. But now, with her in his arms, their bodies pressed together, their heads only inches apart, it was virtually impossible to keep her thoughts out of his mind - and, he admitted, embarrassed, to keep his thoughts from hers.

_Good thing we're not making love,_ she mused.

Startled, he choked, stumbled - almost dropping the engineer in the process - quickly righted himself, then glared at her.

_That's not funny,_ he sputtered angrily.

She grinned at him. _Just seeing if you were paying attention,_ she said.

_Hmpf!_ he grunted back.

_Then again,_ she added, her thoughts drifting into a softer, more contemplative tone, _there might be something to the idea. If proximity enhances intensity, then a physical joining might intensify that connection even further. Hmmm,_ she mused, _I'll have to check into it when we get back._

_By talking with counselor Troi,_ she hastily added at Picard's disapproving look. _I thought she might have noticed a difference in her telepathic contact with Cmdr. Riker. You know, between when they weren't lovers and when they were,_ she explained.

He gave a mental harrumph, nodded curtly, readjusted her position in his arms, then moved - a little more quickly now - down the hall, turning at the open door.

Stepping into the doorway, he placed one foot against the Breen body holding open the door, then pushed - gently - toppling the alien into the maintenance bay, quickly following the being as it fell, then watched the door slide shut behind him with a certain degree of satisfaction.

"All right," he said, trusting that his voice would no longer betray their presence, "let's get you situated," he said, glancing around the room for somewhere to settle the injured woman.

The maintenance bay, however, not unlike the shuttlecraft bays on the Enterprise, seemed to be filled with small maintenance crafts, shelves of equipment, work tables, operators' consoles - everything, except for chairs.

"Over there," she said, gesturing at the central dais. "I can lean against that console."

Picard glanced at the bloody bandages wrapped around her feet - but before he could gainsay the suggestion, she spoke.

"Don't worry," she said. "They don't hurt."

He raised a skeptical brow.

She reddened slightly, caught out in the lie. "All right, they do hurt," she conceded. "But it's not bad, and I can keep it under control," she added.

He studied her, uncertain if he could or should believe her - then realized he was no longer obliged to trust her words.

Looking into her brown eyes, he let himself drift into their depths, opening his mind to hers... and felt the dull ache of healing tissue, the vague tingling of nerve endings regrowing - but there was no sense of overt pain. Nothing she couldn't - or wasn't already - handling.

Pulling back his mind, he found himself staring into the deep pools of her eyes once again - and finding there a resurgence of the hurt that seemed to underlie so much of her being.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "But..."

"But you don't trust me," she finished.

He started to obfuscate - then reminded himself there was no point; she could read his thoughts; whatever he knew or felt, she would know as well.

"Not about this," he concurred, "I know what you've done to yourself in order to help others..."

"I told you I'd given up martyrdom - at least for now," she interrupted harshly. "But we've got work to do, Captain. So put me down," she said, gesturing at the console once again, "and let's see what we've got. Gently!" she added with a gasp as he lowered her to her feet.

He kept his hands wrapped around her narrow waist as her feet slowly made the adjustments to supporting her weight once again, tingles of new pain racing up her legs as the tissue stretched and tore - then faded away as she exerted control over her pain once again - but the effort left her even paler than she had been before.

He gave her a quizzical look. "Are you sure you can do this?" he asked worriedly.

"Hmmm... What were the other options again? Of course I can do this! What choice do I have?" she snapped back - then forced an apologetic smile to her face. "Sorry; I'm sorry. It's just... it does take a lot of control." She forced herself to take a deep breath - and he could feel her turbulent emotions calm.

Drawing a second breath, she looked up at him, the smile growing less forced, a little more natural - and nodded. "Yes, I can do this - but not forever. Let's get going. The Enterprise isn't going to wait for us forever," she reminded him.

She pulled herself out of the protective embrace of his hands, then turned, slowly and awkwardly, using the console and the remnants of her hands to stabilize her body - and looked over the panel.

"Hmm... Damned shame I didn't take remedial Breen at the Academy," she murmured as she pored over the display. "I can't make heads or tails of what's written here... but this display seems to indicate two main icons. My guess would be that there are two types of ships here," she said.

Picard glanced across the room, then nodded. "Agreed."

"Let's see if I can pull this one up..."

He heard a soft grunt, then the faint sensation of something brushing against the tip of his... no, her... nose, looked back at the engineer - and smiled.

_Well, what did you expect me to do?_ she thought as she pulled her head back from the screen, studying it - then pressing her nose to the touch panels once again. _Use my tongue?_

He deigned not to answer her, quickly turning his attention back to the closest ships before he could reply.

"I've got an exterior configuration," she called out to him. "I'm not sure what the scale is, but it could be a two man craft..." she said.

"No," he called back disappointedly as he reached the small ship. "It's about the same size as one of our two-man maintenance ships - but I don't see any openings; no hatches or ports. My guess is that these ships are automated. They've got external arms for tools and work. Storage compartment - probably for parts and equipments - but no crew area at all," he added.

"Maybe we can reconfigure the interior space..." she began hopefully.

"No," he said. "No crew area means that all directional control is done from outside the vessel. Even if we could somehow outfit one of the ships for one of us - and trying to create a vacuum-safe ship out of what little they have here seems highly unlikely - it would also mean that the other stays behind - and that's not an option," he reminded her. "Let's see what else they've got," he added, moving across the bay to a second area of vessels.

"If they're in the same scale, these appear larger," she offered.

He nodded, agreeing with her assessment as he hurriedly walked to the second bank of vessels. They were unquestionably larger - close in size to one of their own shuttlecraft - but larger, he knew, didn't necessarily mean they would be different - and it was certainly no guarantee that these vessels, unlike the first, would be capable of carrying a person - let alone two.

"They can't do all their repairs by remote," Andile answered the thought, almost insistently, more than a little desperation in her tone. "They're going to have to have something they can use for EVAs."

"Agreed," he replied.

Unless, of course, he added silently, they didn't simply beam out onto the hull of the ship - and even if they did go EV in ships, that didn't mean they had to keep those vessels here.

_Oh, now that's an cheerful thought,_ she replied caustically.

He stopped, slowly looking back over his shoulder at her, and gave her a cautioning look. _At times, Commander, a man's thoughts should be his own._

_And as soon as we get back, and the doc helps me get rid of these damned extra neurotransmitters, they will be once again,_ she reminded him. _Remember, this mess goes two ways: do you think I like being stuck in your head?_ she added.

_Hmmm,_ he mused. _I should think you'd benefit from the exposure to a little culture,_ he decided at last.

She gaped at him, astounded, then muttered, _By the gods! You've got a lot of balls! I guess you missed the Academy session on starship captains and humility!_

_It's not ego, Commander,_ he countered, _it's pride. France is one of the most cultured nations on the Earth - and it has been for centuries. I take pride in my history..._

_And I take pride in mine,_ she retorted. _My world was, in its way, as cultured as yours is._

He stopped short, taken aback by the idea. _Cultured? Your people enslaved you, tortured you, forced you to behave as a member of a sub-caste, without the same rights and privileges they have..._

She stopped him in mid-argument. _Should I remind you of some of the less admirable moments in the history of the French people, Captain? Your people were just as flawed and imperfect as mine - and just as noble. Just as cultured.

_And more to the point, Captain, sir, they are my people,_ she reminded him sharply. _What they did to me... they did what they thought was right, what they thought they had to do... for the good of the many. As did yours,_ she added softly.

A blush of red shot up his cheeks at the reminder: the history of his country, as well as his planet, had been marked with more than a few incidents of men subjugating other men - and often, he added, chagrined, with the protestation of it being for the greater good.

Still, the accomplishments of his people, his country - her people and her country, he added, albeit her ancestors had been taken from France long before the concept of country was even in existence - were remarkable, ones of which she could be proud...

... ones of which he would teach her as soon as they got back.

The realization startled the man, forcing him to stop in mid-study of the shuttle before him. Turning his head, he stared at the object of his plans, watching her head bobbing over the console, alternately pulling back to study the screens, then leaning back to touch the panel with her nose, then leaning back to study the screen again - and felt himself smile.

For more than fifty years, he realized, I have been in love with this woman - no, not in love, he corrected himself - but infatuated, engrossed, enthralled... but now, after seeing her, working with her, talk to her, seeing her as an equal, not as the icon she was at the Academy - or the thing of a teenaged boy's sexual fantasies... it's become something more.

Friendship, he realized. I'm beginning to think of her – as a friend.

It wasn't an admission that came easily to the man; indeed, it wasn't an admission that usually came at all. Personal relationships were something that he usually denied himself, not wanting to risk having to choose between a friend and his duty - and, he admitted to himself, not wanting to have to face the all too real possibility that some day, that friend - and the friendship - might disappear in a flash of a photon torpedo, or the blaze of a disruptor.

In a way, he knew, it was an act of cowardice, his avoidance of relationships that transcended mere acquaintanceship - but it was cowardice that allowed him to continue to function, to continue to act as the starship captain he was.

And yet, every now and then he found that someone had crept into his heart and soul, becoming, without his understanding or intention, a friend.

As, he realized, had the woman now huddled over the console.

He looked back over his shoulder at her as he walked toward the second group of vessels, then turned his attention and his thoughts to the ships.

_I've accessed a maintenance file,_ she thought, apparently oblivious to his ruminations. _These ships seem to have a larger interior space..._

_Might just be a larger cargo area,_ he pointed out.

_You're just Mister Optimism today, aren't you?_

_Just seeing if you were paying attention,_ he thought quietly.

_Hmph!_ she retorted. _So...?_ she added expectantly.

He had reached on the opposite side of the bay, studying the larger vessels.

_They're definitely larger. No exterior operating arms,_ he added, studying the vessel, then peered in through the darkened window, cupping his hands around his eyes. _Definitely designed for manned operations! I can see a control panel... but not how many seats,_ he added. Straightening, he sought out the latch mechanism, then pulled it up firmly, the sound of the metal hatch opening reverberating through the room.

_I don't like that sound,_ Andile opined from her position at the console.

_Nor I,_ he agreed.

The latch had opened smoothly enough - but the soft sucking sound that usually accompanied the opening of an air tight seal had been missing.

Perhaps a defective seal, Picard thought; after all this was a maintenance bay; perhaps these ships were here for repairs, and this one had not yet had its work completed.

It was an optimistic thought - and one, he knew, that was probably unrealistic.

He moved to a second ship, reached for the latch, pulled it up - and heard the same, metal-on-metal sound.

_Shit!_ Andile swore to herself. _No air locks. We'll suffocate as soon as we're out of bay - and then we'd freeze. This is not my day._

_A good commander has to learn not to give up too easily, Commander. If the Breen don't use airlocks on their maintenance vessels, then they must wear EV suits when they do exterior work,_ Picard replied, equally disappointed - though it did make a degree of sense; any work that could not be performed by the remotely controlled repair craft would require the presence of one of the Breen - and if they were going outside the ship, an EV suit would be required and if you're suiting up, what was the need for an air-tight ship to run you in and out of the main craft?

_Well, it'd be nice if you're planning an escape,_ Andile reminded him. _But if it works for them, it'll work for us. All we have to do is find some EV suits,_ she said, then added, _and you might start looking for them in those storage lockers,_ gesturing with her other hand at the bins that lined a small section of the bay.

_Then you were able to translate the Breen data files?_ he asked, surprised.

_No - but if I were an EV suit, that's where I would be,_ she countered.

_They look like standard air lock lockers that we use; long and thin..._

_And empty,_ Picard said, as he opened the first one - then followed that with a quick check of the others. "My guess is they used these for storing their clothes once they had changed. But..." He glanced around the area, then shook his head. "No benches or chairs out here. Breen and humans aren't that different physiologically; I doubt they could have put on an EV suit without sitting down at some point. Since there are storage lockers here, they probably changed somewhere else, possibly in one of the adjoining rooms," he added.

"Maybe they store them in there as well," Andile answered.

"Let us hope," Picard agreed, starting for the closest room - and found the door secured.

"Locked," he informed her.

"Let's take that as a good sign; you don't lock up unimportant items."

"But on a ship filled with telepaths, you wouldn't need to lock up things in any case," he pointed out. "The captain - or the _outo_ - would be able to search out the perpetrator of almost any crime easily enough."

"But you can lock a door for other reasons, too - like keeping people out of harm's way," she countered.

Picard straightened. "Like a vacuum," he said.

"Why would a changing room have a vacuum?"

"It wouldn't - but it might well have an air lock if it serviced multiple maintenance bays," he proposed. "You did say there were other similar rooms on this level."

Andile nodded. "Smaller. I assumed they were for other uses."

"Assuming we have one changing room, with multiple entrances, multiple bays they service, you'd want to be able to secure it against accidental intrusion if one of the other bays were depressurized. Commander, can you find out what's on the opposite side of this wall?" he asked.

"You're thinking there might be additional ships?"

"I'm thinking it I don't want to force this door open only to discover a depressurized bay," he replied.

"Okay... Ship's internal pressure gradients... Hmm... No, that's not it... unless the Breen think green is a danger color..."

"They don't," Picard countered firmly, crouching down by the door mechanism, studying the lock.

"Oh?"

"When they brought me to your room, I noticed the lift control panel was green when we started to move, orange when we started to stop - and red when it was completely stopped," he told her.

"But you couldn't pay attention to the location codes?" she said with a soft 'tsk'.

"I'll try harder next time, Commander," he replied shortly.

She nodded absently, her head bobbing over the console once again. "Good. Okay, if we can assume that green is safe, that gives me a frame of reference - not to mention a lot of data about their physiology and the flora and fauna of their home planet - but we'll leave that for the experts to study," she muttered to herself. "Now, I need a baseline... Hmm, where on this ship would I expect to find a vacuum..." She fell silent, poring over the display as Picard studied the locking mechanism.

Prying off the cover, he was a little surprised to find himself confronting a familiar interlock control system, not unlike the door locks that controlled the airlocks on most Federation ships - locking mechanisms he knew how to override.

Pulling the cables out, he began to free them from their connections, then twist them into contact with new cables.

_I'll try not to make the final connection until I'm sure that we're not going to open the room to a vacuum,_ he thought at the engineer.

_I'd appreciate it,_ she replied, slowly changing from screen to screen.

The two worked in silence for a few minutes, each locked into their own work - and their own thoughts. Then...

_I don't know that Counselor Troi would be able to give you an accurate comparison,_ he mused.

_Beg pardon?_ she said, looking up.

_For your... research. About the proximity effect,_ he continued. _She and Cmdr. Riker have been... involved... since shortly after they met._

_Oh? I thought their involvement was fairly new,_ Andile replied.

_It is... this time. Their relationship predated their assignment to the Enterprise; they only recently renewed their... acquaintanceship,_ he said.

Andile raised a brow in surprise. _You don't approve?_ she thought, taken aback by the coolness in the man's thoughts.

Picard looked up from his work, startled. _Not approve...?_ he echoed.

_There's a hint of... something - call it displeasure - in your emotions,_ she explained - then shook her head. _Sorry; it's getting hard to hear you again. Damned proximity effect again._

He smiled, acknowledging the fact - and deciding the separation wasn't entirely a bad thing. A moment of privacy was worth the bit of mental shouting' he'd have to do.

_I don't disapprove, Commander - or approve,_ he informed her. _It's not my place to approve or disapprove the relationships my officers involve themselves in - as long as it doesn't affect their performance._

_But you don't think a captain - or a potential captain - should become emotionally involved?_ she pressed.

Picard looked up, slowly lowering the lock in his hands. _That wasn't what I meant. I meant... it was not the right choice for me, Commander - but I am not Will - and he is not me. I think that every man must find his own path in life - and if this makes him happy, if it makes them both happy, then who am I to gainsay what they have chosen?_

_No, if there's a sensation of displeasure in my thoughts, Commander, it is only toward myself - that I could not, and did not, find a place in my life for someone else,_ he said solemnly.

_And you regret that?_

_Do you regret your decision to be alone?_

Andile raised her eyes from her console to the man. _It was not a decision, Captain; only a fact. I am alone. I will always be alone. I have - and will continue - to come to know and love people - but in the end, after what is for me little more than a few years, they will die. And I will be alone, once again._

He looked at her - and saw, in the emptiness of her eyes, an echo of the emptiness of his own life.

_I'm sorry,_ he said after a long moment.

_Nothing to be sorry about,_ she countered, lowering her head to her work once again. _Just the way it is._

_Yes. Indeed,_ he agreed, lowering his head to his work again.

A moment later, he made the penultimate connection, then raise his eyes once again. _Any idea what were about to find?_

_No - but it's not a vacuum. I think,_ she added. _I think I've found the display of the ship's internal pressure gradient - at least, it correlates to where I'd expect to see pressure variables - if I've figured out the ship's internal configuration correctly. However, if there is a vacuum on the other side, my best guess is that the Breen designed the ship so that you can't physically open the door, even if you manage to open the lock._

_Your best guess...?_ Picard repeated worriedly.

_Hey, humans have been designing pressure locks this way for centuries - even before we had space travel. I can't imagine the Breen missed it._

_Perhaps - and perhaps not,_ Picard replied.

_Oh?_

_For decades, we've had internal sensors that would have allowed us to find two beings of an alien species who were on one of our ships,_ he pointed out. _Yet the Breen seem to be unable to find us,_ he reminded her.

She hesitated, silenced by the realization. _They haven't, have they?_ she thought, stunned. _But... but they must have them! How can you run a starship without internal sensors?!_

_You can't - and since you're looking at a pressure display, we know that they do have sensors - at least at some level. However, that doesn't mean they are sensitive enough to find us._

_Damned sloppy designing, if you ask me,_ she retorted.

_Perhaps - but bear in mind that a century ago, our internal sensors weren't terribly sensitive either,_ he reminded her.

Andile's eyes widened as she considered the possibility - then shook her head. "If you're suggesting they didn't have the technology to implement current ship's sensors standards, I'll have to disagree. I've seen some of the weapons they put on the black market, Captain; technologically, they are years ahead of us!"

"In weapons, perhaps. But this ship isn't a state of the art design, Commander," he pointed out. "Think about it: Cryoformic fiber for energy adsorption? The use of energy adsorption itself? These repair craft with no airlocks? No, this ship is fifty years out of date by our standards - God knows how out of date it is by theirs. That their sensors can't find us is no surprise - they're no more sophisticated than ours were - a century ago," he pointed out.

"I don't follow you," she said, shaking her head, trying to chase off the headache that was threatening. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying: This is not a warship, Commander. For the lack of more precise terminology, let's call it a research vessel - and an old one at that," he added.

She stared at him for a long time - then sighed. "I think, Captain, that I'm insulted. They studied us for the gods know how many years - and we didn't even rate highly enough on their initial investigations to rate a first craft research vessel. Great. Lovely," she muttered.

"Be thankful that we didn't rate a better grade of vessel, Commander," he replied. "The fact that they weren't prepared to have to chase us down is going to be the only advantage we have in getting off this ship. Now, if you're quite ready, let's see what's in this storage room," he added, returning to the locking mechanism, grabbing the exposed cables, and preparing to make the final connection.

Andile checked her boards once more - then gave a final nod. "Let's do it - and if I'm wrong, well, it's been nice knowing you, Captain."

"I'd prefer if you simply were right," he answered - then made the final connection, bracing himself - pointlessly - against the cold and airless void of the possible vacuum on the other side of the door.

The door, however, failed to provide the dramatic rush of air he had half-expected. Instead, it slid open smoothly, revealing a narrow corridor, facing onto another set of doors, just like the ones they had just forced open.

"I'm going to see what's in here, Commander; you stay there," he added.

_No,_ she replied acidly, _I thought I'd go jog up and down the halls while I'm waiting._

Picard shook his head ruefully. _When we get back, Commander, you and I are going to have a talk about proper conduct with a senior officer,_ he informed her.

_I'm looking forward to it,_ she replied.

Picard gave a sigh, then turned his attention back to the narrow corridor.

Stepping in, he was startled to realize the corridor was only an optical illusion. What had appeared to be a solid wall was simply a divider between the passage - and a smaller area, outlined with long, narrow benches - and centered by a rack of EV suits.

A mix of glee and relief washed over the Starfleet captain; here, at last, was their escape, made manifest, made real for the first time since they had come aboard this ship.

All they had to do was don the suits, get into the shuttle, open the hangar doors, and figure out how to get back to the Enterprise, intact - and undetected.

"That's all? Get dressed, get in the shuttle, figure out the propulsion system, crack the hangar doors, get out, get back to the ship - and not get killed in the process? That's all? A piece of cake, Captain, sir."

Startled by the soft voice behind him, he turned and looked at the woman leaning against the door jamb a hard look.

"I thought I told you to stay put," he said, noting the bloody smears that marked her passage across the bay and into the room.

"I had about as much being carried as I can take, Captain, sir," she replied. "It's a little too 'helpless victim' for my taste."

"Not one for being rescued?" he asked - then made a bad imitation of her trumpet fanfare.

She gaped at him for a moment, feeling the flush of red race up her cheeks, then gave a soft groan. "You heard that?"

"I did," Picard replied with a smile, "but, at least for the time being, Cmdr. Riker's trumpet voluntary shall remain our secret - yes?"

"Gods, yes," she moaned miserably.

"Good. Then let's get the hell out of here," he added, moving to the door, and, over her protest, sweeping her into his arms once again. "Sorry about this," he said, "but I'm going to have to get you dressed first, and the easiest way is going to be if I carry you in there," he told her, turning back toward the changing area - and stopping.

The door, which had appeared opaque from the outside, was translucent when viewed from the inside - allowing, Picard realized, ample viewing of the maintenance bay for changing crewmembers. A reasonable idea, he decided at one level of his consciousness - one which they should incorporate within their own ship - while a second level of his mind simply stopped thinking at all.

Instead, he felt a grin beginning to spread as he stared into the adjacent room.

There, in the center of the room, stood a Starfleet shuttlecraft.

Old, yes, at least two models out of date - probably captured during one of the Breen attacks during the war - but with its cargo bay doors opened, he could see into the cabin - and with no apparent damage.

_For Tillerman,_ Andile supposed.

_A perquisite?_ Picard mused. _Maybe Czymszczak intended to allow him to return to Federation space - just not as Tillerman._

_Or maybe the Breen wanted him as little as the Admiral does,_ she mused. _Give him a shuttle and a quadrant - and let him explore. Preferably somewhere far, far away from them._

A possibility, Picard thought; Jemat had seemed horrified by some of Jay's actions - and probably, he added, by his thoughts as well. They might be more than willing to sacrifice the shuttle in order to be rid of the human.

"Either way," he announced, "I think Jay's cost us quite enough. The shuttle should make a nice start on some restitution."

He crouched down, Andile perched on his knee, her arms still wrapped around his neck as he quickly reconfigured the locking mechanism as he had done before.

_You could just put me down somewhere,_ she murmured uncomfortably.

_This will only take a moment,_ he assured her.

_You just like being the hero,_ she answered.

Surprised, he pulled back, studying her eyes - and realized she was neither teasing him - nor incorrect.

Fifty years on the bridge of a ship has isolated me from the action a little too often, he thought; I may not need to be the hero - but it's damned good to be involved once in a while.

He turned back to the mechanism, making the connections as before - and, as before, the doors slid open, revealing the shuttle in all its glory.

Standing up, he secured his grip around the engineer, stepped into the shuttlebay - and heard the door shut behind him.

The sound took a second to register in both their minds - and a second longer for them to realize it was wrong.

The other airlock had not closed behind them.

Instantly, he spun around.

Jay Tillerman, Breen weapon in hand, shook his head at him, disappointed.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," he sighed. "Won't you ever die?"


	139. Chapter 139

**Chapter 139**

"Shield power levels are fluctuating, Commander," Data informed the Klingon seated in the right hand seat of the shuttlecraft.

Worf gave a short nod of his head, acknowledging the information - but unable to take his eyes away from his console - or from the translucent shimmers of fibers that slowly guided their passage toward the Breen vessel.

They had been traveling this path for more than fifteen minutes, ever since Tiron had secreted the shuttle at the slight gap that was formed between two adjacent tendrils.

"You understand, of course," Data had informed the Romulan as he and Worf prepared to board the shuttle, "that you cannot remain cloaked if we are to utilize the option of beaming directly to this ship. Therefore, you must remain ensconced within the Breen tendrils to avoid detection," he reminded the Romulan. "However, in order to prevent the Breen from suspecting your presence therein, it is imperative that you do not make more than the occasional contact with those tendrils, Ambassador."

Tiron smiled. "If you're asking if I'm up to keeping my distance between the fibers, Mr. Data, then the answer is yes."

"If more than three hours elapse, however, and we have not returned..."

"Then I'll do what has to be done," Tiron answered.

Data stared at the Romulan for a moment. After spending all his life with humans, he knew an obfuscation when he heard it - but Romulans were not humans, he reminded himself.

Still, he had a strong suspicion that Tiron was not about to abandon them, and return to the Enterprise, as he had been ordered to do.

"Were you to come after us, Ambassador," the android cautioned, "it could be the initiation of hostilities between the Romulans and the Breen - hostilities that, based on my knowledge of the current state of the Romulan economy, might be extremely deleterious to the Romulan people."

"I am well aware of the danger - if I, Tiron, Ambassador of the Romulan Star Empire, were to be caught on a Breen vessel," he answered. That was why, Tiron added silently, there were documents in his bags on the Enterprise that would document his resignation from the diplomatic core - and, if needed, proving that he had defected from the Romulan people.

I will not endanger my people - not even for the baj, he thought.

But neither will I let another child die - not when I could save her.

Data studied the Romulan a moment longer, suspecting - correctly - that there was more unsaid than spoken aloud - then realized there was no more time to argue - nor, he added, was there a point. He may have relinquished his emotions, but he knew futility when he encountered it.

"The distance between the tendrils is continuing to narrow," Data continued. "The shields are making contact as we continue to maneuver closer to the Breen ship's hull, and the tendrils are briefly draining the shields."

Worf's hands moved over the board. "I am reducing speed..."

"Inadvisable," Data cautioned immediately. "At our current speed, we will only have thirty-five minutes within the Breen vessel to find the Captain and the lieutenant and effect their safe retrieval. If we are able to detect the presence of human life signs, or, as an alternate, the presence of dichloropsylium, we should be able to execute our plan within that time span. However, to reduce speed further would limit that time - and make their safe removal a virtual impossibility. We must maintain our current speed."

"But every time the ship touches the tendrils, we're sending current to the Breen power system; if I don't reduce our maneuvering speed, the continued signals may alert the Breen to our presence," Worf argued.

"Possible - but unlikely," the android countered. "The power tendrils were designed to adsorb energetic particles and EM fields from the adjoining regions of space; intermittent power surges, especially at the low levels that the shields would produce, should not trigger an alert on the Breen vessel - providing that we do not continue to provide those power surges," he added.

Worf scowled angrily at the android. "If you are suggesting that you should take the controls..."

"I was not," Data said instantly - and utterly emotionlessly. "My concern was that our residual shields strength might be insufficient to withstand an attack should we fail to make our escape within the time span allotted to Ambassador Tiron. If we are late, and he is not there, we may have to effect as escape on our own - and our shield strength may be insufficient." He frowned uncertainly. "Cmdr. Worf, were you suggesting you would like me to take the controls? If you are in need of a brief respite..."

"I'm fine!" Worf snapped back.

"Then I will continue with sensor enhancements," Data continued. "As we continue to approach the Breen vessel, the increased data our sensors are receiving concerning the hull materials will allow me to better adjust the sensors - and the more accurate our transport in should be. Even so, we may have to use our personal transporters to move within the Breen ship in order to reach the Captain and the lieutenant in a timely manner," he advised Worf.

Worf grumbled an acknowledgement, then fell silent, his hands playing across the board, continuing to make the minute adjustments that kept the ship flying between the ever-narrowing tendrils.

Rising from his seat, Data stepped into the back of the shuttle, pulling out the two backpacks, opening them, and retrieving the personal transporter arm bands that were in the packs. Returning to the front of the shuttle, he settled back into the right-hand seat, then, referring to the readings on his padd, he began to make adjustments, fine-tuning the bands to the narrowest parameters he could - and hopefully, increasing the distance they could reach through the energy-absorbing cryoformic tendrils.

A miscalculation, Data thought, and their signals would never reach the captain's yacht - just, he added, as a minor miscalculation on Ambassador Tiron's part would end in the same result.

He would not want that to happen, he thought; he would not want to know that his friends had died because of a minor error - especially one that he could have corrected - and yet...

And yet there was something worse than knowing he had failed to save his friends: the idea that he had failed to save... her.

Andile.

"Commander?"

Startled by the Klingon's voice, Data lifted his head, surprised to find the armband, still unadjusted, in his hand - and more startled to find that several seconds had elapsed, unnoted.

"Commander?"

Data turned to look at Worf. "Yes, Mr. Worf?"

Worf risked a glance at android, then turned his eyes back to the board. "I would like to ask you a personal question."

"Proceed."

"Aboard the Enterprise, in Sickbay, the Cardassian ambassador implied that you and the lieutenant were... involved," he said.

"Yes," Data answered simply.

"And are you?" Worf asked.

"We were... close," Data conceded.

"And now?"

"Now... we are crewmates," Data conceded.

"Then your relationship with the Lieutenant is over?" Worf pressed.

"Yes," the android replied simply.

"And you have no more feelings for her?"

"I have no feelings at all, Mr. Worf," Data clarified.

Worf risked a quick glance at the android - but the look took in far more than its speed suggested.

He thought for a moment, his eyes still focused on the viewports and the displays - then asked softly. "Are you certain, Commander?"

The question took Data aback, startling him with its uncharacteristic curiosity - though not, he realized, with its frankness. "I am certain."

"I see," Worf murmured in a low growl - but said nothing else.

"Why do you ask?" Data added.

Worf hesitated. "It has been my experience, Commander, that relationships do not often end as easily or as simply as we would like to believe. I have noted that in the last few days, you have stopped showing your emotions..."

"In light of the situation aboard the ship, I believed that I should temporarily reallocate my processing capabilities away from my personal growth program in order to ensure the completion of our mission and to maintain the health and safety of the crew," Data replied blithely.

"... but I have reason to believe that you still have feelings for... her," Worf concluded.

For a split-second, Data's eyes widened in surprise - but he quickly narrowed them again. "There is, of course, the residual memory of the emotional impact she made on my life at that time; however, as with my other emotion-related memories, the cessation of my use of my emotion chip has deleted the sentiments attached; the memory remains, but the feelings that accompanied them have been removed."

Worf gave a low growl of doubt. "Then why do you insist upon adding her name whenever anyone mentions this mission?" he asked.

Data's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "I do not understand."

"Whenever I - or anyone else - would say we were going to rescue the captain, you would add, 'and the lieutenant' - as though we would forget her," he informed the android.

For a moment, the only sound in the small craft was that of the propulsion units and the air recyclers - then Data said softly, "I had considered that possibility."

A sudden chirp from the control panel caused the two to turn their attention to the ship.

"The tendrils appear to have reached their terminal width," Data said, looking at the board. "From this point forward, there should be no further decreases in the distance between the cryoformic fibers."

"Can you determine our distance to the main ship?" Worf asked.

Data shook his head. "Without knowing the number of tendrils enveloping the ship, or the diameter of the ship itself, it is not possible to make that determination."

"If we don't get there soon..." Worf muttered.

"Even if we are unable to reach the Enterprise before Cmdr. Riker leaves the area, the captain's yacht has warp capabilities - providing that we reach it within the allotted time period. With its cloak intact, we should be able to safely leave the vicinity without the Breen detecting us."

"And go where?" Worf grumbled.

"There are a number of class M planets within the range of the yacht," Data counseled the man. "With judicious use of the yacht's supplies - and with a source of water from the planet - we would be able to survive until a rescue party found us."

"That might be months," Worf countered.

"If you consider the number of planets within range, and without an ion trail for a search party to follow, the actual time frame would be closer to years."

"Years?!" Worf echoed appalled.

Data gave him an optimistic look. "It would afford you the opportunity to get to know the lieutenant better," he suggested. "Then you might not wish to forget her."

Worf turned to his companion. "Commander, no one who has met the lieutenant would ever forget her - not in that way. She leaves an indelible mark on the lives of the people she knows," he informed Data quietly. "That does not mean, however, that I would not have left her behind, if I had to make a choice between the captain and the lieutenant." he informed the android. "My first loyalty is to the captain."

He then quickly added, "However, Cmdr. Riker has since informed me that it is imperative that both the captain and the lieutenant are returned to the ship. I will, therefore try, to the fullest of my ability and my honor, to fulfill that obligation. What I need to know, Commander, is whether you can do the same thing," he said, giving Data a questioning look.

"I do not understand," Data answered.

"Despite what you have said - and what claim to believe - you are still in love with the Lieutenant," Worf said bluntly. "I understand those feelings, Commander; I understand what it is to be in love," he continued, his voice growing gentler, almost wistful.

"I know what it is to love someone, the depth and breadth of those emotions, how fully they can affect and enrich our lives - and I know what it is to lose that love," he added, the pain in his voice unmistakable. "I know that the feelings stay with us long after we believe they have fled - and that our feelings affect us, shape our actions, our decisions. That is why, Commander, I must know: can you put your feelings for her aside so that we can complete the mission - to rescue both the captain and the lieutenant, and bring them both home?

"If you cannot, you must tell me now."

Data stared at the Klingon for a long time - then gave a single nod of his head. "I can."

Worf nodded approvingly. "Then, when we have fulfilled our mission, I will teach you the finest of Klingon love poetry for you to recite to her. The holodeck program for..."

Data shook his head. "That will not be necessary, Mr. Worf. As I have indicated, the relationship has been terminated."

Worf harrumphed. "That is only because she does not understand the intensity of your feelings for her. When she hears your recitation of Dak'vo's 'The Passion of Kahless'..." He drew in a breath, preparing to begin the epic poem.

Data silenced him with a raised hand. "You misunderstand, Mr. Worf. Andile did not terminate the relationship; I did."

Worf's eyes widened in astonishment. "You? But... I do not understand. You love her!"

Data shook his head. "Sometimes love is not enough."

Worf growled. "No. Love is always enough... if you wish it to be," he said soberly - then added, "if you _both_ wish it to be. Was the ending of your relationship something that you both wanted?"

The android studied the Klingon for a long time. "I... I did not ask her," he said softly.

"You decided this on your own?" Worf gaped. "Without asking her?"

"The lieutenant is a very persuasive individual, Commander," Data replied. "If I had tried to explain my reasoning to her, then she might well have attempted to convince me otherwise - and perhaps have succeeded - when I knew this was the more appropriate course of action for us both."

"Then you do not love her?" Worf countered.

"I do," Data protested.

"And yet you ended your relationship arbitrarily, without showing her the respect and honor she deserves," Worf remarked. "Hmpf! No wonder she removed your head. I would have done the same thing," he growled.

"My decision was the wiser one, Commander," Data countered.

"Love is not about wisdom, Commander," Worf advised. "It is about... grander things. About daring, about risk, about fullness of life - and the dangers that always arise when we dare expose ourselves to the joy that love can bring. Love is not safe, Commander; love is about risk - but if you are not willing to take that risk, you do not deserve the rewards it can bring."

He looked at the android for a moment, then lowered his voice. "I have always considered you my friend, Commander - and, as a friend, I would do you a disservice if I did not advise you: if you still love her, pursue her."

Data shook his head. "I have harmed her by my actions, Commander; she may decline my advances," he reminded the Klingon. "She may not wish to be harmed by me again."

"That, Commander, is the risk that love must take," he cautioned.

Data considered the advice for a long time, then gave a single, slow nod of his head - and looked at his friend once again. "Thank you, Commander. I will consider your advice. However, we must get the lieutenant - and the captain," he added hastily, "back before I can approach her on this topic." He glanced at the sensor readout. "The rate of sensor response is growing shorter - and the signal strength is increasing. I believe we are almost at the Breen hull."

"Slowing to one third," Worf replied instantly, his hands flying over the board.

Pulling out the personal armbands once more, Data made a final adjustment to all four, handed one to Worf, wrapped the second around his own arm, and returned the remaining two to the bag. Checking that the transport enhancers were secure, he turned back to the display.

"Scanning for human life signs..." he murmured, then shook his head. "Interference from the hull is too great."

"The dichloropsylium?" Worf asked.

Data shook his head again. "No trace. We are going to have to scan from within the ship," he said.

Worf nodded, his hands touching the console again, bringing the ship to a full stop within the nest of cryoformic tendrils. "I am placing the ship in a stationary position relative to the tendrils, Commander. That should prevent the shield from fully discharging before out return - but it will be necessary to use the transport enhancers if we are to attempt a return directly to the shuttle."

"An unavoidable situation, Mr. Worf. I do not impugn your piloting skills, but without the shields, any contact with the tendrils could be catastrophic to the Breen vessel," he said.

Worf growled. "They would deserve it," he muttered.

"Perhaps - but it might also place the Federation on a war footing with the Breen - and that was not the goal of our mission. If possible, we will escape without harming any Breen - beyond what is necessary. Set your phaser to stun," he added.

Worf growled - but pulled out his side arm and adjusted it accordingly.

"I am ready," he said then stood and moved toward the rear area of the shuttle.

Data nodded, slung the pack onto his back, checked his own weapon, then glanced at Worf and gave a final nod.

"Shuttlecraft transport enhancers activated," he said, touching the controls, then set the transporter code for what the sensors suggested was an unoccupied area of the Breen ship. "Transport activated."

A moment later, the blue shimmer of the transporter beams enveloped the two beings.

Picard shifted his weight, preparing to lower Andile to the ground.

"Unh-uh, Johnny-boy," Jay said softly, waving the weapon. "Don't move."

"She has nothing to do with this, Jay," Picard replied, pleading. "Let me put her down where she won't be hurt."

Tillerman studied the woman, blatantly appraising her form, the bloodied bandages wrapped around her hands and feet - and nodded. "Over there," he said, gesturing at one of the shuttle's warp nacelles. "Slowly," he added sharply, taking a step back, guarding against any quick moves on the captain's part.

Picard turned - slowly - and moved toward the indicated nacelle. His back to Jay, he met Andile's eyes.

_How are you feeling?_ he thought at her. _Do you think you can 'push' him?_

Andile glanced over his shoulder at the tall human, then looked back at Picard. _Maybe,_ she said. _I'm a little shaky; I need a few minutes - without 'pathing - to let the neurotransmitters rebuild themselves._

_In other words, you want me to shut up,_ he replied.

Andile smiled tiredly. _Please. Just... I can 'push' him - but to do what?_

The thought caught him unaware.

Emotional manipulation was a far cry from telekinesis; Andile could encourage Tillerman to think, even to believe, certain things - but nothing too far from his already determined thought patterns, he realized - and she certainly couldn't convince him to drop his weapon and let them go.

Could she?

_Maybe,_ she thought. _I might be able to hit him with a hard enough burst to drop him, to startle him enough that he drops the weapon... but I'm going to need time._

_How much time?_

_As much as you can give me,_ she admitted. _I'm only going to get one chance at this._

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, then stopped, shifted her gently in his arms and set her down on the nacelle.

She gave a slight gasp as he did so - though, he realized as he opened his mind to hers, sensing her thoughts and her plans, it was more for Tillerman's sake then from any real pain.

Let him assume she was incapacitated, he thought, echoing the thoughts in her mind. Let him... forget about her.

"Lieutenant?" he said aloud, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

"I'll be all right," she gasped, her voice thready and weak.

"Move away, Johnny-boy," Tillerman growled.

With a final, knowing look at the woman, Picard took a half step away from Andile, then turned to face Tillerman.

"Over there," he said, gesturing with the weapon once again.

When the starship captain had moved far enough away, Tillerman edged closer to Andile, studying the bloodied bandages - and the wet, red smears she was spreading on the floor beneath her.

Assured that the wounds were real, and that she was not, for all practical purposes, a threat, he stepped away - and turned to face Picard.

"I give you credit, Johnny; you're alive. You shouldn't be. I had thought the Breen had killed you," he said.

"They tried," Picard replied.

"Not hard enough - but that's something I can remedy," Tillerman said - but he made no effort to raise the weapon.

Instead, he stared at the weapon, seemingly confused - then gave his head a shake.

Something was stopping him, Picard realized - or rather, someone. He risked a quick glance at Andile - and noted the growing pallor in the woman's face.

_Are you all right?_

_You're going to have to stall him, Captain,_ she gasped wearily. _His anger is so intense it's almost palpable - and it's taking everything I've got to keep him from killing you outright. If you want me to make him to drop the weapon, I'm going to need a few minutes... more than a few minutes... without having to control him,_ she said breathlessly.

"Then it must have come as something of a surprise when Jemat and Capt. Huziah came to you, asking for help in finding me," Picard said.

"A surprise?" Tillerman gaped. "I was floored! We learned about depositions when the Breen first came to us; they told us less than one in five survived - and of those that did, most were left as mental vegetables. And while I admit there was a certain... pleasure... in the idea of seeing you reduced to a drooling idiot, Johnny-boy, the thought of seeing you suffer and die was a lot more satisfying.

"To learn, now, that not only had you survived, but that you had escaped the brig and were roaming the ship...?" He shook his head. "Thank God Adm. Czymszczak never had any intentions of signing the peace treaty with these people. Not only are they weaklings, but they are incompetent as well."

The brig? Picard thought, startled. I was never in the brig...

But Jemat had told Tillerman I was.

His eyes widened as he felt his rage growing. Damn them! he swore silently. Damn Jemat and Huziah! They had been manipulating us all - Czymszczak, Tillerman, me! - all along. They had never told any of them the truth...

... any more than Tillerman and Czymszczak had told them the full truth, he added.

Picard shook his head. On another day, this might have been... well, not funny - the loss of so many lives would never be funny... but at least fitting, two groups of liars and manipulators, each trying to outdo the other.

But today... today, he could find nothing amusing about anything that had happened over the last few weeks. He had lost people, good people and bad, his mission had been endangered - and all, he thought soberly, for nothing.

No, he added, not for nothing, not if he could get back to the Enterprise, back to the Federation - and let the truth be known.

The truth would be devastating, he knew; there was every chance it would do as much damage to the Federation as the original revelations about their involvement with the Sona'a... or with the Romulans, back at Khitomer, three-quarters of a century before, or their collusion with the Cardassians in the division of the contested territories that led to the formation of the Maquis or...

_Or any of a dozen other indiscretions that has endangered the Federation,_ Andile reminded him quietly. _And yet, we do survive. We will survive this,_ she added.

_If we get home to tell them the truth,_ he replied. _Ready?_

_A few more minutes,_ she answered.

Oblivious to Picard's silent ruminations, Tillerman continued to shake his head in disgust. "They lose you - and then they come to me, thinking I'll help find you," he sneered.

"You refused?" Picard said.

"I couldn't refuse, Johnny-boy," he said condescendingly. "You forget; I'm their liaison, their ambassador to the Federation. I'm here to help them. And help them I did. I told them exactly how I thought you and the lieutenant would make your escape."

"And that was...?" Picard urged him.

"You'd find two of the powered Breen EV suits, make your way to the secondary sensor hatches, exit the ship - and return to the Enterprise," Tillerman said. "Of course, the secondary hatches are at the opposite side of the ship. Unfortunately, by the time the Breen realize you aren't going to show there, it will be too late; I will have killed you both, trying to prevent you from escaping. Quite a tragic end to a stellar career," he added in a melodramatic tone.

Picard considered for a moment - then realized that while Tillerman's suggestion was unlikely, it held enough chance of working that the Breen might well believe it. Apparently the Breen did possess EV suits that contained small propulsive units, and presumably, one could exit the ship via any number of hatchways, just as with the Enterprise - but there, he concluded, the idea failed.

Without knowing the size of the Breen ship, or the distance to the Enterprise, there was no way of knowing whether the thrusters on the suits would actually get them to the Enterprise before the power supply gave out, leaving them stranded somewhere outside, trapped in the cryoformic tendrils where the Enterprise's sensors would never find them - and where, eventually, the Breen would.

And they would find us, sooner, rather than later, Picard thought; knowing what I know about their desire - indeed, their obsession - to keep the lieutenant with them...

_What?_

The thought, sharp, stunned, shocked, tore through his mind.

_What do you mean, 'their obsession to keep me with them'?_ she asked angrily.

_Commander..._

_Don't 'Commander' me!_ she snarled back, furious. _Tell me!_

_There's nothing to tell; it was never an option,_ he countered.

_What was never an option?_ she railed. _The gods damn you! Tell me!_

_Commander..._

_Tell me!_ she screamed silently. _Tell me!_

The mental blow hit into him as hard as any physical one could have done; she tore into his mind, tearing through his thoughts, his memories, his dreams, his visions, ripping apart his mind - then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Finding himself suddenly released, he stumbled, startling Tillerman, who lifted his weapon, aiming it at Picard - but the Starfleet captain wasn't looking at the human.

Instead, he was staring at woman who was seated across the bay - the woman, Tillerman realized, who was now on her feet, making her way, slowly and painfully toward Picard.

"Stop right there," he sneered.

Andile glared at the man. "Oh, fuck off," she growled at him - then turned her attention back to Picard, slowly making her way toward him. "Damn you! We could have ended this hours ago! If it's me they want..."

"They can't have you," he replied, struggling to steady himself on shaky legs.

"That isn't your choice to make!" she shouted back, moving closer.

"Stop!" Tillerman shouted between the two. "The both of you - just stop where you are!"

"I am your commanding officer, Lieutenant," Picard replied, his voice terse, his temper barely concealed beneath his words, utterly oblivious to the human leveling the weapon at him. "I am your commanding officer, and therefore, it is my responsibility to make decision regarding the lives and safety of my crew and officers..."

"This isn't a mission, damn it!" she snapped back, her voice growing louder, even as she moved toward him. "You're not my commander here. This is my life we're talking about - and I had the right to choose! I had the right to know - and you took that away from me! They wanted me - and in exchange, they would have let you - and the Enterprise go - and you knew it! Damn you!"

Tillerman's eyes widened in growing horror. "No! They can't let you go! If you go back..."

"If we go back, Czymszczak's plan to initiate a war with the Breen can't happen," Andile finished for him, "and he won't be able to make himself out as the military leader he needs to be if he's to run for Council President."

Tillerman's jaw dropped - but before he could question her about her comment - or where she had gotten the information, Picard spoke.

"Is that true, Jay? Is that what this is all about?" Picard gaped.

"Czymszczak put my ship and my crew at risk - and ran the risk of another interstellar war - just because he intends to run for political office?!" he railed.

"There's nothing 'just' about it, Johnny," Tillerman replied quickly. "The Federation has suffered through decades of ineffectual leadership, leading us into one peace treaty after another, draining our resources, placating our enemies - when we could have been crushing them."

"The Federation is a cooperative union of planets, Jay, not a military organization. Our purpose is research and exploration, to improve the lives of the people in that union - not military control and power," Picard countered.

"And see where that has gotten us," Jay replied. "Weak, fighting enemies on too many fronts..."

"So he wants to start a fight with the Breen?" Picard said, shaking his head. "That makes no sense, Jay."

"It makes perfect sense, Johnny-boy - because it's not going to be our fight alone. When the Enterprise goes missing, she'll go missing with her Federation crew - including the Governor Martok's personal aide - and the Cardassian and Romulan ambassadors. That's going to bring them all in to the war with us - and, courtesy of some exceptional strategies on the part of Adm. Czymszczak, it will leave their sides even weaker than they are. When we're done, they'll be in no position to argue the terms of our new peace accords - and neither will the Breen. Oh, there will be peace in the galaxy once again - but it will be on our terms this time," he sneered.

And," he added, raising the weapon, "There is nothing either of you can do to stop it."

Andile turned to the man, her rage staining her cheeks a bright red, the only touch of color of her grey skin.

"You, Ambassador," she sneered, "don't have a clue about what I can and cannot do - but I know exactly what you can do: you can go to hell!" she roared, flipping a bandaged hand at him - and watching as he flew backward, the weapon dropping in his limp hand - and the two landing together in a heap.

For a moment, the two standing humans stared at the fallen body, stunned - then, as one, turned toward one another.

"Impressive," Picard finally managed, stunned. "I didn't know you could do that."

"Neither did I," Andile replied, equally amazed.

Their eyes met - and for a long time, the two stared at one another.

"I'm staying," Andile said at last.

"You can't," he countered.

"I have to. The good of the many and all that crap," she reminded him.

"Your 'good' matters as well," he said softly. "You're injured; your hands, your feet..." he reminded her, staring at her blood-soaked wrappings.

"The Breen fixed them so far; they can finish them," she replied.

"You have friends..."

"Acquaintances," she countered, "not friends. Oh, they'll miss me for a while - but that's all. No one will grieve for me, because they'll know I'm alive and well - just far away. And in time, they'll forget."

He started to protest - then stopped.

She was right.

Not that they would forget her - not entirely, of course, he thought - but in time, and not too long of time, the memories would fade as new people, new faces came into their lives.

But not everyone would forget so easily, he reminded himself.

"Data..."

Andile stopped him, shaking her head. "Data found out the truth about me, Captain," she said, her voice breaking as the hurt threatened to cut into her heart once again. "He learned that I was a liar, a spy, a murderer - and he couldn't be rid of me fast enough. No, there's nothing for me back there - but here..."

"Here, Captain, we can offer her what your people no longer can," Jemat said, standing at the entry to hangar. "We can offer her a future."

He stepped into the room, smiling, his hands held out to the woman.

"Stay with us."


	140. Chapter 140

**Chapter 140**

Worf froze, posed in a fighters' crouch, quickly surveying the space in which they materialized - then slowly realized that they were alone in the immense room.

Cargo bay, he thought to himself - then added, an empty cargo bay.

More than empty, he decided, looking at one of the bare storage shelves; unused - and ill-kept, he thought disapprovingly, seeing the fine coating of grey dust covering the surfaces.

Looking around, he saw no sign that the dust had been disturbed in a long time. There were no Breen here, Worf thought - and there had been none for quite some time.

"This _is_ the Breen vessel, is it not?" he asked Data as he studied the strangely deserted room.

"Indeed - but apparently this room is an unused one," the android concurred, studying his tricorder first, then glanced around the room. "Based on the quantity of dust present, and the air movement patterns, I would calculate that this room has been undisturbed for approximately two years."

"Two years?" Worf replied puzzled.

"Furthermore, if these readings are correct," Data continued, "approximately three-quarters of this vessel is in a similar condition."

Worf stared at the android, confused. "Why don't they use it?"

"I would surmise that the space is not needed. With only twelve hundred Breen aboard, they would not need the full capacity of the ship," he explained.

"Twelve hundred...?" Worf gaped, quickly comparing the relative crew sizes - then looking at Data in confusion - and dread. "Commander, how large is this ship?"

"The interior dimensions of this vessel are... considerable," he said after a few moments. "The total volume of this vessel is almost eight times larger than the Enterprise," he added.

Worf's eyes widened. "Eight times?!" He shook his head. "That means they could carry more than ten thousand crewmen! The Enterprise could never withstand an assault force of that size..." he began - but Data shook his head.

"If there were ten thousand aboard," Data echoed. "However, the current crew contingent appears to be close to our own; indeed, we have a slight advantage in terms of volume of personnel."

Perplexed, the Klingon shook his head. "Then... are they cowards? Is that why they have not boarded the ship? Do they fear that slight advantage in number?" he puzzled.

Data shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps so - or perhaps the reason they have not boarded us has nothing to do with military strength."

"What do you mean?"

Data consulted the tricorder. "Based on these reading, I would presume that the primary use of this ship is not as a military vessel. There are only trace levels of weapon emissions; empty spaces do meet the basic configuration of living quarters. Perhaps the ship is primarily used as either a research vessel - or perhaps a transport vessel."

"They could use it to transport troops as easily," Worf pointed out.

"Perhaps - but based on the condition of this cargo bay, it has not been used for transporting anything, or presumably anyone, for some time," Data opined.

"Perhaps their losses during the war were greater than they revealed," Worf said slowly.

"That is a possibility. For the moment, however, the size and configuration of the ship are interfering with my ability to run a sensor sweep," Data informed the Klingon.

"If we are to search the ship by hand, we will not be able to find the captain and the lieutenant before the departure window closes," Worf reminded him.

"I am aware of that, Mr. Worf," Data said, his voice reassuming the flatness it had held when they first met, over a decade before. "I am adjusting the frequency bandwidth to filter out some of the extraneous data the tricorder is receiving... Ah!" he added in a sudden inhalation.

"You have found the captain - and the lieutenant?" Worf exclaimed.

"I am reading human life signs... three human life signs," he added, more than a little surprised.

"Tillerman," Worf growled.

"Presumably," Data concurred.

"If we could apprehend him..."

"Our mission is specific, Commander: locate the captain and the lieutenant and secure their safe return to the Enterprise. Ambassador Tillerman's presence maybe that of an official representative to the Breen people, and as such, we do not have the authority to apprehend him," Data reminded the Klingon.

Worf growled, his eyes narrowing at the prospect of having to give up his enemy so easily - but as much as honor demanded revenge, duty placed a greater onus on him.

He had a mission to fulfill.

He reached for his armband, looking to Data for the coordinates - but the android shook his head.

"The ship's power supply is located between us and the captain's position - and its emanations will interfere with our making a direct transport to their location. We will have to make a number of smaller transports in order to reach the captain and the lieutenant," he informed the Klingon - but there was, Worf realized, something more.

He glanced at his armband - and realized what Data was avoiding.

"The personal transporters do not have sufficient power to perform the multiple transports," Worf said, understanding.

Data nodded. "We can reach the captain by transporting there - but there would be insufficient power left to return to the shuttle or the yacht."

"Can we conserve power by make some of the journeys by foot?" Worf proposed.

Data considered. "Yes - but we will have to hurry. If we exceed the time limit for a return to the yacht..."

Worf stopped the android with a glare. "Then let us not waste time talking."

Data's eyes widened at the terse words - then nodded. "This level is unoccupied. We should be able to move to the first transport site undisturbed."

Worf nodded, stepped to the door - then stopped, startled, as it refused to open.

Data hurried to his side, stopping to study the clear panel beside the door. "It would appear to be a triggering mechanism - a door handle, if you wish," he added. "Based on the size and shape of the panel, I would surmise it is operated by palm print - a Breen palm print," he added, as Worf began to raise his hand to the panel.

Worf stopped in mid-motion, sneered at the door - then raised his phaser and fired at the mechanism.

The panel exploded in a flash of sparks - and the door slid open.

Data's eyes widened in surprise once again. "That may have been inadvisable, Commander; it will alert the Breen to our presence," he said as the two hurried into the hallway.

"If this area is as unused as you believe," the Klingon replied, "they may attribute it to mechanical failure - and not concern themselves about it until a later time. And even if they do decide to address the issue, the size of the ship will affect the amount of time needed to reach this location - and we will be gone long before that," he said confidently.

Data, jogging beside him, glanced at the tricorder. "The sensor would seem to agree with you; there do not appear to be any Breen in close proximity to our location. However, should such a tactic be necessary again, please allow me to scan for the presence of Breen prior to your discharge of the phaser."

Worf gave a grumbled agreement. "How much time do we have?" he asked.

Data consulted his internal chronometer. "Thirty-two minutes," he replied.

Worf grumbled - and began to run faster.

Andile stared at the Breen poised at the entrance to the shuttle bay.

"Stay with us," Jemat repeated pleadingly.

"Please," Huziah added softly, stepping forward, his hands outstretched to her beseechingly.

Before she could respond, however, Picard reached out and pulled her away from the approaching aliens. "No," he said firmly. "The lieutenant isn't going anywhere - except back to the Enterprise."

"We can't let that happen..." Huziah countered, even as Jemat started his own protestations.

"She must stay..."

"Stop it!" Andile cried out. "Just stop it – all of you! This isn't your decision," she snapped, glaring at Picard – then turned on the Breen as well. "And it's not your decision either! And it's not mine," she added grimly. "Damn it, there isn't a decision to be made."

She looked at the Breen. "You think you're in charge of what's happening here – but Admiral Czymszczak has been manipulating you and your people as much as he has manipulated us," she said. "If you continue with your plan – to keep the Enterprise here and study her crew – he will use the loss of the ship as the focal point for a new war – a war against you."

"The Federation could not win that war," Huziah pointed out.

"Maybe not on their own – but if the ship is lost with the Cardassian and Romulan ambassadors aboard, Czymszczak could convince them to join with the Federation – and whether you could win that war is a different matter entirely," she said. "No, you have to let the Enterprise go," she said firmly.

"And you have to let the captain go back as well," she added as she looked at Picard.

"We cannot," Huziah said instantly. "He knows too much about us to allow him to return to the Federation..."

"That's why you have to let him go," she interrupted. "He knows enough to make sure what information gets out is accurate – not more of Czymszczak's lies and exaggerations," she said – then looked at the captain. "Czymszczak's going to do whatever he can to put himself in position to try to take over Starfleet – or worse, to try a run to take control over the Federation Council."

"Unless we complete our mission, Lieutenant," Picard interrupted, "there won't be a Council."

"No, there won't; what there will be is a hastily arranged assembly of whatever worlds Czymszczak can convince to join him, filled with members who will agree to whatever demands he places on them – because they will believe what he tells them," she agreed – then looked back at the Breen. "Captain Picard has a reputation among Starfleet and the Federation; people know him – and they trust him. Not just in Starfleet, either: the Klingons, You have to make sure that he gets back so that the truth of what has happened becomes known," she told the two.

Jemat turned to Huziah in silent conference – then looked back at the two humans. "We cannot agree to this," he said firmly.

Before Picard could argue, Andile cut him off with a chuckle. "You don't have an option. Had your experiment had longer to run, you would have learned about the loyalty of the crew to their captain. They aren't leaving without him – and the longer they stay, the greater Czymszczak's position will be.

"No – there is no decision to be made. You have to let Captain Picard and the Enterprise go – and spare all of our peoples from another war that none of us wants to fight."

"And the lieutenant must return as well," Picard added instantly before turning to face her. "Don't think for a moment that Czymszczak won't use your loss as another reason to start a war," he said.

She shook her head. "He'll be relieved to be rid of me, Captain; I was a risk to him. Having me gone will make it easier for him..."

"Easier for him personally," Picard agreed, "but it will also give him a cause, a reason to pursue a war."

"Over me?" she said derisively.

"Over the engines," he countered. "He'll use the fact that your new engines – the engines that would have given us the ability to overcome the weakening of subspace and have an edge over every other race and species in the quadrant – were now in the hands of the Breen. You know him as well as I do..."

"Better," she replied.

"Then you know that he wouldn't hesitate to manipulate that information and use it to start a war – of that would serve his purposes," he reminded her.

"But you could tell them the truth, Captain, a truth they would believe, if you were to say it," Jemat pointed out. "Or so Garave says," he added softly.

At the final word, Andile drew in a sharp breath, pulling Picard's attention from the Breen.

"Lieutenant?" he asked worriedly. "What's wrong"

"Garave," she echoed. "He said, 'Garave'," she answered.

Confused, he looked at her – then looked to Jemat.

"You've used that word before," he recalled. "What does that mean? What is 'Garave'?"

Jemat smiled, his expression a mixture of compassion and cunning. "Do you not know, Captain?" he asked – then looked at Andile. "How long have you lived among them, yet they do not know even this about you – and yet we do, within but a few days? Is this how little they value you – or is this how greatly we do?" he asked.

Stricken, Andile moved away from the Breen – but angled away from Picard as well.

"What is it, Lieutenant? What is 'Garave'?" he repeated.

"It's... me, Captain," she managed.

"It's my name."

Data glanced at his tricorder.

They had already run almost a mile, divided at almost exactly the halfway point with a brief transport up a number of levels - and the next transition point was only a few hundred feet further.

Just a few more moments...

He looked up, suddenly alerted, then reached forward, grabbing Worf by the shoulder, and pulling him into a narrow doorway.

"Four Breen approaching the next intersection," he whispered to the Klingon.

The two pressed themselves as far back into the niche as they could - but if the Breen turned down the passage, there would be no way to avoid being seen.

Indeed, even if the Breen glanced down the passage, they would most likely see the shadow of the two, curved lines from their shadows where normally there were only straight ones.

If they looked, Data reminded himself.

However, listening to their voices - even though he could not understand the meaning - there were similar intonations and inflections that he knew from human speech - and from the speech of so many cultures. The dialogue moved quickly, with each of the four interjected words or sentences as gaps appeared - and punctuating the rhythms with occasional laughs.

They were clearly not guards searching for intruders, Data realized; they were... Who? he wondered. Off duty crewmen, maybe, or technicians assigned to an easy or trivial assignment - but certainly not security guards. And certainly not searching out an intruder - not with their laughter and voices carrying so far ahead of them.

And behind them, he realized, noting the faint change in their sounds; they had continued on their journey, not turning into the passage where the two Starfleet officers hid, not even glancing in their direction.

He tapped Worf, who edged forward, looking down the corridor for himself.

"They did not see us; they did not even look!" he whispered, his sense of Security propriety offended by the cavalier attitudes of the passing Breen.

"It is possible that the Breen's sense of safety is not imperiled sufficiently to consider constant monitoring a necessity," Data proposed.

"You mean they don't think we're a threat?" Worf growled indignantly.

"I mean, I do not believe they are used to working in a situation where any security threats are the norm. This would support my belief that this ship is not used, primarily, as a vessel of war," he explained.

Worf growled. "If it were, these would not survive long against even the weakest of enemies."

"Breen warriors, however, are viewed as most formidable opponents," Data reminded him.

"Then these are not warriors," the Klingon concluded.

"A reasonable conclusion."

"Even so..." Worf mused, "they should be on the alert for us; by now their sensors should have found us..."

"A conclusion based on what may be an erroneous assumption, Commander," Data replied.

"Which assumption?" Worf countered, taken aback.

"That the Breen have sensors," the android said.

He glanced at the tricorder again, then nodded. "They have left the immediate vicinity. We should move - quickly. That way - no," he suddenly amended. "I am detecting the presence of a small contingent of Breen at our next transport point," he added by way of explanation. "We will have to alter our path. This way," he added, motioning Worf down the same corridor the Breen had just used.

"Time?" Worf asked.

"Twenty-one minutes."

Seeing the knowing smile on Jemat's face, Picard spoke up.

"If they know your name, Lieutenant, it's because they drugged you and ripped it from your mind," he countered quickly, "not because they somehow know you better than your own people do."

"On the contrary, Captain; she was not deposed," Jemat said.

"Not directly, perhaps," Picard replied, "but you didn't hesitate to read her memories through me..."

"For which we will not apologize," Jemat answered instantly. "We were trying to save your life," he told her. "It was the only way we could blunt the pain of the surgery."

She glanced at the now blood-soaked and ragged bandages that were badly wrapped around her hands and feet. "How very altruistic of you," she murmured, then looked up once again. "But you only tried to save me so that you could later use me in your experiment, didn't you?"

"Yes," the _outo_ conceded. "Until we learned what you were, who you were," he said.

"And who am I?" she asked softly.

"We do not know yet," Huziah said, "but... centuries ago, we began to seed the stars with beings from a thousand planets. It is possible that your world was one of those planets, and you are one of their descendants," he explained. "It would explain so much of your abilities – your telepathy, your ability to heal... These were among the attributes we tried to impart to those colonies."

Jemat stepped forward once more, arms outstretched. "Garave, if we are correct, you are one of our children, lost for millennia. But if we are correct, now you are home."

"Home? Here?"

He smiled. "Not this ship, of course – but we will take you to our home world – to your home – where we will welcome you – honor you – as our lost child."

Home, she thought to herself, a wistful hope filling her soul. There was a time when I thought Starfleet was my home – and then the Enterprise... and Data...

But cold reality forced the dream from her heart. "And if I am not the product of one of your earlier experiments?" she asked, bitterness tinting her voice.

"You need not fear, my child. You would always be welcome among us," Jemat said softly. "We have much that we can teach you about your abilities, your talents; perhaps, in time, we can grant you the ability to accept and cherish these skills as they should be.

"And more," he added. "Perhaps we can help you to find the peace and serenity you have sought for so long – but never found.

"Stay, Garave," Jemat said pleadingly. "Stay with us."

The blue shimmer of the transporter beam faded away - and as before, Worf sank into his fighter's crouch, then hurried stood, looking at Data - who was glancing at his armband.

"We have sufficient power for only two more transports - including the final one to the yacht," he said. "We will have to make the next two vertical ascents by hand. Unfortunately, the first is approximately three hundred meters in height, and the second over two hundred meters."

"Can we make it in time?" he asked.

Data nodded. "I do not believe there is an option. However, we may have to act quickly and perhaps aggressively when we reach the site where the captain and the lieutenant are located. My tricorder is showing that the three humans - presumably the captain, the lieutenant and Ambassador Tillerman - have been joined by two Breen. Providing that the dynamics and population of the space do not change, we will be able to emerge on the deck less a few meters from the area where they are located. We should therefore be able to take them by surprise - but we must be prepared to use our phasers before they can either fire on us or on their prisoners. If need be, Commander, we may have to fire on all five," he added soberly, then put his tricorder back and began to jog down the hall.

Following, Worf nodded. "Shoot them all - and then sort it out," he agreed, then added an afterthought. "But won't their sensors detect us coming?"

"I do not believe that is an issue, Commander - for I believe the Breen have no sensors on this ship," Data said.

Worf stopped short, stunned - then hastened to catch the android. "No sensors - but that's impossible. Even for a research vessel..."

"Allow me to clarify," Data countered. "I believe the Breen have sensors for matters of safety, environment, power levels - but not for the presence of aliens. If my surmise is correct, they would not need them."

"I don't understand," Worf replied, his voice growing slightly ragged.

"They don't need them - because they would detect the presence of an alien on their vessel. If I am correct, the Breen are telepathic. Highly telepathic," he added.

"But... that's not possible! We know they're like the Ferengi - they don't have telepathy..."

"On the contrary," Data objected. "We know only what the Breen wish us to know, Commander. And if they did not wish us to know they were telepathic, we would not. Nonetheless, it is the only reasonable conclusion for why we have not yet been detected on this ship. I, because I am an android, and cannot be telepathically perceived, and you..."

"Because my thoughts are too primitive," Worf grumbled, having heard the remark more than a few times in the past - and having resented it each time.

Data gave the aggrieved man a quick glance. "More likely, Commander, they cannot perceive you because of simple logistics. One Klingon mind in a sea of Breen would be almost impossible to perceive. However, when we get closer there will be less interference..."

"I will attempt to control my thoughts," Worf agreed.

The two ran a moment longer, then Data slowed, stopped - and eased himself behind a lattice-like grid that covered an opening in the hall, and began to study what appeared to be a nearly flawless wall behind the panel.

Nearly flawless, Worf thought, noting an almost imperceptible seam on its surface, then watched as Data ran his fingers along the thin line. The android slipped two fingertips beneath the edge - then gave a sudden jerk, yanking open the door that led to the interior access core.

Stepping in, Data looked up - then reached for the closest rung on the ladder that lined the interior of the core.

Worf followed, glaring up the open hatch.

Five hundred meters, he thought - and less than fifteen minutes.

"Commander..." Picard started warningly.

She looked at him, their eyes close - but their minds, once so intimately connected, infinitely distant once again.

I'll miss the touch of your mind, she thought softly, wishing he could hear her this one last time.

But he couldn't, she reminded himself; this time, this one last time, words would have to do.

"I have nothing back there. I... I tried - but I was never at peace in your world. I was always alone, always the aberration, the outsider... Maybe it was because I was always among strangers. Maybe, with them, I'll have a chance for happiness, maybe just for peace - but... I gave Starfleet eighty years of my life. I think that's enough. Now, I'd like to take some time for myself."

Picard considered, then lowered his eyes to meet hers. "You've sought peace for ten thousand years, Commander, and never found it," he said bluntly. "What if you do not find it here, either?"

She met his gaze, determination and defiance in her expression - then looked to Huziah, the knowledge of too many crushed dreams fighting with hope... one more time.

Picard looked to the Breen captain as well, his eyes filled with questions - and the silent avowal that the discussion would end here and now if he didn't give them both the response they needed.

Huziah nodded, hearing the unspoken question - and the concern. "We'll do everything we can to help her find a way - and a place - on our worlds. But I promise you this, Captain Picard - as one captain to another - if Garave cannot find happiness and peace with us, then we will provide her with all that she needs - all that she requests - and let her go her way," he promised.

"I too, give my word, as _outo_," Jemat added softly.

Huziah bowed his head in appreciation, Jemat's vow apparently even more inviolable than his own - then looked at the two. "Please, allow her to stay, Captain - and you - and you ship and your people - may go. Without interference from us."

"Please," Andile echoed, looking up at him.

For a long time, he considered, a part of him not wanting to relinquish one of his crew to the arms of the enemy - but another, stronger and wiser part of him knowing that this might be the woman's only chance for joy.

"Consider, Commander; is this what you really want?"

Andile smiled sadly, shaking her head. "What I really want, Captain, is to go back to the Enterprise, to the ship I designed, to put my engines back, to make peace with my lover, to find happiness in his arms once again. But that's not going to happen," she added quietly. "I... I lost that, through my lies, through my fear. I threw it away, Captain - and I'll never be able to get it back. My life, every chance of happiness I had there, is gone. I think that for you - for me, for everyone - this is the best choice."

Picard met here eyes - then slowly nodded. "I'll miss you," he said softly.

"You won't," she countered softly. "I was a royal pain in your ass," she reminded him.

"I prefer to think of it as keeping me on my toes," he countered.

Andile nodded. "I'll miss you, too," she said, then moved toward him, her arms awkwardly wrapping around him, hugging him - the pulled away and stepped toward Huziah. "You will let him go?" she insisted to the Breen captain.

"Among ourselves, we do not lie, Garave; we cannot lie," he told her. "Soon - as soon as your wounds are healed and you wish to start - we will teach you to be as comfortable with the thoughts of others as you are with your own - but for now, you will have to accept our word - but you do have that word: Your captain is free to leave - and return to his people."

He turned toward Picard. "One request, Captain," he said.

Picard felts the hackles of anxiety rising along his back. "What?"

"Your people... We presume that they captured the two guards we left on your ship. If they live... would you return them to us?" he asked.

Picard stared at him, unaware of the loss the Breen had suffered - then nodded. "If the Enterprise hasn't left, they can return in the shuttle. If they have left... I'll make arrangements for your people to return as soon as possible."

"Perhaps at the first treaty convention," Huziah said.

Picard's eyes widened slightly. "Then... what you said about seeking a peaceful relationship with the Federation? It wasn't just a ruse?"

Huziah hesitated, flexing his arm in the Breen version of an embarrassed shrug. "Let us just say... that what was once a matter of mere convenience has become a more pressing issue."

Meaning, Picard knew, that the Breen had lied - but now, knowing that Andile carried both their genes, an alliance would be to the benefit of them both.

"Can you do something for me as well, Captain?" Andile added quietly.

He studied the eyes, their dark brown depths now mixed with hope and sorrow.

You saved my crew, my ship - my life, he thought; I'd give you the world if I could, he told her - though he knew she could not hear him. "Anything," he promised.

Andile opened her mouth to speak, to make this, her last request of him - then closed it again. "No. There's nothing," she said at last.

Picard watched her, the pain in them unmistakable, then nodded, knowing all too well what she had wanted to ask of him - and knowing equally well that she could not allow herself even that one moment of expiation, of freedom from her self-imposed world of grief and pain... for Data would have forgiven her, he knew.

As she knew.

Perhaps someday, he thought, you can allow yourself that peace.

Perhaps these people can help you find it.

And when that happens, he added with a sense of fulfillment, Data would still be alive to share it with you.

"When you're ready, Commander... he'll still be there," he reminded her quietly - then looked to Huziah once again. "I'll let the Admiralty know you're willing to initiate negotiations..." he began - only to be interrupted by a hoarse and furious scream.

"No!"

As a group, the four turned - Andile losing her balance as she did so, only to be caught by Huziah - and faced the angry and terrified visage of Jay Tillerman, his weapon raised and at the ready.

"What are you doing, Jay?" Picard said.

"You're not leaving, Johnny-boy - neither of you," he said, waving the weapon at both of the Starfleet officers, "and you," he added, glaring at Jemat and Huziah, "are not going to let them go."

"Jay," Picard said, stepping toward his former roommate, Andile following painfully behind him, "it's too late. You've told us what Czymszczak was trying to do: use the loss of the Enterprise as the catalyst for a war with the Breen - and use that to maneuver himself into political power.

"What you didn't realize is that the Breen were using you almost as much as you were using them. They're not about to allow themselves to be forced into a war with the Federation - regardless of what you do," he told the human.

"But you can come out of this - you and Czymszczak both," he reassured his former friend.

But Jay shook his head, refusing to listen. "He'll kill me," he insisted.

"Not if you can go back to him with a reasonable alternative - a peace treaty with the Breen," Picard insisted. He looked to Huziah. "A completed treaty, ready for approval," he added, hoping the Breen captain would play along with him.

"We could begin the negotiations immediately," Huziah chimed in.

"We go back, with the treaty proposal completed - and Czymszczak will be able to use that for the same political gains a war would have given him..."

"No!" Jay cut him off sharply. "He needs the war..."

"He can't have it," Huziah interrupted. "We will not fight you. But... if it is your survival that concerns you, we can protect you," he assured the human.

Jay shook his head, his fear overwhelming his reason. "You don't know him. He has agents everywhere, watching, listening... They're everywhere! On your worlds, on the Enterprise..."

Picard looked up, startled by the revelation. On my ship? he thought to himself. But... who? Where? For how long? he wondered - then shook off the worry. There would be time for that when he got back. For now there were far more urgent matters.

"They'll find a way, Jay; we'll find a way. For now..."

"For now, this ship is safe," Huziah assured him. "Stay here - and I can assure your continued safety while the captain returns..."

No!" Tillerman screamed, his voice riddled with terror - and fear tearing at his reason.

He began to raise his weapon.

It happened too fast for Picard to understand - and yet, while time seemed to race ahead, it slowed as well.

Even as Tillerman pointed his weapon at him, the scream still trailing from his mouth, he felt a sharp blow push him from his feet, and he fell to the floor, the air knocked from his breath.

He looked back - and watched in dull astonishment as Andile looked at him, her face a weird mask of triumph - and regret.

The cry still echoing in the room, Jay pulled the trigger.

_Tell him... good-bye,_ she thought at him, time slowing even further as their minds met once more - then turned to face Tillerman.

He could see the beam beginning to make its way from the weapon to where he had been standing a moment before - but before it could reach Andile, Picard saw Huziah race to her, bodily lift her up and begin to turn her around, his body ready to accept the full brunt of the weapon's assault - and to shield her from it.

He was only halfway round when the green energy beam tore into him, knocking him halfway across the room, sending both the Breen and Andile crashing to the ground, his body heaped over hers, still protecting her, even now, even as the last traces of life faded from his body.

And as they did...

Memories flooded over him - memories... of looking into the deep brown eyes, warm and loving - but tinged by worry, time and stress aging the her face ahead of time, long strands of silver already weaving their way through the tresses of jet - and reaching up, seeing nothing of the time and worry there, but only the deep, abiding love...

Of eyes, cold and hard, full of anger and worry - and terrible resentment - of a man, turning his back... forever.

Of kinder faces, smiling down, guiding chubby hands over ropes and winches, laughing as they spoke in their rough, guttural language, teaching, sharing...

Of crueler faces, crueler hands - and the sound of whips slashing through the air, landing on delicate flesh - and cries, rough and shrill, tearing from a throat that should never have known such pain...

Pain, chasing through a broken body, lying on a grassy plain - and a new face, so wrong - and yet so kind, so gentle...

And a life spent with these gentle giants, learning from them, teaching them - and then watching as the rocket lifted them - and then her - away from the planet, toward stars seen only from the planet - and once, long before, from a starship.

Long trips, of infinite quiet, infinite loneliness, wondering if or when a new home could be found, with insanity always verging on the edges of consciousness, of hearing the voices, the gods, crying, deriding, always speaking of unworthiness, of failure..

And in time, always just as the madness threatened, a new world, a new home, a new people.

At times, the stay was prolonged, taking generations to coax the people from through stage after stage of technology to the point where they could travel the stars - then leaving once again, sometimes by choice, sometimes in fear of her life - and sometimes to conceal a life that would never end. A life, the voices told her, of which she would never be truly be worthy.

A search the gods would never let her abandon.

And yet, in time, the search grew slower yet faster, sped on as worlds evolved on their own, leaving the work for her to accomplish less and less with each landing - until finally she found a world where the technology of the people equaled her own knowledge.

And world of her own people.

For a time, her joy had been endless, overwhelming, almost unbearable, a dream made manifest, a place where she no longer had to be the stranger, the outsider, but simply one of the many.

But she had learned, to her grief and pain, they were not truly her people. They looked like her, their bodies were like hers - even their genes were similar - but she was not, nor would she ever be, one of them.

And they knew it. They had accepted her into their world - but always at a distance, always leery of her unusual abilities, her unexpected - and unwelcome talents.

She was one of them - but she was not welcome here - or anywhere.

For she did not deserve to be.

The gods had seen it rightly when she was but a child; she was andile, filth, refuse.

She had turned her mind from dreams of joy then, turning herself, once more, to the work that always drove her.

Until...

A wash of hope filled his thoughts - and a flash of faces: Will, Deanna, Beverly, Geordi, his own, Data...

There had been a chance, at last.

Hope filled his soul.

And then... nothing.

She was gone, he realized, with a sense of loss that was utterly devastating; utterly gone, every trace of her presence gone from his mind.

He gasped, reeling at the realization, aware at once that each previous separation of their minds had been peripheral, at best, and that somehow, underlying the conscious awareness of their minds had been a deeper, more intense and intimate connection.

A connection that could only truly be severed by death.

Stunned, he stared at the fallen Breen - then ran to the alien, grabbing his shoulder, pulling him off the engineer he had tried to protect...

... and stared into her open, unseeing eyes.


	141. Chapter 141

**Chapter 141**

Time does not stop for androids.

It does not need to.

In an existence where events are perceived at a nano-second by nano-second rate, and where the mind can perceive each of those nano-seconds as individual events, an android could if he chose, to pick and choose which - and how many - of those nano-seconds he wished to examine.

Select one here, another a far distance away, a third even further yet - and time would, to a less perceptive individual, appear to speed by.

Examine each moment for the unique event it was - and time would, to another being, slow down.

But it would not change the rate at which those events were happening.

He had noted the passage of near-infinite nano-seconds as he and Worf had finally extricated themselves from the narrow vertical shaft they had been climbing, hearing the echoes of voices reverberating through the strangely empty corridor of the vessel. The echoes distorted the sounds, mangling them, muffling them, almost to the point of incomprehensibility - to a living being, that is. For Data, hearing the fragments of sound on a different, far slower rate, he understood the words with utter clarity - and understood, all too well, that they were too late.

Still, he raced down the hall, Worf at his heels, coming to a stop as they reached open door to the maintenance bay - and watched as a final, terrified, infuriated scream was issued; watched as Jay Tillerman, former Starfleet officer and Federation ambassador, raised his weapon and began to pull the trigger; watched as a pyjama-clad Andile, pushed Picard out of the way of the weapon's fire - and watched as a Breen, in turn, picked up the tiny woman, clutched her in his arms, spun around - and took the full brunt of the energy weapon's discharge into his own body.

Data watched, in excruciating nano-second by nano-second agony, as the two bodies crumpled to the ground, the tiny one still enveloped by the larger, still protecting her - then watched as the two lay there, unmoving.

He watched as Picard stared, seemingly unable to move - then hurried to the bodies, pulling the Breen away from Andile - and watched as he saw the loss and grief swell in the man's demeanor.

Time does not stop for an android; it does not need to.

He had thousands of nano-seconds to understand what had happened, thousand of nano-seconds to study and perceive the implications, thousands of nano-seconds to evaluate what he could do, what he should do - and, ultimately, what he would do.

What he did, however, required no time to consider - for he did not consider at all.

What he did was to become angry.

Furious.

Enraged.

With a guttural roar of unbearable loss and pain, he spun on his heel, raising his weapon and aiming it at Jay Tillerman, firing it at the back of the human, taking him unaware, enveloping him in the red bloom of the phaser's discharge, locking him in a rictus of tetany, then sending him crashing to the floor, the weapon dropping from his unconscious grasp, skittering across the floor.

For a moment - a human moment, for an android, a near-infinite length of nano-seconds - he kept the beam on the fallen man, punishing him for what he had done, for the hurt he had caused...

Me, Data realized in astonishment.

Not for what he had done to her - but for what he has done... to me.

Stunned, shaken by the realization of the vengeance in his act, astonished by the intensity of his emotions - and his unexpected reaction to them - he loosed his finger from the phaser, watching as the beam fell away - then let his arm drop to his side.

And time stopped.

A hand on his shoulder - whether a nano-second or a hour later, he did not know nor care - and he turned to see Worf looking at him, speaking.

"Go to her," the Klingon said, his voice heavy with anguish. "I will watch him."

Him? Data thought, perplexed - then realized a second Breen was in the room, standing, watching, seemingly as stunned by what had happened as he had been.

He looked at Worf, who nodded. "Go," he repeated, holding his weapon on the Breen.

Picard looked up at the approaching footfalls, confusion covering his face for a moment - then understanding.

"Data," he said softly, acknowledging the android's presence in that single word; there would be time for more words, words of thanks, of commendation - and of grief and sorrow - later.

"Mr. Worf is here as well," Data replied automatically.

Picard glanced past the android, taking in the fact of the Klingon's presence as well, watching as the Starfleet officer warily approached the seemingly-stunned Breen, his weapon at the ready, slowly circling him, until he was on the near side, then moving more quickly toward the two.

"The Lieutenant...?" he said softly.

Picard looked back at the woman, then gently pressed two fingers against the woman's neck.

He felt nothing - anymore than he could feel anything when he reached out to her with his mind - then looked back at the android and gave a single shake of his head. "I'm sorry, Data," he said hollowly. "She was under Huziah when he fell; he must have crushed her..."

His voice trailed off as he shook his head.

Crushed, he thought, still stunned by the realization; you lived, you survived, after so much more, after so much worse - only to be killed by this... this accident! he thought, stung by the irony. Huziah was trying to save you - and he ends up killing you.

By accident, Picard added bitterly.

It shouldn't have ended like this.

He looked at the contorted body lying on the floor, her head almost completely turned around, her shoulder seemingly pressed to the ground, so that she almost appeared to be looking back at him, giving him one more reassuring look - or perhaps, he added, checking, one last time to make sure he was following her.

Not yet, he told her, a little sadly; that's a journey I'm not making... yet, he added.

But not too far away now, he continued, time and age suddenly taking their toll on him once more.

He gave a sigh, aching once more for all the friends lost, the companions who had entered into his life for too short a time, only to be taken away. Perhaps, he thought, this was why we don't fear death so much as we age; it becomes easier to consider the possibility of everything finally ending than to face the heart-rending loss and the grief time and again.

He looked down into the open eyes, glazing over already, no longer able to see into their depths - and felt the grief well up again. How did you bear it? he asked her. How did you bear the loss of those you cared for, time and again, knowing not only that they had passed on before you - but that they would continue to do so?

The anguish you must have felt, he thought - and the loneliness. Always alone. Always knowing you would be alone, until...

He looked up, seeing Data - and felt his grief rise once again.

Here, he thought, here you had a chance at a life with someone who was your equal - in mind and in time.

And now he would be left to carry the burden of time and loneliness... alone.

His grief surged, changing from loss of his new friend to aching for an old one, understanding, at last, the true loneliness they had both felt.

"I'm so sorry, Data," he said softly.

The android stared at the body - then nodded slowly.

"As am I," Data echoed.

"Captain," Worf interrupted.

Picard looked at the Klingon, hearing the warning tones in his voice - and nodded. "We need to get out of here. The Breen are a rational and reasonable people - but Huziah," he gestured at the blood covered Breen, "was the captain of this vessel. There's no way of telling how his people will react when they find out..."

Picard stopped in mid-sentence. Find out? They already knew! he realized. Their telepathy would have alerted them immediately!

"We've got to get out of here, Data," he said urgently. "We can take the shuttle..." he started.

Still half numb, Data shook his head, sliding off his backpack. "We have brought personal transporters. However the range involved - and the presence of the cryoformic tendrils outside this vessel - requires the use of transport enhancers." He started to pull out the personal transporters, proffering one to Picard. "We have a shuttle waiting within the cryoformic tendrils..."

"Not our best option," Picard countered, taking one of the bands, wrapping it around his arm. "The Breen might be able to trap us by contract the tendrils around the shuttle."

"Unlikely, due to the repulsive effect of like-charged particles on the surface," Data replied. "Nonetheless, we would be visible to their sensors as soon as we emerged, and therefore subject to attack, should they choose to do so."

"That would seem a possibility no matter what we do," Picard offered.

Worf glanced at Jemat, who was still staring at the fallen bodies, then back at Picard, his voice lowered. "We have another option, Captain," he quietly informed the man. "A more... _effective_ option," he added.

Picard nodded, understanding the warrior's reticence - and trusting his people enough to know they would tell him what that option was - when they could.

Worf pulled the signal enhancers from the backpack then quickly moved a few feet away, out of range of the fallen Breen, and began to arrange them in a rough square in the center of the open area. Giving the control piece a half turn, it began to glow blue; he reached for the second, then hesitated, looking back at the two men. "Commander," he said, his tone quiet but firm.

Data glanced back at the Klingon, then looked at Picard. "The transport will require precise calibration of the enhancers," he informed the captain - but his eyes had wandered back to Andile. "I must assist the Commander," he added plaintively.

Picard studied his friend, seeing the grief in his eyes, sensing the confusion filling his soul - and gave a small nod of approbation, his silent permission to leave his friend's - his lover's - side.

"Go," he told him. "I'll take care of her," Picard said, reaching up for the second armband.

Data stared at the two for a moment...

"Commander!" Worf repeated, his tone growing urgent.

Data stared a split second longer - then he spun on his heel, hurrying away.

Picard watched him for a moment, then turned back to Andile - and stared at her for a moment, studying her face, her eyes, one last time.

She had such beautiful eyes, he thought, remembering the first time he had seen her, a half century before, smiling with a smug, teen-aged boy's smirk of approval at her figure - then felt the smirk - and the self-centeredness - fade as she turned to face him - and found himself sinking into to her eyes - and into her soul.

Her eyes, he thought, watching as the deep brown pools grew shallower, emptier as the last vestiges of life faded, staring into them once again... one last time, he corrected themselves. They had been so vibrant... Aching, he reached out with his mind once more, seeking almost desperately that now-so-familiar touch, that biting wit, that bravado - and that terrifying loneliness - and found nothing.

It was gone; she was gone.

He looked at her once more, then gently closed her eyes one last time.

Taking the armband, he secured it around her upper arm, then slid one arm under her shoulders, slowly lifting her, turning her so he could reach under her legs once her body was straightened...

A fountain of blood geysered up from her chest, spraying him - spraying them both - in a flood of crimson.

For a moment - no, for less than a moment - for a second, a split-second, indeed, perhaps only for one of Data's nano-seconds, he stared, sputtered - and then he ran.

"Go!" he shouted, pressing Andile's body tightly to his chest, feeling the hot blood pulsing, soaking into his clothes as he flew toward the two officers. "Go!" he shouted again.

He leapt into the center of the rough rectangle, then roughly lay Andile's body on the floor, covering it with his own, barking the order at the two again, his hands reaching between his body and hers, fumbling with...

With what, Worf didn't know, staring at the man in confusion - then hastily turning back to the enhancer, checking the final adjustments and glancing at Data for confirmation.

"Ready," Data said calmly, impassively.

Worf nodded, activated the fourth enhancer, then stepped into the center of the space, and touched the control on his armband that would activate all four of the transporters.

He felt the familiar tingle of dematerialization begin, yet kept his warrior's keen focus on the Breen who - finally - began to move. For a second, Worf thought the alien might try to stop them or to harm them in this, their one moment of vulnerability - but instead, he moved only to the fallen Breen's side - then slid to his knees, his voice and face contorting in the unmistakable grimaces of grief.

It struck him, stunned him, seeing this all-too-Klingon expression of pain and loss - and in that instant, he understood how very like him, how very like them all, these Breen were.

They lived and they died, just as we do, Worf thought, a strange sense of solidarity welling up in him for this fallen being - and for the one who now grieved at his side.

He turned away, allowing these aliens a moment of privacy, and found his eyes focusing on the bodies of the tiny engineer and the captain, even as they disintegrated into shimmers of blue light, and knew that they, too, would begin their grieving shortly.

For a millisecond, they four stood - and lay - immobilized in the blue shimmer of the transporter beam, their bodies coalescing quickly, their minds taking a second longer to recognize that they were once again, whole, complete, functional.

For that second, there was silence in the hold of the yacht - then the silence shattered as Picard barked, "Med kit!"

Data gaped, then slowly said, "Captain?"

"Get the med kit, Data - and hurry! She's still alive! Worf, get us out of here," he called to the Klingon, even as he heard a new set of footsteps approach.

"I had delayed my departure," Tiron's voice barked out, joy and triumph in his voice unmistakable. "I knew you would return with the captain and my baj..." he announced - but his voice faltered, trailing off as he saw the two bodies lying on the floor - and the slowly widening pool of dark red blood spreading out between them.

"Captain?" he said softly - then his voice fell, growing even quieter. "Baj?" he tried, desperation palpable in the word.

"Ambassador?" Picard countered, taken aback completely by the presence of the Romulan on the ship.

"The Ambassador offered to use a prototype cloaking device on this vessel in order to avoid detection by the Breen," Worf explained.

"In exchange for being allowed to accompany us," Data added.

It took a moment for the revelation to penetrate Picard's mind - then nodded to himself.

Of course, he thought; that explained how they were able to reach the ship without alerting the Breen - and, he added, it explained why Worf had been so secretive once he had found them. It didn't explain a lot else, he added - but there would be time for other, more detailed explanations later.

"We need to leave, Ambassador," Worf told the Romulan, pulling him away from the grisly scene, urgently adding, "Now."

Undaunted by the urging of the Klingon, Tiron stared at the two for a moment, watching the pool of blood beneath them continue to grow - then turned and hurried from the room.

A soft shudder of power running through the yacht's floorboards a moment later told the Klingon that they had moved to maximum impulse speed.

"How long?" Picard said, feeling the same movement.

"Eight minutes," the Klingon replied.

"Eight minutes?" Picard repeated, appalled and hopeful in the same instant, his eyes locked on the face just beneath his.

"The cloaking field is having an effect on the ship's speed," Worf explained.

Picard nodded - then looked at Andile.

_Eight minutes_, he told her wordlessly; you've got to hold on for eight minutes.

As he watched, her lips began to part, as though she was about to respond, but instead, he watched as a small pillow of softly foaming blood welled up between her lips, then began to run from the corner of her mouth.

"Data! Where's that med kit?!" he barked out.

"Here, Captain," Data replied, setting the kit down by Picard, opening it.

"Scan her. Find out where's she's bleeding!" he ordered.

The android flipped open the medical tricorder, pulling out the tiny scanner and began passing it over the two bodies.

"There is massive trauma to the right side of her chest," he began, shaking her head. "I do not believe it was caused by a crushing injury," he added, slightly confused.

"No," Picard agreed. "I think the Breen weapon must have passed through Captain Huziah, then struck the lieutenant," he said.

Data nodded though the captain could not see the action. "That would explain what I am detecting," he said.

"Which is...?" Picard pressed.

Data hesitated. "Sir, the right side of the lieutenant's chest is missing. The flesh, the muscles, the bones... Sir, her right lung is missing," he added grimly.

"I know, Data," Picard said bluntly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Data, I'm holding her heart," he said. "I'm trying to hold two of the arteries closed... but she's still bleeding," he added, still feeling a surge of wet warmth against his shirt with every pulsation of the organ in his hands.

Data gaped.

"And I'm losing my grip," Picard added a second later.

For a second the android froze, then shouted at Worf. "The cardiac resuscitator!"

"Commander, the resuscitator is not..."

"Get it!" Data barked harshly.

Worf stared, astounded by the unexpected severity in the man's voice - then hurried to retrieve the kit.

"Data..." Picard began quietly.

"The resuscitator is not capable of repairing the damage to her heart," Data explained, interrupting the captain before he could speak. "I am fully aware of that," he added. "However, in addition to the device itself, the kit contains a number of clamps, intended for closing off the unit's tubing. I may be able to utilize them to hold the vessels closed until we return to the Enterprise."

Picard nodded. "Good thinking."

"Yes, sir," he said quietly. Then...

"Sir?" he added, his voice growing softer.

"Yes?"

"There appears to be damage to her left lung as well," he said soberly.

"And the scanner indicates there are bone fragments within her heart as well. Sir..." Data hesitated - then continued softly. "Captain, I do not believe the lieutenant can survive these injuries," he said quietly.

Picard closed his eyes, as if he could shut out the truth as easily as he could shut out the light - then shook his head. "Tell Tiron to increase to full impulse."

"That is not possible; not while the cloaking field is engaged - and we cannot risk the Breen firing upon us," Data replied firmly.

"Data, she's going to die if we don't get her back quickly!" Picard countered.

"Captain," Data replied, "she is going to die even if we do return. I do not believe there is anything we, or even Dr. Crusher, can do to change that. Now, our primary objective must be to complete our mission as best as possible; to return you - and Ambassador Tiron - to the ship, to report the events that have transpired - and to complete our original mission. To do that, we must remain cloaked until we reach the Enterprise," he said flatly.

"She'll die before then," he reminded the android.

"I know - but I believe she would approve," Data replied gently. "The lieutenant has always said we must put our professional obligations ahead of our personal needs."

"And I," Picard answered, his own voice sober, "have always believed the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few - or the one."

Data nodded, understanding.

"I was wrong. Have you got those clamps?" Picard added.

Data stared at the man, then up at Worf, who nodded back. "Yes, sir."

"All right," Picard replied, "I'm going to move as far to my right as I can; you're going to have to reach in under me on the left side..."

Understanding, Data hurried to Picard's left, sinking to his knees, then crouched even lower, knowing he would have almost no maneuvering room. He slid one hand close to Andile, the first clamp open, at the ready. "I am ready, Captain," he said.

He was not.

Nothing, not even the cool logic of his positronic mind, could have readied him for the site of his lover sprawled upon the floor, half of her chest blown away, leaving only the jagged remnants of shattered bones where once had been her lung, her ribs, her muscles, her skin, her breast... all gone - but for a heart that seemed to be racing to void itself of the fluid it contained.

He stared at the site for a moment - then reached forward, easing the clamp around the artery, gently closing it.

"The clamp is in place," Data replied. "Release your left hand... slowly," he added.

A spurt of blood emanated from the bottom of the clamped artery; instantly, a second clamp grabbed the vessel from the bottom, securing the closure.

A moment later, two clamps were positioned around the second vessel, stopping the flow of blood from exiting from that opening.

"Now release your right hand, Captain," Data ordered Picard, watching the wild pulsations of Andile's heart as her body tried to compensate for the loss of blood.

The clamps would hold, he thought - but, he knew equally well, they would not save her life.

"The clamps are secure," Data said quietly. "For now," he added cautiously.

Picard nodded, then, planting his hands on either side of her body, carefully, slowly eased himself up and off her broken body, then half-rolled, half-fell to one side.

He lay there for a moment, gasping, his heart racing, oblivious to the gore still dripping from his hands, his arms, his shirt, his face - then started to push himself up.

Worf's hands were under his arms instantly, helping him - but the Starfleet captain brushed away the attempts. "Get a blanket," he said breathlessly. "Try to keep her warm," he added.

As though that would help, he thought to himself.

As if anything would, he added as he turned to look at her, seeing at last her ruined body.

Her pyjama top lay open, the fasteners blown apart, but the fabric intact - covered with the pulped meat of flesh and bone that had once been her chest, a more detached part of his mind noted - but still strangely intact..

Or not so strangely, Picard realized, understanding at last what must have happened.

The Breen weapon, he thought; the narrow concentrated beam had passed through Huziah, killing him nearly instantly, passing through to Andile's body - but by that point it had spent enough of its energy to no longer be able to leave her body in the same neat and clean pathway that had bored through Huziah. With the focus fading, the energy had finally turned to heat - and in an instant, it had turned her organs and flesh to steam.

The pressure had been too much for any flesh, even hers, to bear; it had exploded outward, a cloud of vaporized bone, muscle, flesh and lung, killing her instantly.

Or rather, he thought, it would have - but for Huziah. In falling, he had crushed her against the floor, somehow the mass of his body had compressed the torn arteries, keeping her from bleeding to death in that first instant, saving her from dying on the floor of an alien ship.

Leaving her to die here, instead, on the floor of one of her own ships, he thought.

What difference did it make, he asked himself bitterly, staring at the shredded flesh before him - then watched as Worf covered her body with the blanket, carefully - almost gently - tucking it in around her body.

Data pushed the blanket a little closer on one side - as if that extra bit of warmth would help her, Picard thought, as if it would make a difference... then realized it did.

Yes, he thought, she would die, here on the cold floor of a ship - but she would not die alone - and those who cared for her... no, he corrected himself, those who loved her, he thought, using that word he himself had so long avoided, those who loved her, those she had once loved, would be with her. She would not die alone; she would not know it - but they would.

Small comfort, he thought - but in the days and weeks to come, they would all have to take refuge in what comforts they could find.

Pushing himself up, he stepped close to Data, crouching beside him. "Stay with her," he said softly. "Talk to her," he added.

"She cannot hear me," Data responded.

Picard shook his head. "I know - but do it anyway. Tell her... everything you wanted to say," he said at last. "Tell her what she needs to hear."

Keep her with us, he thought.

Data studied the captain for a moment - then nodded his head once and settled beside Andile, reaching for her limp hand, enveloping it in hers. "We were able to reinitialize the computer core utilizing your protocol," he told her.

Picard stared at the android for a moment, opening his mouth to object - then closed it. Data was right, he thought; this was what she would want to know. Not words of tenderness and love - but words that would let her know her life - her work - had not been in vain.

He turned to Worf. "Come with me," he told the Klingon, striding past him toward the bridge of the yacht.

Worf hesitated for a moment, staring at Data and Andile, the android speaking quietly to the unmoving body, one hand gently pushing back the few strands of hair from her face - then hurriedly followed after Picard.

"Captain," he called out after a moment, after the two had moved out of earshot of the android.

Picard turned and looked at the Klingon.

"She is... going to die, is she not?" he asked, his voice gruff and gravely.

Picard looked at him, then back down the passage they had just traveled to where, he knew, the two lovers were together - and back at Worf.

"No!" he said angrily. "Not while she's under my command! Not while I can do something to stop it," he said firmly, then spun on his heel, heading for the bridge once more.


	142. Chapter 142

**Chapter 142**

As Worf took up the ops position behind Tiron, the Romulan ambassador gave a sideward glance as Picard slid into the co-pilot's chair, studiously ignoring the bloody gore that covered the man's shirt and dripped from his hands and face. Instead, he glanced behind the man, looking back down the corridor.

"The baj...?" he asked quietly - though he knew there was no reason to ask, beyond that of pure Romulan hope. He had seen enough battlefield injuries to know what was survivable - and what was not.

Hers were not, he knew, a part of him aching, needing to go back to where she lay sprawled on the deck, needing to say his farewells to her, as he had not done, could not do, for his own children, for his protégé.

But she was not his child, he reminded himself; she was not even Romulan, he added harshly - as if the thought could chase away the pain that radiated through his soul, just as it had for those others, borne of his flesh and of his people. She was but a stranger, an alien, whose life and death meant nothing more than the millions of other lives and deaths that passed him by every day - and did so unnoted, unremarked, ungrieved.

I should not feel this way for her, for this alien child, he told himself harshly. I should reserve my worry and my grief for my own people!

As though pain and sorrow were something unique to the Romulans, he added, seeing the emotions flashing upon the faces of the two aliens beside.

"Is she...?" he finally managed.

"Her injuries are... extensive," Picard replied at last.

"But she is alive?" Tiron replied with more than a touch of astonishment.

"For the moment," Picard conceded. "She may stay that way - if we can get her back to the Enterprise in time," he added. "We need full impulse."

"We're at maximum now," the Romulan countered. "Unfortunately, the output isn't; we were rushed installing the cloaking device - and the power converter isn't properly balanced. We're leaking power..."

Picard glanced back at Worf. "Divert every system to the propulsion unit. Take it from replicators, weapons, defense shields... take it from life support."

Worf played with the controls for a moment. "That's everything, Captain," he said - then shook his head. "No appreciable change, Captain. Six minutes, ten seconds."

"She can't last six minutes," Picard muttered to himself, then drew a deep breath, staring at the distant image of the ship.

So near - and yet so far, he thought in frustration - but I'll not let you die for want of a few seconds - or a few hundred thousand meters, he added.

"Ambassador, if we drop the cloak..."

Tiron nodded. "We can return to full impulse - but we'll be visible to the Breen - and completely at the mercy of their weapons."

"If they have weapons," Picard countered. "They didn't fire on us before."

"That doesn't mean they won't fire on us now, Captain," Worf countered. "Their captain is dead..."

"By the hands of their ambassador," Picard pointed out.

"By the hands of a human," the Klingon countered. "At the moment, they may fail to see the distinction between the two."

"We're going to have to take that chance," the captain countered - and a chance, he thought to himself, was exactly what it was.

A few minutes before, he had no doubt that the Breen would have allowed them to escape rather than endanger the lieutenant's life; she was their chance at the continuation of their genetic line - and, he thought, the fulfillment of three hundred thousand years of searching. As long as she was alive, they would have done nothing to endanger her - and, by extension, to damage those people that she valued.

But now...

Now she was mortally wounded - and there was every chance the Jemat would be aware of that fact. Whatever protection her life offered to them might well be gone now - and in that loss, in the loss of their captain, there was no telling where the line between rage and reason would be drawn by these alien beings.

Any more than there was any way of telling where a human would draw that line.

And yet, he knew, if he didn't take that chance, she was dead..,

... if she wasn't already, he added grimly.

"Worf, contact the Enterprise. I want them to extend their forward shields as far forward as they can - even if it means decreasing the level of the shields to one quarter strength."

"That will leave the ship vulnerable..." Worf replied.

"I'm aware of that, Worf - but it's a chance we're going to have to take."

"Because of her, Captain?" Tiron interrupted.

"Because of her," Picard agreed.

Tiron sighed, shaking his head. "Captain..." He hesitated for a moment. "You are risking this ship - your ship, your crew - all for one person, for one life that - let us be honest here - that cannot be saved. Understand me: I care for the baj as for my own child; I would - indeed, I did - risk myself, my life to save hers. But all that you have? Is that what you wish to do, Captain? To risk everything - for one person?"

Picard looked back at the Romulan, their eyes meeting - and nodded. "Yes, Ambassador. That is precisely what I intend to do. If what we do, here, on Romulus, in the Federation, anywhere in the quadrant, is to have value, if it is to have meaning, then it must begin with the individual. With the one. And this time, she is the one," he said firmly.

Tiron studied the human - then nodded in agreement. "As it has always been, Captain." He turned to Worf. "Commander, please contact you ship. Inform them of the plan; request they extend forward shield to the maximum distance - and notify your Sickbay we have incoming wounded."

Worf nodded, touched the appropriate controls and began to speak. After a moment, he shook his head, turning to look ahead at the Tiron and Picard.

"Shipboard communications appear to still be down," he informed them "I do not know if they received our message, Captain - or if they were able to understand it. We will not be able to tell unless..."

"Captain," Tiron announced triumphantly, staring at the control display, "the Enterprise's shield configuration is changing! They are extending forward shields..."

"Drop the cloak, Ambassador," Picard replied. "Full impulse!"

"It will still be over two minutes before we are within the range of the Enterprise's shields," Worf reminded him. "For those two minutes, we will be at the mercy of the Breen," he added, emphasizing the word scornfully.

Picard looked at the Klingon. "They could have killed us at any time they chose, Mr. Worf. They did not. I think... I think what they want from us is not our lives... or our deaths. But if it is, then I think that, in the grand scheme of things, there is little we can do to stop them."

Not when our own people are helping them, he added grimly, a part of his mind wondering if Jay were still alive.

"One minute, forty-five seconds," Tiron said.

Picard nodded. "Worf, I want you to beam aboard with Data and the lieutenant; Tiron and I will dock the yacht."

Tiron glanced at Picard, but said nothing.

Worf nodded. "I will inform Commander Data to prepare the Lieutenant for transport," he said, rising to his feet, leaving the two men on the bridge.

Tiron looked at Picard again, wordless once more.

For a moment, Picard allowed his hands to travel over the controls, trying to ignore the stare, making minute adjustments on the control board that, he knew full well, didn't need to be made. Finally, he turned to look at the Romulan.

"Is there a problem, Ambassador?" he asked tersely.

Tiron raised a brow at the human. "You would not go with her?"

Picard shook off the question. "Transporter capacity may be limited."

"You are sending the others," the Romulan pointed out.

"I'm not sure how effective the ship's shields are," he explained. "If the Breen do fire at us, I want Data and Worf off the ship."

Tiron nodded silently.

"And..." Picard hesitated. "Data will be with her. He's... important to her," he added.

Tiron nodded again, glanced at the board, then murmured. "Sixty seconds until we reach the shield barrier."

"Any sign of a power up from the Breen weapons systems?"

Tiron gave a rough snort of derision. "With those tendrils in the way? Captain, we don't even know that they have weapons - let alone whether or not they have powered them." He shook his head.

"No - but assuming they do, they're going to have to move the tendrils in order to fire through them - or the tendrils will simply absorb the energy, and divert it back into the ship's power systems," Picard pointed out.

"Unless they have positioned their weapons outside the tendrils; it would be foolish to have to broadcast their intentions so readily to their enemies in order to fight them," Tiron countered. Still, he looked at the board, his eyes roaming over the displays. "No, there is no change in the tendril arrangement - and no change in their power output," he added, then looked at Picard again.

"Captain, I was not their when my sons died. I was not their when my beloved daughter died. I was not even there when my protégé died..."

Picard spun to face the Romulan, his face covered with astonishment - and horror.

"Your protégé?" he said, stricken. "Ambassador... I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Nor I, Captain, not until it was done, not until it was too late," he said emptily, his voice hollow. "I will regret that until the final moment of my life: that I was not there for the ones who depended on me, for the ones who loved me - for the ones I loved."

Picard stared back at the man, age suddenly showing in the deep creases of the Romulan's round face. "I am sorry for you, Ambassador, but..."

"They died alone, Captain - because I was a coward," he continued.

Stunned, Picard stared at the Romulan - then shook his head. "I doubt that, Ambassador..."

"A coward, Captain, running from what truly terrified me - love, compassion, caring - and hiding in the safety of responsibility, obligation... duty. They died alone, Captain, because I was not strong enough to be with them when they needed me; they suffered for my selfishness, they suffered for my cowardice. Now, I too suffer - as I will for the remainder of my days, never knowing how I may have eased their final moments, never being able to say, 'farewell'."

He looked in to the Starfleet captain's eyes. "I know you, Captain, as I know myself; you are brave and courageous in those things that others see - but in yourself, in those things that matter, you deny yourself every chance at happiness, for fear of the sorrow that may join them, for fear that revealing your heart would expose that cowardice.

"This is the time of that sorrow," he went on, his voice gentling. "We both know she can not survive. But... do not allow her to make that final journey over alone; do not spend the rest of your life wondering, grieving as I did - hiding, as the coward I am... as the cowards we both are."

Picard's eyes widened, his rage suddenly surging up, threatening to overwhelm him as it had on the Breen ship - then faded, falling away as quickly as it had come one.

He was right, Picard thought - then shook his head, realizing the truth.

No, Tiron wasn't right; he was quite wrong.

Tiron was no coward; he had dared to love, to take a wife, to have a family - all the things he had denied himself long ago, under the guise of duty, of command, or propriety - when, in fact, he was... scared.

Scared to face the pain of losing the people he loved, the people he cared for.

And so I distance myself from the people around me, forcing away those who would be closest - and hide my fear behinds words like duty and responsibility.

Good words, he knew; fine words, he added - but there are duties and responsibilities beyond those of command, he reminded himself.

There were duties - to those very people; duties that also took a measure of strength and bravery of their own.

"I appreciate your advice, Ambassador," Picard said slowly, "but I'm not ready to give up on her."

Tiron considered the words - and the man - for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps, then, you should make sure she knows that - before she gives up on herself."

"I was just thinking that myself," the Starfleet captain agreed. "If you'll excuse me...?" he said, pushing himself away from the console even before the Romulan could answer.

He had just risen to his feet when a sharp cry split the small room; startled, the two men looked at each other - then Picard raced from the room, running for the hold.

The site that greeted him was worse than anything that he could have imagined: Data and Worf hovering over Andile's body, ducking and dodging the intermittent fountain of blood that sprayed from her chest, covering them soaking them in the same crimson that already covered him, Data vainly attempting to reach into her chest with another clamp, trying to secure whatever vessel had ruptured, even as blood filled her mouth, spraying out in rough expulsions of coughing as her body made one last, feeble attempt to save itself.

"Data!" he called hurrying to the two, falling in beside them. "What happened?"

"The arterial wall was too fragile to withstand the pressure of the clamp. The vessel ruptured - and there is insufficient tissue remaining on which to secure the clamp," Data replied, a touch of panic coloring his voice.

"Direct compression!" Picard ordered.

"I am attempting to do so, Captain," Worf replied, his hand reaching into the gaping wound, "but there is nothing to hold!"

"Then put your hand over it, Worf - and keep it there!" Picard snapped. He grabbed the Klingon's hand, slapped over the hemorrhaging artery, and pushed it hard. "Hold it," he said.

Worf looked at the man, startled at the seeming violence of the man's action - then looked back into Andile's chest.

The bleeding had stopped - almost - but blood continued to seep around his hand with each contraction of the small muscle.

He stared at her heart for a moment, watching it beat once again - then reached into her chest with his other hand, taking her heart in both hands.

With a degree of satisfaction he realized that the compression was working - the artery was no longer bleeding - then realized, with a greater degree of astonishment, what he was doing.

I am holding her heart, he thought, stunned; I am holding her life in my hands.

He stared at the organ for a moment, feeling it beat - then realized the pulsations were growing even faster and harder - but that the beating of her heart was the only movement in her chest.

"Data..." he began warningly - but Picard had made the same discovery.

"She's not breathing," he announced, immediately moving to her head, tilting up her chin, squeezing her nose shut, pressing his lips to hers and breathing into her mouth.

Data watched for a moment - then shook his head when Picard looked up between breaths. "Nothing," he said. Running the scanner over her chest, he shook his head again. "Her lung is filling with blood," he said. "She is... drowning," he concluded.

Picard stared at the body - then turned his head, shouting back toward the bridge. "Time until we reach the Enterprise's shields?"

"Thirty seconds!" Tiron's disembodied voice replied.

"She doesn't have thirty seconds!" he shouted back.

Tiron looked at the console before him, then at the rapidly approaching starship - and hoped that Starfleet's reputation for top notch equipment and personnel was well-deserved - or merely hyperbole.

If not, the ship was going to either blow itself apart - or destroy itself when it reached the shields.

Picard felt the sudden acceleration, heard the engines racing over their maximum tolerances - and subconsciously braced himself, understanding all too well the possible outcomes of pressing the ship so hard - and so close to the shields. If his people didn't realize what they were doing...

He had to trust in them, he reminded himself - as Andile had to trust in him, he added, pressing his lips to hers once again, trying desperately to breathe life into her failing body.

_Hold on_, he thought at her with each exhalation, as though he could breathe life into her soul as well as her body. _Just hold on!_

He exhaled another breath into her mouth - then felt the tingle of a transporter beam start to envelop him...

I hate this, Beverly Crusher thought to herself as she stood motionless before the large area they had cleared at the center of the triage area.

I hate the worrying, the wondering if this is the last time, the time I can't save him, the time I have to watch him die, not in my arms, but in the embrace of some lifeless machine, trying to save him for...

For what? So he can go back out there, and put his life on the line again?

I understand why you do it, Jean-Luc, she told him wordlessly; I understand it's a part of who you are - but I don't know how much longer I can go through this.

"Sickbay, this is Chief G'Sef," the Ballorian announced. "I've got the transporter party's signals..."

"Beam them directly to Sickbay," Beverly called back.

"Yes, ma'am." There was a moment's hesitation, then, "Doctor, I'm losing the lifesigns on one of them..."

Beverly swallowed hard, looked back at the teams assembled behind her, then said, "We're ready, Chief."

"Rematerialization sequence starting..."

She watched, steeling herself against the worst possible sight she could imagine... But even so, she felt herself go weak in the knees as she saw his face forming, his body materializing - and all covered with blood.

As were Data and Worf, she realized instantly, her attention shifting from one to the next to the third - and then, finally, at the body on the floor.

Or rather, what was left of a body.

"Dear God," she whispered to herself as she stared at what was left of Andile - then grabbed her medical scanner in fell in beside the three.

"What happened?" she asked even as she passed the scanner over the woman's body.

"Breen energy weapon," Picard gasped between breaths into Andile's mouth.

Beverly gave half nod to acknowledge to information - then changed it to a changed it to a shake of her head as the readings coalesced in her mind. "The beam must have entered from the left, then destabilized as it passed through her chest, culminating in an explosive expression through the right chest wall. Massive chest trauma," she told the team behind her. "Right lung gone; pulmonary artery is ruptured..." She looked at the open wound - and the massive Klingon hand that was wrapped around the still beating heart.

"Worf," she said softly, "whatever you do, don't let go."

Worf nodded.

"There's damage to the heart and the left lung as well..." She shook her head again. "We're going to need to get her on cardiac bypass so we can repair this damage... but we can't do anything for her while she's down here," she said. "Okay, let's get her on the bed. John, Aaron, lift her on three; Worf, Data, you're going to have to move with us," she added. "Jean-Luc, give her two breaths - and then we're going to move," she ordered.

Picard nodded, watched as the two remaining techs got into position, forced two more breaths into the rapidly filling lung, then managed to get his feet beneath him.

"On three..." Beverly ordered. "One, two, three..."

Moving as one, the five men rose together, swiftly moving to the biobed, then lowering the shattered body into place.

Picard, still holding Andile's head, quickly repositioned, readying her - and himself - for another breath - only to feel a touch at his arm.

Following the source of the touch, he found himself looking at Alyssa Ogawa. "Excuse me, Captain; I need to get in here," she said gently - but firmly.

He looked at her, then back at the head that lay cradled in his hands.

"Please, sir; you need to let her go," she pleaded.

Let go? he echoed, slightly dazed; No! I am _not_ going to let her go, he insisted.

"Captain?" Alyssa repeated.

He stared at her, looked back at Andile - then gave a nod.

"Yes," he said softly. "Of course," he added, easing his hands out from under Andile's head and stepping back, out of the way, joining the others who were gathered around the biobed, watching.

Waiting.

"Pressure is forty over twenty and dropping... pulse is one eighty..." one tech announced, even as a second began to slice the clothes from her body.

Within seconds she was stripped, her naked, nearly-lifeless body laying limp on the biobed - and the full extent of her injury was made clear to him, to them all.

One half of her chest was intact, too-pale skin stretched taut over ribs that protruded too sharply and too far into that pale skin, the small mound of a breast lying limply atop the bony ridges - but the other side...?

There was no other side, Picard thought sharply; from sternum to shoulder, nothing remained of the right side of her chest but a paste of reddish meat and bone.

Meat and bone, Picard thought numbly. That's all she was now, he added.

Perhaps it was as well that the vibrant woman he had come to know was no longer here, Picard thought to himself, hating the cold-bloodedness of the physicians and technicians working before him, their automatic actions seeming to reduce her from the intelligent and capable being she was to little more than a barely animate piece of meat as they went about their work with brutal efficiency, voices calling back and forth, interspersed with flashes of sharp metal, the soft ripping sound of tubing unrolling, the chirr of syringes operating, the chirp of the diagnostic computer running.

"Can't get a line in on her arms..."

"Go in through her ankles!"

"Blood gases coming through now!"

"God! What happened to her hands and feet?!"

"Placing the airway... Damn it, it's full of blood..."

"Catheter's in... "

"There's ischemic injury to her right arm..."

"She's in hypovolemic shock..."

"We need to get her on cardiac bypass...

"Oxygenation levels are dropping... "

"Let's get her on ECMO..."

"Get a portable sterile field generator over here..."

"There's bone fragments in her heart..."

"The lower lobe is shot..."

"Type and cross?"

"No time. Start running in a liter of crystalloid volume expander..."

"Prime the bypass with two liters of plasmine with synthheme; set the crit to thirty..."

"There's fractures to the C2 and C3 vertebrae..."

"I want a work-up on her CSF; get me neurotransmitter availability..."

Greg Matthews looked up from Andile's body, startled by the unusual order.

"Doctor, a cerebro-spinal work up is completely unnecessary!"

Beverly shot him an angry look. "Dr. Matthews, this is my Sickbay - and my patient. Either you will follow my orders - or you may leave," she added sharply, her eyes locked on his.

He met her gaze for a long moment, as though he was tempted to challenge her authority - then looked away, apparently giving in.

But appearances were obviously not enough for the CMO; she said, "Well? What's it to be, Dr. Matthews?"

He hesitated, then muttered, "As you say, Dr. Crusher."

Her eyes tightened at the tepid response - but this, she reminded herself, was not the time to argue the matter. She looked back down at Andile - and then up at Worf.

"Are you all right?" she asked him.

He nodded, still staring in dazed amazement at the beating organ cradled in his hands.

"Just a few more minutes, Worf; we're going to put her on cardiac bypass, then stop her heart so we can repair it," she explained.

Worf turned to her in amazement. "You can repair this damage?" he said, astonished.

Beverly hesitated - then demurred, "We'll do what we can."

"The cardiac bypass equipment is primed," a voice interrupted her.

Startled by the voice, Beverly looked away, focusing on the source of the announcement - then nodded.

"All right. Sterile field, Alyssa," she said, watching as the younger woman touched a switch and a magenta light streamed over the gaping chest wound.

She looked up - and faced the android still holding close to the woman.

"Data..."

He looked at her - then nodded, understanding without having to be told.

Still, he hesitated, then lowered his head close to the engineer's, whispered something - then pressed his lips to her forehead.

Then slowly, reluctantly, he stepped away, taking his place beside Picard.

"All right," she said, her concentration returning to her work, "Let's get the return line in first. Just below the aortic branch..."

The voices trailed off as they three physicians began to work in the harsh light of the sterile field, their concentration fixed on the intricate work before them.

"Captain?"

Too numb to be startled by the unexpected voice, Picard turned and looked at the man who had taken a place beside him.

"Will," he replied quietly.

"The yacht's docked and secure; warp engines are on line," he added.

Picard nodded - but said nothing.

Will stared at the man for a moment, the prompted, "We can leave the area, sir..."

"Not yet."

Will stared, stunned. "Sir, we need to sever the cryoformic tendrils before the Breen drain the ship's power..."

"Then do so," Picard interrupted tersely. "But we're not leaving the area. Not yet."

"Sir?"

"Break the connections, and establish a reasonable distance between our ship and the Breen vessel - but we're not leaving."

"Captain..." Will began to protest.

"Just do it!" Picard snapped - then turned back the scene playing out before him.

Beverly had just raised her eyes to Worf - and after a moment, he nodded - and removed his hands from the chest cavity where then had been holding Andile's heart for the last... what? hour? he wondered.

He glanced at the chronometer on the wall - and was astounded to see that only a few minutes had passed since he and the others had beamed back aboard the ship.

It had seemed like hours, he thought, watching as Worf stepped away from the biobed, and the machine began, lights blinking, pumps whispering, coming to life.

Living her life, he thought, watching as a steady flow of red began to displace the clear liquid that filled the machine's tubes.

It must have been what Beverly wanted, for he could see the tension in her shoulders suddenly release; they dropped - and he could see her take a deep breath as she finally relaxed.

She turned, scanned over the gathering crowd, found him - the inclined her head toward her office.

He followed, taking his customary place in the chair opposite her desk, watching as she touched the door pad to close the door behind her - then turned to him, her face etched by worry and fatigue.

"It's good to have you home, Jean-Luc," she said softly, reaching out for his hand, ignoring the fact that the one he extended back was as covered with blood as his face and clothing were.

"I just wish the circumstances had been better," he countered.

She nodded. "I don't think they could have been much worse," she agreed, silently adding, unless it had been you on that bed.

Somehow, the fact that it wasn't was not doing anything to assuage the anxiety and worry that was filling her soul.

But this was not the time for that, she reminded herself; for now, the only thing she could think about, would allow herself to think about, was her patient.

Pulling away, she settled into her own chair.

Her professional place, Picard realized - just as he realized what she was about to tell him was not good news.

"Is she...?" he began.

"Alive?" Beverly finished for him. "Yes, she's alive."

"And...?"

"And, for the moment, we can keep her that way," she continued. "We've got her on a cardiac bypass while we Greg and Alyssa try to repair her heart, and we're using an ECMO - an extracorporeal oxygenating membrane - to keep her blood oxygenated; in essence, it's breathing for her."

Despite the look on Beverly's face, Picard felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Then she's going to live..." he began - the stopped as he saw her expression.

"That, Captain, is the question we're facing," she said grimly.

He stared at her, confused, then shook his head. "I don't understand."

Beverly drew a breath, glanced at the padd in her hands, then met his eyes. "Jean-Luc, the damage to her body is... catastrophic. Her right lung is gone, her left lung has massive damage to the lower lobe - damage we can't repair," she explained. "There are bone fragments in her heart..." She hesitated a moment. "There's no circulation to her right arm. As soon as we can get her stable enough to get into surgery, we're going to have to amputate it," she added after a moment.

He stared at her, expressionless, for a moment, then said, "She's survived worse."

Beverly shook her head. "No, Jean-Luc, she hasn't. What happened to her on Cardassia was brutal; it would have killed anyone else - but the reality is that that damage was not nearly as severe as this is. She survived then because her body was able to repair the damaged tissue. That's not the case here: the tissue can't be repaired, because it's no longer there."

"Then replace it!" he replied angrily.

"I can't," Beverly snapped back. "I have nothing with which to replace it!"

The two glared at each other for a moment - then forcing himself to display a calmness he didn't feel, Picard reminded her, "They replaced my heart when I was stabbed."

"You're a normal, adult male," she reminded him. "There's a standard replicator program for generating a replacement heart for someone your age, gender and size. But Andile's not standard in any of those things; she's a fifteen thousand year-old woman in the body of a child! There's no pattern for replacing a heart in someone her size - and it would take us days to determine the specifics of what she needs for exterior size, chamber volume, valve configuration, stroke volume, cardiac output - then write the program for the replicator. And even then we'd have no way of knowing if it would work!"

"But you have the time," Picard reminded her pleadingly. "You can keep her on the equipment until..."

"Jean-Luc," Beverly interrupted, "I can keep her on the cardiac bypass for another few hours, at best - but she's already beginning to mount a white cell defense against it. We're filtering out the cells now - but in another few hours, we're going to have to start centrifuging them off. That means it will be taking three machines to keep her alive..."

"So it takes three machines!" he snapped back, his fury surging again.

"To keep her alive, Jean-Luc," Beverly repeated. "Alive - but unconscious, living only through those machines."

"But she will be alive - while you figure out how to repair the rest of her body!" he retorted furiously.

Beverly gaped at him, stunned by the rage in his voice. "I can't repair the rest of her body. Even if I were to give her an artificial heart - a heart that may or may not work for her body, a heart that would require an extensive remodeling of her chest cavity - I can do nothing for her lungs.

"There are no artificial lungs, Jean-Luc; aside from that machine," she gestured to the table sized device that stood next to the bed in the Sickbay, "aside from that machine, there is no way to keep her blood and tissues oxygenated."

"But... you said only the lower lobe of her left lung was damaged," he reminded her, his voice softening as defeat merging with desperation.

Beverly sighed, pushed back an errant strand of hair that had fallen into her face - then nodded. "It is."

"But the remaining part still works?"

"Aside from being filled with blood at the moment, there is no sign of damage; it should work, once the fluid and debris is removed. But..."

"Then I don't see the problem, Doctor!" he said.

Beverly clenched her jaw, her own rage now beginning to grow. "The problem, Captain, is that one half lung cannot perform the functions of two full lungs. Yes, we can remove the damaged portion, and yes, she could breathe with what is left - at least to a degree.

"If she regains consciousness - if the minutes she went through without enough oxygen reaching her brain didn't damage too many centers, if she receives proper therapy, with training in breathing techniques, and hard work, Andile might - I repeat, might - in time, be able to..." She considered for a moment. "With work and therapy, she might learn to sit up, unassisted. That's all, Jean-Luc; that's the most I can hope for, for her. Any greater oxygen consumption than that would be beyond what she can tolerate.

"She'll never be able to work in Engineering again; she'll never be able to dance. I'm not sure she'd have the ability to hold a book and read it without collapsing, let alone to design ships. She'll be discharged from Starfleet, of course; the life she's led for the last hundred years will be over. She'll be confined to a medical facility, living her life under constant medical attention.

"Yes, she may live - but she will not get better. This," she gestured out the office window once again, "is what her life will be from this time forward. And I have to ask you, Jean-Luc, is that really what you want for her? More importantly, is that what she would want for herself?"

He raised his eyes to hers, disbelief marking his face. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying... She's been through a medical hell once before. I don't believe that she would want to go through it again - not if there was no chance of her getting better, not if she knew the rest of her life - the rest of her eternity - would be spent in that condition. Right now, Jean-Luc, we have to think of what she would want - and I don't believe it is this," she said quietly.

Picard stared at her, numb, dumbfounded. "You're saying... You're going to let her die," he said at last.

"I'm saying that we all have the right to decide when and where 'heroic' lifesaving efforts should be made in the preservation of our own lives; if Andile were conscious, if she were made aware of her condition, and the outcomes she's facing, she would not wish us to proceed," Beverly replied quietly.

He looked at her, feeling the anger rising again, and forcing it back. Still, his teeth were clenched as he spoke, his words barely making it out through his gritted teeth. "When Worf was injured, you refused to even consider allowing him to commit suicide," he reminded her. "Now you're ready to give up on her - without even trying to save her?"

Beverly shook her head. "The circumstances aren't the same, Jean-Luc; Worf could have resumed a productive life - with some limitations, yes, but productive nonetheless. Andile cannot. I do not have the technology or the ability to make her life much more than what it is now. And again, we have to decide: is this what she would want? I don't believe it is."

He glared at her. "How can you presume to know what she would or would not want, Doctor? You've barely spoken a dozen words with her since she came aboard..."

"I have spent hours with her, Jean-Luc," she countered instantly. "I have been with her for hours, holding her hand, talking with her as machines tried to repair the damage done to her body by our neglect - and by her own desire not to continue on with a life that was more pain than joy. She made her decision to give up a longtime ago; it was only through your persuasion - your coercion," she added, her own anger rising, "that she agreed to those treatments. But in all the time we talked, Jean-Luc, I could hear the regret she felt in making that decision; I believe a part of her wanted to let go, to let her life fade away. Putting her through that hell once again, knowing I cannot make her well... I don't think that's what she wants," she said quietly. "And I think, that if you discuss it with Deanna, she'll agree; Andile would not want any heroic measure taken to preserve her life; not when the prognosis is so poor."

"You want to take her off life support?" he said quietly.

"I think it is what Andile would want," she replied.

Picard studied her for a long time, then rose to his feet. "You think, you believe, Deanna believes," he said. "Where's your evidence?"

Her eyes widened. "Evidence? What evidence?"

"Starfleet protocol requires a signed document from an officer or crewman specifically stating that no excessive measures will be taken to sustain life in the event of a catastrophic injury or illness. You want to take her off life support, Doctor, then you're going to have to do it by the book. Show me the document..."

"A document is not required, Jean-Luc," she countered instantly - and angrily. "Not when the individual has made her wishes known to at least one superior officer - and..."

"And she said that?" he interrupted. "She said, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted no heroic efforts made, that she did not want to be kept on life support when there was even a chance of her recovering from her injuries?"

Beverly hesitated. "I..." She hesitated, then she shook her head. "No - but her meaning was evident, Captain," she said firmly.

"And Counselor Troi will support this interpretation of yours?" he argued. "She will state, unequivocally, that the Lieutenant's emotional state at the time of your discussion supports your interpretation?" he asked.

Beverly shook her head in frustration. "No. She can't say that - and you know it, Jean-Luc; Deanna has never been able to read Andile's emotions. But her words..."

"Are not enough, Doctor," he interrupted again. "Starfleet protocol is inflexible in this matter," he declared.

"Damn it, Jean-Luc!" she snapped back. "Don't you go hiding behind protocol - not now! Not when you've broken every rule on the books when you've needed to, or wanted to - or when you believed that there was a greater good at stake! Think about what you're doing! If we start on this path, there's no turning back; once we initiate total life support, we can't go and change our minds later. Do this, condemn her to a life in a biobed, chained to machines that will live for her - and you've condemned her not for a lifetime - but for a hundred lifetimes or a thousand! If ever there was a time to think beyond the dictates of Starfleet, Jean-Luc, this is the time! Don't do this! Don't condemn her to a living death! Let her go! Please!" she begged.

Picard looked at the woman before him for a long time, his eyes - and his heart - cold and heard. Finally, he spoke.

"Dr. Crusher, you will make every attempt possible to maintain and sustain the life of Lt. Andile. Any failure on your part to make every attempt will be viewed as dereliction of duty, and you will be subject to prosecution by both Starfleet and the civil courts of the planets on which you hold your medical licenses."

Stunned, shocked, Beverly felt her eyes go wide at the announcement.

"If, however, you feel you cannot abide by my decision, I will, regretfully, accept your resignation as the Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise," he told her. "The decision is yours, Doctor."

He met her eyes, his cold and empty but for the resolve in them - and hers, full of pain, grief - and unbearable hurt.

For a long time, she was silent, her anger fighting with her hurt - then slowly, she nodded. "I will make every attempt to maintain and sustain the life of my patient, Lt. Andile, Captain."

He nodded, then turned to leave the office - but her voice called out stopping him in mid-stride.

"But, when we reach Earth, Captain, my resignation will be on your desk."

He froze - then slowly turned to face her.

"I never thought I would say this - but you're a bastard, Jean-Luc," she said in quiet fury. "Now get the hell out of my office - and out of my life."


	143. Chapter 143

**Chapter 143**

He looked at her - and despite the fury that burned in her heart, she shivered.

There was no hurt in his expression, no protestation or pleading for understanding hanging, unspoken, from his lips; there was nothing in his face, except a cold, hard, unfeeling gaze.

He let the gaze linger on her for a long minute - and with each second that passed, she felt the distance between them grow - until she knew, at long last, that nothing could ever bridge that gap again.

He must have realized it as well, for he turned away in that moment, turning his back on her, on what they had once had - and what they had never had - once and for all.

"I want an hourly update on her condition," he said as he turned away. "I'll be on the bridge."

"No."

He stopped in mid-turn, then slowly pivoted back to face her, fury raging in his eyes once more.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor?" he said through gritted teeth.

"I said, 'no'. No, I will not forward hourly reports to you, and no, you will not be on the bridge," she informed him sharply, her eyes narrowing as he faced her once again. "You want to do this by the book, Captain? Then we'll do it by the book.

"Captain Picard," she said, her voice brittle with formality, "in accordance with Starfleet regulation oh-four-three, point seven, subsection two, paragraph four, you are hereby relieved of command."

His eyes hardened with indignation. "You're overstepping your bounds, Doctor," he began. "You have no right..."

"Wrong," she interrupted him icily. "Not only do I have the right, Captain, I have the obligation. Starfleet regulations are explicit in this matter as well. 'No officer who has been held prisoner by the enemy for a period of more than six hours will be allowed to resume his command function until a full physical and mental evaluation had been performed and all possibility of physical, mental or emotional conditioning, persuasion, or coercion has been excluded'."

He glared at her, his teeth clenching behind tightening lips. "If you think you can side-step my orders..." he started.

"You have no authority to make any orders captain," she answered flatly. "Not until your competence to hold command has been re-established."

"And that, I suppose," he replied bitterly, "won't be until after the lieutenant dies."

Beverly gave him a cold stare. "No, sir. While the precise letter of the regulations does not specify the time period in which those examinations take place, the spirit of the reg is unmistakable: to return the officer to his or her post in the most timely manner possible, so as not to further disrupt the chain of command - and to maintain a level of confidence in said officer.

"In the interim, any decisions regarding the rights of the crew - including the right to decline medical treatment - will be made in the most timely possibly fashion by the acting captain."

He glared at her, his eyes blazing, but the balance of his face frigidly immobile.

She met Jean-Luc's hard gaze. "I'll make arrangements for Deanna to perform the psychological profile and for Alyssa to do the physical," she said.

"Alyssa?" Picard said, taken aback by the suggestion.

She raised a brow at him. "Yes. Dr. Alyssa Ogawa," she repeated. "I assume that is what you want, Captain, as you've made it perfectly clear that you do not believe I am capable of fulfilling my professional responsibilities," she said bitterly. "Dr. Ogawa is fully capable of examining you and can provide an unbiased, impartial assessment of your medical condition - unless, of course, you believe she is incompetent as well," she added coldly.

He hesitated, as though finally - belatedly - realizing what he said, what he had done - what he had lost - then the coldness returned to his eyes.

"I have no objections to Dr. Ogawa performing the examination," he replied at last.

That was it then, she realized. Thirty years together - of work, of friendship, of... something that could have been - thirty years together - and it ends like this, she thought.

You bastard.

"Fine," Beverly said at last. "Alyssa will contact you shortly to make the arrangements," she said, then brushed by him, striding past him before he could see the pain - and the tears - that were threatening to well up in her eyes.

Damn it! she swore. I will not cry over him! I will not! she insisted to herself - then drew a ragged breath. I can't cry. Not now. I have a patient who needs...

Not me, she reminded herself; not a physician who will fight for her life.

She needs a friend, a comrade, a superior, someone who will fight, not for her life, but for her death.

Beverly glanced back at the man she loved - had once loved, she corrected herself - and felt the rage surging once again.

It should have been you, Jean-Luc; it should have been you.

Beverly glanced at the small crowd gathering around the entrance to Sickbay's triage area, staring, watching in stunned silence - then, spying the tall figure among the gathering, gestured at him to join her.

Will Riker slid out from the others, lingering for a moment to offer what must have been some word of gentle reassurance to one of the gathered, then pushed through the others, quickly reaching Beverly's side.

She pulled at his arm, leading him out of sight and sound of the others, earning a curious look in response.

"What is it, Beverly?" he asked quietly.

"I've relieved the captain of duty," she answered, her voice carefully modulated, despite their distance from the others.

Will's eyes widened. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

Beverly hesitated. "His behavior... is a little erratic," she said, hastily adding, "but that may be a matter of fatigue, stress - malnutrition. They were gone almost three days, and we have absolutely no idea what happened to them over there. But if you're asking if I think he's incompetent," she went on, "then I'd have to say no. I just want to make sure this one goes by the book."

Will nodded, understanding.

"The captain's agreed to have Alyssa perform the physical while I'm in surgery with Beej," she continued. "Deanna will do the psych evaluation. When they're finished, it'll be up to you to make a final call, Will."

He nodded again - then forced a smile. "I'm not sure Starfleet thought this reg through, Beverly; having the acting captain decide if his superior is competent or not might get a little tempting - especially if the acting captain has been wanting the center seat for himself for some time," he added.

"Of course the acting captain has to be able to substantiate his decision with documentation from his CMO and counselor," Beverly reminded him with an equally forced smile.

He smiled tiredly, then glanced back at the body on the bed. "Beverly... Is she going to make it?" he asked.

The CMO followed his gaze back to Andile's body - then looked back at Will. "If you're asking if I can keep her alive, then the answer is 'yes'. If you're asking her if I can give her back a life, then the answer has to be... 'no'. Not with the state of modern medicine.

"Her heart is severely damaged, Will," she said softly. "Her right lung is gone - and there's damage to her left lung. Her ability to breathe, to oxygenate her blood will be severely limited. On her own, she's never going to be able to leave her bed again.

"What we can do is to replace her heart - but there's nothing I can do about the lungs. If she recovers - and the brain damage from lack of oxygen isn't too severe - she might, with physical therapy and training, be able to sit up. Possibly, in time, she could gain limited - very limited - access to a computer terminal - but that will tax every iota of strength she has.

"We can supplement that oxygen level by using that machine," she said, gesturing at the long black machine that stood next to the cardiac bypass unit. "It's an extra-corporeal membrane oxygenator - that will assist her lungs in providing oxygen to the blood and removing carbon dioxide. Connected to that machine, she may be able to perform a greater range of activities - but only as long as she is connected to the machine."

Will drew a deep breath. "It doesn't sound like much of a life," he said at last.

"Not for her," Beverly agreed. "Not for someone who was as active and energetic as she was."

Will hesitated for a long time. "Beverly, did Andile ever sign a waiver of life-extension efforts?"

The CMO shook her head. "She may have, Will - but I don't have the records here. Starfleet didn't forward the medical file of the new crew members - including Andile."

"Damn!" he muttered, looking down - then raising his eyes to hers. "What about a DNR?"

She shook her head again. "Again, I have no record of a 'Do Not Resuscitate' order being in her file. If she arrests, if her synaptic pathways fail - if she dies, I'm required to make every effort to bring her back - and once we start, we cannot stop until every attempt has been made. Even though I do not believe that is what she would want, Will."

He pursed his lips. "Beverly, I know what you're asking: you'd like me to order you not to allow any heroic measures to save Andile's life. And from what I know of her - and from you're saying about her prognosis - I agree with you. But if I'm going to take on Starfleet Command - and doing this without proper support would mean a court-martial for one, or both, of us - I have to have some evidence - some proof! - that this is what she would want."

"I know, Will," Beverly agreed. "Deanna and I spent quite a lot of time with her when I was treating her for liver and kidney failure - and there were things she said that make me believe that this is not what she would want."

He nodded, digesting the words. "And Deanna would back you up on this?" he asked.

"As an empath?" Beverly replied. "No. She couldn't. Deanna can't read Biji."

"That's not necessary," Will countered. "Deanna's professional standing has nothing to do with her being an empath; if she can tell me, as ship's counselor, with no uncertainty in her mind, that Biji would want no heroic efforts made..." he started - then stopped, giving her a troubled look. "When did you say Biji told you this?"

"Several weeks ago - when she was going through treatment for renal and hepatic failure," Beverly replied - then gave him a wary look as he gave a soft groan and shook his head. "Will, those treatments are exhausting and uncomfortable - but she was in her right mind the entire time..." she began to protest.

"It's not that, Beverly. Damn it," he groaned, "if it were only that easy!"

"What?" she replied. "If only what were that easy?"

"If it was simply a matter of her being competent. But this treatment you were giving her - for...?" He looked at her expectantly.

"Her liver and kidneys were damaged... earlier," she said. "They didn't heal correctly - and she's had progressive scarring ever since. At our request, she agreed to undergo treatment - to introduce modified nanites - to reverse the scarring."

"And this scarring? Would it have killed her?"

Beverly looked at Will and nodded solemnly. "Her condition was terminal. She had a matter of days left."

"Damn it!" Will swore angrily - then looked at his friend with as much compassion as he could muster. "I know what you want me to do, Beverly; I know you want me to override regs and let Beej die. And I think you might be right - that living whatever kind of a life she can, attached to a machine, is not what she would want. But... I can't," he told her softly.

Beverly's face contorted in anguish. "Will, you know this is not what she would want..." she began to protest.

"I do - but I don't believe Starfleet would see it that way," he interrupted.

"But what Andile told me, what she's said to Deanna..."

He shook his head. "Under other circumstances, I think they'd concur - but..."

"But what?"

"But less than thirty days ago, she agreed to undergo a procedure - multiple procedures," he amended, "to save her life."

"But the treatments were instituted at our request - the captain's request - in order that she be able to help the ship complete this mission!" Beverly argued. "She didn't request the treatments! Hell, I didn't even know she was ill until she collapsed - and she would have gone to her grave untreated if it had been up to her!"

"Which doesn't change the fact that, in the end, she agreed to the treatments. Beverly, if you decide against treating Biji, then, from what you've told me, Starfleet Command would probably view your actions as dereliction of duty at best - and murder at the worst," he told her.

"Then you're condemning her to a living death, Will," she replied bitterly.

Will met her eyes - then nodded. "I know. But I have to do this. I have to say no. And you have to do everything you can to keep her alive, Beverly."

She closed her eyes to block the tears from starting, chewing on her lower lip to keep it from trembling - then looked up at him. "I know. But I had to try."

He reached out, wrapping his hand around her arm, squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry, Beverly," he said, then released her arm. "I need to get to the bridge. Is there anything else I can do here?"

She shook her head.

"I need Data," he added. "Do you need him for anything here?"

Beverly shook her head again. "All he can do here for the next few hours is to worry - but that may be all he's able to do on the bridge as well," she added, glancing back at the android.

Will shook his head. "He's an android, Beverly; he can turn off his emotions."

She looked again at the grief-stricken man standing at the entrance to Sickbay - then back at Will. "Not this time, Will; not these emotions. This... this is real."

"But... that's not possible!" Will protested.

"No? Look at him, Will," she said gently. "Look at him - and tell me that the pain on his face isn't real, that he isn't suffering."

She waited a moment, watching as the first officer studied the expressions crossing the android's - the man's - face - then looked back at Beverly, stunned.

"I thought Data needed his chip to feel emotions," he replied.

"So did I," she replied. "But perhaps emotions are just another aspect of humanity he has had to learn - and having learned them, they have become an integral part of who he is."

"And now he can't turn them off," Will concluded. "Damn," he added softly, "the timing couldn't be worse. Well, Data's spent a long time learning how to be human; now it's time to teach him something about being a human male," he said.

Beverly raised a brow. "And that would be...?"

Will gave a rueful smile. "How to ignore what he's feeling."

She frowned. "Will, that's not necessarily a good thing..." she began.

"No. But sometimes it's a necessary thing." He reached out, clapping her shoulder reassuringly, then headed for the small crowd gathered at the entrance to the triage area.

Beverly waited for a moment, watching as Will entered the gathering, the stepped across the room, passing the technicians working over the gaping wound that had once been Andile's chest, then spoke quietly.

"Status report."

Alyssa shook her head. "Her condition's deteriorating rapidly," she said quietly. "We've been able to close what was left of the pulmonary blood vessels, but..."

Beverly raised a brow in question.

"It's the bone fragments," Greg Matthews concluded for her. "The energy beam entered through her left side - and damaged a rib in doing so. The beam seems to have affected the very bone matrix structure; it became crystalline - and fragile. The rib shattered - and the fragments were carried inside by the force of the beam. That's what damaged the left lung and penetrated the heart. We've removed the larger fragments..."

"...but the chordae tendonae are filled with a microparticulate crystalline residue," Alyssa completed. "If we can't remove every trace of that residue, it will be like ground glass, chewing away at the tissue with every heartbeat."

"Can you remove it all?" Beverly asked.

Alyssa and Matthews looked at one another, then Matthews shook his head. "No. We can get the majority - but there's no way to identify the location of each particle. The best we could do would be to surgically remove as much as possible, restart her heart, then watch for areas that are suffering damage. As we find them, we can remove the particles..."

"Meaning repeat surgeries," Beverly said grimly. "I don't think she can survive that."

The three physicians fell silent for a moment, then Alyssa said quietly, "I think we need to consider a cybernetic replacement."

Beverly bit her lip, hating the idea, hating everything the idea stood for, hating what the future would hold for the woman lying on the biobed before them - but Greg Matthews spoke before she could.

"In another patient, maybe - but..." He looked at Andile's body, glanced at the readings - and shook his head. "There's no point. Even if we could implant an artificial heart - and in light of her atypical physiology, that would mean modifications which might or might not be compatible - but allowing that we could implant the heart, what good would it do her? We can't replace her lungs - and even if we could, we can't do anything for the brain damage she must have suffered," he added, gesturing at the readout displaying the minimal brain activity. "No. I say we should take her off cardiac bypass, allow her heart to take over again - and let nature take its course."

"You mean, let her die," Alyssa countered, shocked and angry.

He shook his head. "She's already dead, Doctor; her body just doesn't know it yet."

Beverly watched the two, not too surprised at hearing the conversation she had just had with Jean-Luc playing out before her, knowing it was the same conversation physicians had had since the dawn of their profession.

What did surprise her, however, was that she found herself bristling at Matthews' recommendation, finding it somehow offensive to hear him argue for releasing Andile from life - when only minutes before she had made the same arguments to Jean-Luc and Will.

No, she reminded herself; they weren't the same arguments; she had argued for allowing Andile to pass from this life based on her knowledge of the woman and her respect for what she had endured.

Greg argued to let her go because...

Because...

Beverly hesitated.

She wasn't sure why Greg was arguing against the implantation surgery, she admitted - but whatever the reason, it certainly wasn't compassion.

She studied the physician for a moment, as if she could somehow see deep into the man's soul with only her eyes - then shook her head.

"Unfortunately, Starfleet regulations do not give us that option," she reminded them. "Andile did not leave a definitive statement regarding her preferences on this issue; we are going to have to follow standard protocol and make every reasonable attempt to preserve her life.

"John, Aaron," she called to the two technicians hovering nearby, "let's get the lieutenant prepped for immediate surgery. Alyssa, I want all three OR nursing teams in to assist. Greg, begin the calculations for selection of the optimal replacement. I'll begin with the amputation of her arm. The more strain we can remove from her body, the better her chance of surviving."

"I think we're wasting resources," Matthews said, then, seeing the admonishment in Beverly's eyes, grudgingly added, "but she's your patient, Doctor."

"I'm glad we agree about that," Beverly countered. "How long do you need?"

"Can we access her baseline data?"

Beverly shook her head. "Not much; we never received her medical records from Starfleet."

"The apheresis procedures...?" Alyssa suggested.

Beverly gave an approving nod to the idea. "The lieutenant underwent some apheresis procedures several weeks ago; you can use that data and back-calculate potential blood vessel parameters.

He snorted derisively. "I could guess, too - and that would be just about as accurate."

"Doctor, if you are not capable of performing your job..." Beverly began.

The man stood upright, bristling at the suggestion. "I am perfectly capable of doing my job, Doctor - even when it is pointless. If you'll excuse me..." he said, roughly brushing past her.

Beverly watched him for a moment - then reached out, snagging the arm of a passing tech. "We're prepping the lieutenant for surgery; let the lab know we're going to need plasmine and expanders - and let the dialysis and apheresis teams know we may need them again," she added.

The man nodded, then hurried away, leaving Beverly and Alyssa alone.

Alyssa looked up at the taller woman. "Dr. Crusher... You don't want me to assist in surgery?" she said, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.

Beverly reached out, laying a reassuring hand on Alyssa's arm. "Yes, I do want you in surgery, Alyssa - but I have something I need you to do first. It's important - and to be blunt, you're the only person on the ship I trust to do this."

"Of course," Alyssa replied, flattered - but worried.

"I need you to perform a comprehensive physical on the Captain."

Alyssa's eyes widened slightly in surprise - then she gave a small nod of understanding. "You think they may have been suborned by the Breen?" she said

"I have no evidence of that, Alyssa - but the regs are explicit," even if we frequently ignore them, she added silently. "If he's capable and competent to return to duty, then, for the sake of the ship and the crew, we need him back. If he's not..."

Alyssa glanced at the door to Beverly's office where Picard still stood, watching over the proceedings in Sickbay with a concentration that was almost unnerving - then shivered.

His eyes, she thought, shuddering at the driven expression in them - then looked at Beverly. "He'll need a psych evaluation as well," Alyssa said warily.

"I know," Beverly agreed. "Would you ask Deanna...?" she began.

"Of course," Alyssa agreed.

Beverly smiled - but there was no light in her eyes, Alyssa realized; only a hollow fatigue that she couldn't remember ever seeing there before.

A sense of worry - and dread - began to billow up in the physician.

"Beverly..." she began.

"I need to get scrubbed for surgery," the CMO interrupted. "After you're done with the captain's evaluation, would you inform Cmdr. Riker of your findings, then join us in surgery?"

Alyssa frowned, the worry surging. "Don't you want to review my report before I give them to the Commander?" she said, stunned.

Beverly shook her head. "No," she said flatly, then added, "Biji's surgery may take hours - and the evaluation can't wait. I trust you to handle it - and so does the captain," she informed the woman. "When you're done, please join us," she added, then turned, heading for the surgical bay.

Alyssa watched the woman for a moment, still stunned - and confused.

She wants me to perform the physical, she thought to herself, bewildered - and the captain agreed?

That wasn't right, she thought to herself. Beverly always took care of the captain - usually to the complete exclusion of the remainder of the medical team, she added - and he would have it no other way!

Most of the crew wrote that off as simply one more of the privileges that rank bestowed upon the man; the Captain got the personal attention of the ship's CMO - and usually in the privacy of his own quarters - while the rest of the crew got whoever was on duty when they showed up in Sickbay.

Fewer knew that it was less a perquisite than a demand - albeit a gentle one - from the ship's leader; though she couldn't claim she was an intimate of his, Alyssa knew he was not a man who would easily bare his body or his soul for others to inspect.

That he even permitted Beverly to attend to his physical needs had been a hard-won concession on her part - and one, she reminded herself, that still did not come easily from the man.

Getting him to take his annual physical was a yearly challenge, she thought to herself, remembering the weeks - and sometimes months - of missed appointments and rescheduled meetings, usually culminating in an angry argument, more than a few threats - and finally, the discreet closure of a section of the Sickbay so that Beverly and her reluctant patient could attend to the necessary matters.

So why was he allowing her, Alyssa Ogawa, to perform that same physical now - and why, she added, still stunned, was Beverly allowing her to make the decision regarding his physical competency to resume command? she wondered.

Yes, Andile's condition was precarious - and Beverly was one of the best surgeons in the Federation - but the surgery could wait the hour needed to perform the physical, she knew.

Goodness, she thought, it's going to take an hour just to try to match a replacement heart to Andile's physiology! Beverly could do the physical in that time...

And she knew it, Alyssa realized.

As did the captain.

She glanced from Beverly - her shoulders sagging slightly, the usual spring in her step gone - to the captain, with his cold and empty eyes - and sighed; something was wrong between them, she thought, horribly, terribly wrong.

Not for the first time, she added - but looking at the two once again, she suspected it might be for the last time.

"Data."

For a moment, the android did not react - then slowly, he moved his gaze from the scene before him, to the hand resting on his arm, then up to the face that was connected to that body.

"Cmdr. Riker," he said softly, dully.

Will tightened his grip on the arm in commiseration - and reassurance. "Data, we need to move the ship out. I hate to ask this - but I really need you on the bridge," he said.

Data turned away, staring at the biobed again.

"Data?" Will repeated.

For another moment, the android was silent, then he softly said, "The lieutenant often stated that we must always place our professional obligations ahead of our personal ones."

Will nodded. "I know. I've heard her say that. And right now, I'd have to agree with her."

Data considered, his eyes still locked on her too-still form - then he raised his eyes to Will's. "She was wrong."

"Pardon?"

"Our obligations to Starfleet, to the Federation, they are important," the android said, "but..." He hesitated. "There will always be someone who is willing to fulfill those obligations; there will always be another who feels and believes as we do about that organization. The obligations that we make to each other, as one individual to another, those obligations are the more important, Commander - for we make them knowing that no one else may ever complete them for us.

"When Andile pushed the captain out of the way of the Ambassador's weapon, I believe she was acting not to save the captain of the flagship of the Federation, or even to save the captain of the ship; I believe she placed herself in the line of fire to save... him," he said quietly.

Ambassador's weapon? What Ambassador? Tillerman? Tillerman was responsible for this? And what the hell does he mean, Beej pushed the captain out of the line of fire? Will thought, confused.

Unaware of the man's perplexity, Data continued, "Just as I believe the Breen captain was trying to save her when he was killed."

"The Breen captain is dead?" Will echoed, stunned. "Data..."

But the android had turned his attention back to the biobed once again.

Confused, Will started to reach for the Data's arm once again - but a voice stopped him before he could disturb the grieving man.

"The commander is correct," Worf offered. "At least, from our perspective - though what events transpired before we arrived, we do not know."

"What _did_ you see?" Will pressed, then turned to Data as well. "Worf, Data, I need to know what happened - I need to know everything you saw, everything you heard. If their captain was killed by one of our people, we may be facing a new war. I need to know what you saw."

Data stared blankly at the first officer for a moment - then seemed to straighten and stir himself to life.

"Ambassador Tillerman was holding the Captain and the Lieutenant at the point of a Breen energy weapon in an attempt to prevent their escape," Data said.

"Yes, I understand, Data - but how did the Breen captain die? What happened? Worf?" he added when the android fell silent once again.

But the Klingon could only shake his head. "I did not hear the conversation that preceded the firing of the weapon. When we reached the entrance to the maintenance bay, the conversation was over and Tillerman was firing the weapon at the captain. The lieutenant pushed him out of the way - then the Breen grabbed her, and tried to cover her with his own body. That was when she was injured - and he was killed," he added.

"And Tillerman? What happened to him?"

"I used my phaser to stun him," Data answered for him. "Had I known he had done this," he added, glancing at mutilated figure on the biobed, "I would have killed him."

Will tensed at the rage in the android's carefully controlled voice, finding it all the more terrifying for the quiet calm that overlay it.

"Data, I empathize with what you're feeling," he replied as calmly as he could, "but for right now, I need to know what happened."

Data hesitated, considering, then said softly, "If the Breen felt the death of their captain was an accident and unintended, they might be willing to consider the commencement of peaceful negotiations between our peoples - and Tillerman would go unpunished. If, on the other hand, the Breen believe we are responsible for the death of their captain, then an interstellar war could begin. Having evaluated the Breen vessels capacity, I believe we hold a superior position in regard to weapons and shielding. Based on what I tell you regarding that conversation, a war could be declared - and we would be in position to make the first offensive action - and if we were to fire upon their vessel, we would destroy them - and Tillerman would die."

He looked at Will, his eyes dark and deep with a grief and a rage he had never known existed until now.

"And I want him to die."

Will drew back, stunned by the pure hatred in the android's voice.

"But she would not wish that," Data continued a moment later.

Will let go a breath he did not know he was holding.

"She would not wish a war to begin over her death; she would wish even a single life lost over hers. The conversation I overheard forces me to believe that the departure of the captain was not being contested."

"Then why did Tillerman fire at him?" Will asked, confused.

"Because Ambassador Tillerman did wish a war to begin," Data replied, "and the release of the captain, and the anticipated return of the ship to Federation space would have prevented the culmination of a series of events that would have ended in a war between the races. By killing the captain, he would have prevented his escape, and the chain of events would have continued, unchanged."

"And instead, he kills the Breen captain - and maybe nothing changes again," Will countered.

"Perhaps - and perhaps not," Worf offered. "It was too late for the Ambassador to alter the angle of his weapon, or terminate the discharge," he explained. "That the Breen was killed instead of the captain was, I believe, inadvertent - and that the lieutenant was injured unintended by all parties."

"In other words, this whole thing has been one giant mistake," Will concluded.

The two men nodded again.

Will drew a deep breath, then straightened himself. "Beej almost died trying to save the captain - and their captain died trying to save her." He shook his head. "This situation is a powderkeg, gentlemen - and one we cannot allow to stand untended. Data, we need to break away from the Breen tendrils - but going to warp as Geordi suggested is going to cause damage to the Breen ship. I need you to recalculate exactly how much thrust we need to break free - but cause the least possible damage to the Breen ship. Worf, we're going to need maximum shields..."

"Sir, we cannot maximize shields while moving at warp speed; not while our computer processing ability is still limited," he reminded the first officer. "There will be an irredeemable conflict in the prioritization circuits."

"That won't be a problem, Worf," Will assured him.

"You have re-initialized sufficient computer memory pathways?" the Klingon answered, surprised.

"No," Will replied.

"Then how...?"

"There won't be a computer conflict, Worf, because we're not going anywhere. We're going to stay here and settle this mess, once and for all."


	144. Chapter 144

**Chapter 144**

"Do you have the numbers, Data?" Will called out anxiously from the center seat on the bridge of the Enterprise.

"Yes, sir," he replied, his voice perfectly neutral.

Too neutral, Will thought to himself, regretting the brief conversation the two had had on the way to the bridge about how human males handle - or rather, didn't handle - their emotions. In theory, the idea had been a sound one, intending to instruct Data on the practice of distancing himself from a display of what he was feeling; in practice, Data had - as he did with most ideas - taken it to the extreme, choking off every hint of his churning internal emotions.

It had left his speech sounding even more stilted than it had been when they first met, Will thought, with slight gaps and pauses punctuating every sentence as he searched for words that contained no emotional content.

A hard task, even for Data, Will thought; the more time you spend with someone, the deeper your relationship, the more every component of your lives became intertwined, interconnected, until everything you said, everything you felt, everything you thought was somehow connected with that person - until the very words of your thoughts drew up memories of her, of you and her, together...

_Imzadi_, he thought, more to himself than to her.

He felt a gentle touch at the back of his mind, the reassurance that she was there, that she would always be there for him, and felt a smile move to his lips.

He could not imagine a life without her anymore; he could not imagine not having her as the integral component of everything her thought, everything he said, everything he did. And having to try to do what Data was doing now, to find a way to maneuver his existence around every word, every thought, every memory that reminded him of what he could lose all too soon, of what might already be gone... He shook his head, knowing he couldn't do it - and suspecting Data was having only slightly better success.

Of course, it was different for Data, he reminded himself, knowing the intertwining of Andile's life with his was an idea borne more from his incredible brain and its ability to craft relationships between thoughts, actions and feelings than it was from any real relationship that the two had had; after all, Data was an android - and Andile was... well, Andile, he thought.

Of had been Andile, he added, anxiously glancing at the console on the arm of the captain's chair, not sure if the un-illuminated telltale from Sickbay was a good omen - or a bad one.

A good one, he decided firmly; we need some good things to happen now.

Like making the Breen fully aware that they were damned sick and tired of being a pawn in this elaborate game of theirs.

"Can we break free without damaging the Breen ship, Data?" he asked the android.

"Yes, sir. By advancing at one-eighth impulse, the feedback would alert the Breen to our intentions and allow them adequate time to release the tendrils without incurring damage to their ship," he replied flatly.

"However, Commander," Worf offered from the first officer's position at his side, "it would also permit them time to vary the frequency at which the tendril adsorbs the ship's energy; they would be able to drain our shields - and possibly our engines before we could break free."

Will nodded. "Agreed - and that's not a risk I'm willing to take."

"Yes, sir," Geordi agreed from his Engineering post, "but if we accelerate too quickly, the feedback could overwhelm their systems; from what Data said, their technology is not that sophisticated - and too strong of a direct blow could send back a feedback wave so intense that the system would feedback - and destroy itself. They'd lose propulsion, certainly - but the entire ship might blow up as well. We just don't know enough about their systems to know what would happen," he protested.

"They kidnapped the captain!" Worf argued.

"And their captain died trying to make sure he got home," Will reminded him.

"All the more reason to act quickly and decisively," the Klingon reminded him. "Should they decide to seek retribution..."

"I'm not going to argue the point, Worf," Will concurred. "I have no intention of putting this ship at their mercy - but I'm also not going to be the cause of the start of a war - not if we can avoid it. Data, give me three quarters impulse forward - but set a course for..." He glanced at the console. "Three four seven mark three. Warp one. The moment we're free from the Breen tendrils, engage on that course."

"Course laid in," Data replied.

"All right," Will said, then looked around the bridge, eyeing the crew - and finding them as ready - and as on edge - as he was. "Then let's do it. Engage."

Data touched a lighted control on his console - and nothing happened.

"Geordi...?"

"Engines are engaged," the engineer replied.

"The Breen tendrils are preventing our forward motion," Data advised.

"I thought you said they couldn't withstand compression," Will said accusingly.

"They cannot," the android replied.

"Then...?" Will asked expectantly.

"The destabilization process is not instantaneous, sir; it will take several seconds for the pressure to overcome the structural integrity of the tendrils," he informed the man.

"Can they compensate?"

"Unlikely - but impossible to say conclusively, based on our level of knowledge of their equipment," Data conceded.

Can't risk it, Will thought to himself. "Full impulse," he ordered.

"At full impulse, sir, I cannot guarantee there will be sufficient time after the collapse of the tendril to allow a change of course before impacting the Breen ship," Data advised.

"Understood," Will replied, then repeated, "Full impulse."

Data nodded, touching the console again - and this time a faint groan of the engines whining against the strain echoed back through the ship. "Full impulse," the android confirmed.

Will nodded. "Keep an eye on the tendril's power adsorption configuration, Data; they moment they destabilize, implement the course change. Don't wait for them to fully collapse," he added.

"Commander, ship's inertial dampeners aren't at full capacity," Geordi cautioned him. "We've rerouted computer space to other ship's functions..."

Will thumbed a tab on the arm of the chair. "Attention all ship's crew. We are about to attempt to break away from the Breen vessel; brace yourselves."

He tabbed the control again, only to see a light flash on in almost instant response. He touched it.

"Will!" Beverly's voice broke through, a hint a panic edging it. "We're in the middle of a cardiac replacement! Any violent motion..." she began to explain.

Will glanced up at Geordi.

"I can beef up dampeners in Sickbay," Geordi said, "but I'm going to have to draw the processing space from somewhere else."

"Divert from crew quarters," Will answered. "Everyone should be at their duty posts," he added.

Of course, there would be hell to pay when they returned and found their rooms and their possessions completely trashed, he mused silently - though he doubted he would hear any complaints when the cause was made known.

If, he added, Andile survived. At least we can do our part. "You've getting everything we can give you, Doctor - but we may need to reroute processors to make good our escape."

"I understand, Will," Beverly said quietly, "but..." There was a moment's hesitation before her voice returned, softer this time. "We're removing her heart and lungs, Will; the slightest slip..."

"Understood, Doctor," he said.

And he did understand - but if they didn't break free, Andile's survival would not be the only one that concerned him; if they didn't break free, there was no guarantee any of them would survive.

"Status of the Breen tendrils?" he called to Data.

"I am detecting an increase in particle density, Commander; the tendrils are demonstrating a thirty percent increase in rigidity... but no destabilization," Data replied.

"Sir," Worf interjected, "there appears to be a change in the energy adsorption pattern in the tendrils."

"Due to the feedback?" Will asked. Or are they trying to secure their hold on us? he wondered silently.

"Unknown."

"One and a quarter impulse," Will barked.

"Sir," Data interrupted instantly, "at that speed we will not be able to break away in time to avoid damaging the Breen ship..."

"Commander, I can't boost the dampeners to compensate for a vector change at that level!" Geordi protested.

"One and a quarter impulse," Will repeated. "That's an order!" he added - then continued, his voice slightly lower, "If we damage the Breen ship, we'll stay to assist in their repairs - if necessary."

Data turned to face Will, the agony on his face unmistakable - then turned back, the question that hovered on his lips remaining there, unspoken.

"One and a quarter impulse," Data said quietly, touching his console.

A good officer might advise his captain regarding his orders, Will thought, watching Data - but he did not question them, Will knew. Even when those orders threatened the life of someone important to the officer.

And in turn, Will reminded himself, a good captain does what at he can for his officers.

He glanced at Geordi. "Boost the dampeners in Sickbay to maximum; take it from anyplace except hull integrity."

Relieved, Geordi nodded - then looked back at Will. "Beej is going to have a smooth ride, Commander," he said softly.

Will nodded - then looked forward once more - and frowned. Was it his imagination or were the tendrils growing more opaque? "Data...?" he said cautiously.

"Tendril density approaching theoretical maximum... No signs of destabilization..."

"Energy patterns are changing," Worf alerted Will. "They may be attempting to alter energy adsorption rates in order to drain our shields!"

"Core temperature on the impulse engines is at maximum," Geordi called out. "Sixty seconds until the safeties shut them down!"

"Reroute the plasma coolant through the warp engines," Will ordered.

Geordi hesitated for a moment, knowing that the heat sinks that allowed the warp engines to shed the massive amounts of heat they generated would easily bleed off any heat the smaller impulse engines would create - but after having stood inert and unused for the last few days, the sudden influx of superheated coolant could also fracture the structures.

But even if they did break, they would buy the ship the few seconds it would need to break away, he reminded himself at last.

After that... well, he'd worry about 'after' - after they got away.

"Rerouting coolant, Commander," he replied, running his hands over the controls.

"Status of the tendrils?" Will barked at Data.

"The molecular structure is continuing to change... The molecules appear to be realigning themselves into a crystalline form..."

"Any sign of destabilization?"

Data shook his head. "No, sir."

Will shot a glance at Data and Geordi, a flash of question and accusation in his eyes - but he said nothing.

From his position at the weapons station, Worf saw and noted the look, then quickly suggested, "Sir, the Breen might be trying to strengthen the tendrils..."

"Cryoformic fibers can't be altered after their formation," Geordi pointed out from across the bridge. "If the fibers are changing, it's due to the effect of the compression."

"But they're getting stronger, not weaker," Will countered.

"No, sir," Data disagreed. "The structure is becoming more regular, crystalline in nature - but not necessarily stronger."

Geordi snapped his fingers. "Data's right, Commander; even the strongest crystal will break - if you hit it at the right point. And these crystals aren't that strong. One good blow..."

Will looked at him for a moment, then swiveled in his chair to face Worf.

"Prepare to launch two probes, Worf; targeted for simultaneous impact with the tendrils. Data, they moment they make contact, make the course change - and get us the hell out of here."

Worf touched a control on his panel, then nodded at Will. "The probes are ready to launch, Commander; impact will be thirty seconds later."

"That's going to be cutting it close with the engines," Geordi warned. "Even with the plasma rerouted, they weren't designed to handle this kind of overload for this long."

It's going to be cutting it close with the ships as well, Will thought silently, hoping that Data's lightning fast reflexes would be fast enough to move them out of the way of the ship that would, at the moment the tendrils gave way, be racing toward them.

Assuming, of course, he added, that the tendrils did give way.

If they didn't...

If they didn't, the engines would burn themselves out, Will thought - and then they would find themselves where they had been three days before, at the mercy of the Breen - a Breen who had just lost their captain to a human.

"Launch probes," he told Worf, his voice quiet, firm, resolute.

The Klingon touched a control, then murmured in an equally controlled voice, "Probes launched. Contact in twenty-nine seconds. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven..."

Will raised his hand, silencing his friend, smiling gently. "I think we can do without the countdown, Mr. Worf." He lowered his hand, then moved his finger to the control panel on the captain's chair.

A chair that will never be mine, he reminded himself.

A chair that he would never have the chance to sit in again.

But at least I'll go out as a captain would, he thought with a smile.

He pressed the control.

"Now hear this. All crew brace for impact. Repeat: all crew brace for impact. Impact in fifteen seconds," he told them - then touched a second control. "Dr. Crusher, I've got every dampener in Sickbay at maximum power - but I can't guarantee you won't be jostled."

"Understood, Commander," Beverly's sober voice replied over the intercom - and Will thought he could almost hear the surgeons and nurses stepping away from the surgical table, not willing to risk even the presence of a phaser scalpel in the vicinity of the fragile body for the next few seconds.

"Twenty seconds, Commander," Worf said quietly.

"Tendril status, Data?"

"Continuing their consolidation," the android said quietly.

"Be prepared to breakaway the moment the probes reach the tendrils..."

"Commander!" Data interrupted sharply, "the tendrils conformation are changing..."

"Data, are the Breen trying to break away? Are they trying to remove the tendrils?" Will asked.

Data shook his head. "No, sir - but I am detecting strange power emanations from the Breen vessel."

"Probe impact in fifteen seconds."

Will raised a brow. "I thought our sensors wouldn't penetrate the tendrils surrounding the ship," he reminded the android.

"They can't," Geordi opined from his station. "The cryoformic tendrils should absorb any traces of power that leaks from the ship. If we're sensing anything, then it means that their systems are overloading beyond the ability of the tendrils to mask the field."

Data nodded. "The readings could well be indicative of a massive feedback loop developing in the Breen vessel's power supply. If so, failure to terminate the loop could result in catastrophic damage to the Breen ship."

"Ten second to contact, Commander," Worf informed him.

"The Breen engines will not last for ten more seconds," Data advised.

"How long till they fail?" Will asked.

Data glanced at his console. "Seven point three seconds. If we do not break contact before then, the Breen vessel will be damaged - possibly destroyed."

"A Breen trick," Worf growled. "They are trying to make us stop our attempts to free ourselves!"

Maybe, Will thought - and maybe not. If it was, it was a hell of a gamble - and if it wasn't...

If it wasn't, he thought soberly, he was about to be responsible for the deaths of more than a thousand beings - beings whose lives he could have saved.

Beings who kidnapped his captain - and his friend - and did God-knew-what to him, he reminded himself angrily.

Would the world be a worse place for their dying here, now, he wondered - one less bane upon an already war-weary and shell-shocked quadrant, drained of life and hope by too many years of war?

If the Breen died here, would anyone blame them for what they did?

Would anyone care?

He looked at the screen, the tense and tired people before him, sensing their emotions, as heightened and on edge as his own, each worried about their own lives, their futures, the lives and futures of their friends and families back on their home worlds, but each here because of a common belief, a common drive to find a better way, a better life for themselves - and for the generations that would follow -

- and all that would depend on what they did - what _he_ did.

Here.

Now.

Letting the Breen ship destroy itself was probably the best choice, he knew, eliminating the risk they posed, allowing the Federation time to regroup against this enemy.

It was the best choice, he told himself.

But it wasn't the once he could make.

"Data, cease all forward motion! Worf, re-target those probes! New heading..." He glanced at the navigator's console, "two four six, mark three one one."

Send them off someplace where they won't harm the Breen ship, he thought - then looked at Data. "Power fluctuations on the Breen vessel?" he asked the android.

"Still detectable by our sensors," Data replied, "but they are reducing in strength... They appear to be stabilizing," he added a moment later.

"And the tendrils?' Will prompted, dreading the response.

Data glanced at the board - then turned to face Will, the look of surprise on his face unmistakable. "Sir, it would appear the consolidation of the tendrils is unchanged."

"They haven't reverted to their previous state?" Will echoed, as startled as Data.

"No, sir," Data said, turning back, his hands running over the board again. "And it would appear that they are no longer adsorbing energy from our shields."

"No surprise there," Geordi informed them. "The properties of cryoformic fibers have always been related to their state. In this neo-crystalline form," he said, gesturing at the opaqued strands that still tethered the two ships together, "they can transmit only a few simple forms of energy - and only at specific frequencies."

"Shields are holding," Worf confirmed, then hastily added, "but as long as those tendrils are in place, there is nothing to stop them from holding us here until they can extrude another set of tendrils to drain our shields once again."

"On the contrary," Data offered, "with the tendrils in this state, all we need do to extract ourselves is... back away. The strands can no longer move."

"You mean after all that, all we have to do is back off?" Will asked, astounded.

"Yes, sir," Data replied. "However, the 'all that' was necessary in order to induce a transformation of the state of the tendrils," he added

"Will our separation from the tendrils inflict any more damage on the Breen ship?" Will asked.

"No, Commander; the tendrils are... dead," he said simply.

Will nodded. "Then let's back away - gently. One-eighth impulse."

Data touched his controls - and for a dreadful moment, Will felt nothing. Then, a soft grating could filled the room as the ship pulled itself free - and a fine powder of glittering crystals filled the forward viewscreen.

Beautiful, Will thought - but had the Breen been successful in their original plans, they would have been deadly.

"Keep backing off, Data; I want to establish a maximum safe range between our ship and theirs," he said.

"It is unlikely the Breen will be capable of exuding tendrils at a rate of speed high enough to overtake us, even at impulse. They were able to implement the use of the devices only because of our enforced mobility at the time of our original encounter," he pointed out.

"Nonetheless..." Will started - then turned, hearing the sound of the lift doors opening - and feeling _her_ presence drawing closer.

Imzadi.

There was a flicker of a smile on Deanna's lips as she stepped from the lift - then it faded as she lifted two padds.

The reports on the captain, he thought, then turned back to Data.

"You have the bridge, Data; have the crew stand down from the alert, then back us off to one million kilometers and hold us there. I'll be in the captain's ready room," he added, then rose from the chair gesturing for Deanna to join him in the small office adjacent to the bridge.

Stepping into the senior officer's sanctuary, he took the proffered padds from her, then set them down on the desk, ignoring them - for the moment, at least. Instead, he reached for her hands, his eyes pouring over her body - then gave her a questioning look.

"Are you supposed to be out of Sickbay yet?" he asked worriedly.

Deanna smiled. "No. Beverly says I'm healing well - but it'll be another few days before she lets me back on duty," she added, obviously disagreeing with the Chief Medical Officer's decision. "However, she granted a temporary dispensation so I could talk with the captain," she added.

Will raised a brow. "Somehow, I doubt that dispensation included traveling to the bridge to deliver the reports," he suggested.

"It didn't," she conceded, adding, "but Alyssa was needed in surgery, and you needed the reports - and Geordi's teams have done a considerable amount of work on the damaged areas of the ships. The lateral segments of the lifts are still inoperable - but the main vertical lifts are working again. If you don't mind waiting in line for the lift, you can get from deck to deck easily."

"And you will take it easy?" he pressed.

Deanna smiled. "I will."

"Good," Will replied. "I'm getting tired of sleeping alone," he added.

She blushed - then gave him a questioning look of her own. "Knowing you, I doubt you've been sleeping at all."

It was his turn to give a chagrined smile of concession. "It has been a little hectic," he admitted - then turned and reached for the padds he had placed on the desk, as though the solution to his fatigue might lie within them.

As it might, he knew.

He glanced at the padds - then lifted his eyes to Deanna's once again.

"You have to wonder," he said.

"About?"

"This," he answered, lifting the padds slightly. "About having the final decision about the captain's competency determined by the same person whose own career will be altered by that decision. If I say he's competent, I become first officer once again. But if I decided he's incompetent...?"

He smiled.

"A temporary promotion is just that, Will - temporary," she reminded him, somewhat sternly. "Once we're in contact with Starfleet Command, they will re-evaluate both the captain's status - and your decision. And..." She smiled lovingly at him. "And you would never hurt the captain in order to get a promotion. When you become captain, it's going to be on your own merits," she said.

He smiled at her - then reached out, drawing her close, kissing her gently. "Did I tell you I love you?"

Deanna smiled again. "Every moment of every day, Imzadi - but," she added quickly as he started to pull away, "that doesn't mean I don't want to hear it again."

He pulled her close once again, kissed her - more deeply this time - then pulled back, murmured, "I love you," - and moved back, perching against the edge of the desk and looked at the padds again. "Tell me about the captain's status," he said.

"Let me preface my evaluation with Alyssa's report," she countered. "The captain's medical condition is good; some dehydration and malnourishment - but nothing that a few good meals and fluids wouldn't repair.

"He does, however, have several broken vertebrae," she continued. "Three in his lower back, and three in his neck."

"Torture...?" Will began, horrified and furious.

Deanna shook her head, stilling his rage instantly. "No. I know he was injured on the bridge; the med tech who examined him there reported the fractures in his lower back." She drew a breath to go on - but hesitated instead.

"What?" Will pressed. "What is it, Imzadi?"

"The fractures in his neck... They aren't typical fractures, Will; Alyssa says there are indications that the bones broke when something tried to drill through the bone - and they cracked."

"Drill? They tried to drill through his neck?" he gaped, appalled.

She nodded soberly. "Alyssa says there are six distinct puncture marks."

Will pulled in a sharp breath through gritted teeth.

"It gets worse," Deanna added. "There's evidence of punctures to the spinal cord."

"Drugs?"

"No trace - but she did find the remnants of artificial neural fibers infiltrating the spine... and the brain," she added.

"They implanted something in the captain?"

Deanna shook her head. "No. There's no evidence of that, Will. And the captain confirms it; they implanted the fibers in order to inject a neurochemical destabilizer."

"A destabilizer. For what? To get access to his knowledge about the ship? About Starfleet?" Will asked doubtfully. "They have to know that every command code the captain knew would be automatically overridden when they took him; everything he knows about the ship would be... well, not meaningless," he conceded, "but certainly irrelevant. Unusable, if nothing else."

"True - if that's what the Breen had wanted. But the neural scan that Alyssa performed indicates that the fibers were equally spaced throughout the cerebral cortex; the Breen were accessing his memory - but all of it, not just his military or strategic memories."

"Or attempting to control them," Will surmised.

Deanna shook her head. "There's no evidence of a control mechanism or receiver module. And the fibers are dissolving, Will; within the next day or two, they will be gone. If it was their intention to control him, they couldn't do it that way - and they would have to have known we would detect the presence of the fibers. If they are attempting to suborn the captain, they couldn't be more obvious than by doing it this way."

Will drew a deep breath - and met her eyes. "And _are_ they trying to suborn the captain?" he asked her.

"He doesn't believe so," Deanna said with a half-smile.

"I don't know that the captain's opinion would be the most valid one - if he's still under the influence of the Breen," he reminded her.

"I would agree with you - if he were being influenced by them. But, in my opinion as the ship's Counselor, he isn't. Yes, he is being influenced by the events that transpired over there..."

"Which were...?" Will interrupted.

She shook her head. "I don't know, Will; he won't talk about it. And it is troubling him - greatly.

"And yes, he is being influenced - but only by those events. I sense absolutely nothing in his mind that suggests coercion," she explained. "However, when the Breen destabilized his memories, they also destabilized many of the components of his emotional being. Right now, he is experiencing heightened emotions - and he is reacting to those emotions. The captain we know - the very controlled, self-encapsulated man - is not the man who is presently residing in his quarters. That man is... distraught. Shaken. Angry."

"But he is very aware of that change in his emotional state - and he is trying to re-exert the control he once had over these tumultuous emotions. I see that control returning - possible as the neurochemicals metabolize, possibly as a result of his own force of will. Either way, he is recuperating, reestablishing himself as Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise."

Will's eyes met hers. "Then you're saying you think he's fit to serve as captain."

"Fit, yes," she said softly. "He's going to need counseling to address his reactions to the events that occurred - but I see no psychological reasons he can't resume his duties as captain. Alyssa concurs regarding his physical state. He's going to need surgery to repair the fractured vertebrae, and therapy after - but neither will interfere with his ability to lead the ship. But," she added, "the final decision is yours, Will."

He glanced at the padds for a moment, then sighed, set them down and looked at her once more. "There's no decision to make. It's his ship, Deanna; it always has been. It always will be. And... I never really thought that seat fit me," he added.

She reached out, taking his hands in hers. "I think it fits you just fine, Will." She pulled him closer, drawing him up from his position on the desk until he was next to her, his body pressing against him - then tilted her face up, offering it up to him.

He smiled, then met her lips with his, lightly at first, then harder, more intimately, until he pulled away, gasping, his eyes dark with passion.

"I don't suppose I can talk you into playing hooky from Sickbay," he said softly.

"No. And I do need to get back there," she added, her bright eyes growing dark with sobriety. "Biji's surgery could take hours... or it could end at any minute. Either way, I want to be there."

Will squeezed her hand. "I understand. You'll let me know? About Beej?" he asked.

"As soon as I know something," she promised.

She drew close, silently soliciting another kiss from him - then, receiving it, pulled away, and left the room.

Will watched the closed doors for a moment, then looked at the padds again.

Touching the keypad, he watched the screen alight, then scanned the information.

The captain was hurt, he thought; physically and emotionally, he was damaged, injured, abused.

But he was still the captain.

He thumbed off the padds - then reached for the communications console on Picard's desk.

"Riker to... the captain."


	145. Chapter 145

**Chapter 145**

Jean-Luc Picard stared at his hands.

The blood was gone, flaked off and washed away in rust-colored rivulets that had run from his face and his hands and down the length of his body as he stood in the shower - but he still felt the blood on his skin, warm and sticky, still smelled its strange, copper-tinged scent, sweet and cloying, fetid and nauseating all at once.

It was gone now - but he still felt it covering his hands, his face, thick and warm and sticky, just as...

As...

What was her name? he wondered worriedly, his mind suddenly blank, as he searched to remember the name of Shakespeare's tragic heroine who could not wash the blood from her hands - or from her mind.

He knew that he knew the name - and yet, in some part of his mind, he knew the search pointless, as though he was trying to remember something he never knew.

A residual effect of the deposition? he wondered - then shook his head, dismissing the idea. Jemat had warned him of the possibility of wildly fluctuating emotions - God knew that he'd been feeling those - but there had been nothing said about memory loss. And both Alyssa and Deanna had given him a relatively clean bill of health.

Fatigue, then, he diagnosed for himself, deciding he would grant himself a thorough night's rest - once Will had gotten a good night's rest for himself, he amended - and if I still can't remember Lady Macbeth...

He started as the name flashed back through his mind, a surge of relief following the recollection.

Fatigue, he declared definitively, refusing to acknowledge the flash of doubt and worry that followed the judgment - and refusing to equate himself with that tragic figure.

The blood stains that soiled her hands were borne of her own guilt, he knew - and he felt no guilt over what had happened to Andile.

None? he asked himself skeptically.

Some, he conceded - though there was no way he could have suspected that she would push him out of the way of Tillerman's attack, he added firmly.

No? he thought accusingly. You knew her; you knew her mind as intimately as you know your own. You knew she would have done anything... Would have done? he interrupted himself indignantly. By the gods, there was no 'would have done' involved! She _had_ done everything that anyone could have expected - and far more, more than anyone could have even imagined! - to save her ship, her crew...

But me? he asked himself softly, the shock, the stunned disbelief still rolling over him, just as it had a few hours before. To offer herself, to offer her life - damn it! he swore angrily - to give her life - to save mine?!

He turned away, closing his eyes to shield them from the sight of the hands that had been drenched in her blood.

Her blood, he thought; her blood - in exchange for my life.

Fifteen thousand years of experience, of living, of knowledge, of learning - and she would have given it up for me.

She would give up her life - for me.

And in return...?

He sat back on the corner of his bed, lowering his head against his upraised fist, slowly rubbing at the dull ache of grief and regret - and shame.

And in return, I gave her death.

Death - but not the courtesy of a grave. Only a life that would continue on for time far beyond their ability to even conceive - and all without thought, without meaning, without joy, or love or hope.

And I added insult to that eternal injury, he thought to himself.

I spit on her gift to me - by denying myself the chance to find those same things in my own life, the very things I hoped she might someday find, he added ruefully, hearing again the angry words, the cruel threat - and the look of anguish, and rage - and finally the terrible hurt on Beverly's face.

I killed us all today, he thought hollowly.

I ruined all of our lives.

And I don't even know why.

Will Riker stifled a yawn as he glanced at the chronometer - then glanced worriedly at Worf. "Didn't the captain say he wanted a meeting of the senior staff at oh three hundred?" he asked the Security Chief.

Worf nodded. "Yes, sir."

"It's oh three fifteen now," Will countered, glancing at the chronometer once again.

Worf felt his muscles tighten in alarm; the captain was _never_ late to a meeting he called. "I'll have a Security team..."

"You'll have a team do what, Mr. Worf?" Picard said, stepping on to the bridge as Worf began to speak.

Relief - still tinged with worry - washed over Worf's expression - along with a touch of embarrassment. "I was about to have a team go to your quarters, sir. You were late for the meeting - and I was..."

"...worried that I was under the influence of the Breen still," Picard concluded for his Klingon officer.

"...concerned that perhaps you had fallen asleep, sir," Worf countered. "In light of the events of the last few days," he added by way of explanation.

Picard forced a smile, knowing his interpretation of the man's motives was probably far closer to the truth. "Your appreciation and diligence are noted," he answered - then glanced at the pale-faced first officer standing at the captain's chair. "But I believe Commander Riker is in greater need of your concern right now, Mr. Worf; a few more minutes and he's going to fall asleep where he's standing," he added, the forced smile will playing on his face.

"I'm fine, Captain," Will demurred, even as another yawn broke across his face.

"Of course," Picard agreed, then gestured toward the door that led to the conference room. "Gentlemen?" he added, watching as Worf headed for the door, Data following a step behind.

Will stepped up from the dais that held the command positions, joining Picard as he headed from the conference room. "Geordi will be joining us by voice communications, sir; he's still working on the ship's internal damage - and until that's finished..."

Picard nodded, understanding. "Getting here from Engineering is still a challenge," he said.

Will smiled at the understatement.

"And Deanna?" Picard asked.

"She's staying in Sickbay. Performing your evaluation and preparing the report took a little more out of her than she had anticipated - and, well, she thought she had better stay in Sickbay - in case anyone needs her," Will said quietly.

Picard nodded, understanding what the man was saying - and what he was not.

If Andile died...

He drew a deep breath, then looked at his friend. "How is she doing, Will?"

For a moment, Will stared at the man, confused by the question - then smiled. "Deanna's recovering nicely. Beverly said she'd be confined for another two days, but with luck, I think she'll be able to talk her way out sometime tomorrow."

"Good," Picard said, his voice edged with concern - and yet, Will thought, equally hollow, empty of the usual passion that filled the man's words.

"And you, sir?" Will pressed. "Are you... all right?"

Startled, Picard raised a brow, looking at Will in surprise. "You've read the reports, Commander..." he began, his voice growing gruff.

"Yes, sir," Will interrupted. "I meant..." He hesitated, then gave let a very small smile cross his face. "It's just you're not usually late to your own meetings," he reminded the man.

"Ah!" Picard replied - then had a moment's hesitation himself. Glancing down, he studied himself - then looked up, raising an arm toward Riker. "A small problem with my uniform," he said, displaying the bagging sleeve on his tunic. "Apparently, I lost some weight in the last few days," he added.

Will glanced at the man as well, noting again the hollows and planes of his face and head - and then noting how loosely the usually meticulously fitted uniform hung on his body.

Alyssa had told him that the man had lost more than five kilos since his last physical - but the majority of that loss must have come in the last few days, he suspected.

It wasn't the only thing he had lost, Will decided as he followed the shorter man into the conference lounge; despite his attempts at conviviality, there was something gone from the man's demeanor, something forced, something strained - and it wasn't just due to the fatigue the man must have been feeling, he knew.

But exactly what, he didn't know - and he suspected that whatever this meeting was about, it was not about the captain's personal troubles.

Entering the conference room a moment later, the four men seated themselves, gathering closer to the head of the table than they usually did, as though trying to mask the presence of the empty chairs beside them.

Reaching to the communications panel, Data touched a series of pads, then called out, "Geordi?"

"Here, Data," Geordi's voice replied instantly.

"Good," Picard said. "I know you're all tired, so I'll try to make this short. As you all know, we have managed to free ourselves from the Breen cryoformic tendrils that held the ship, and have backed away to a safe distance."

"Excuse me, Captain, but why have we not left the area?" Worf interrupted. "If the Breen are still a menace to the ship and to the Federation, we should leave and report our findings to Starfleet Command," he pointed out.

"And those findings are...?" Picard pointedly asked his Security officer.

Worf hesitated. "The Breen have violated Federation space," he reminded the captain.

"Yes - but with cooperation from one Federation operative - and possibly from others as well."

"Then you don't believe what Tillerman said about Admiral Czymszczak's involvement?" Will interjected.

Picard turned to the first officer. "Oh, I believe it," he said. "I just am not certain that Admiralty's involvement ends with Czymszczak. When we submit our report, I want to be sure that someone is going to do something with the information - not just conveniently 'lose' it - and lose this ship and her crew on the next mission," he added grimly.

"More to the point, however, is that I want that report to contain information - and that's something of which we have very little. Mr. Data, would you update everyone on your findings about the technology level of the Breen vessel?"

Data rose from his chair and walked to the wall display at the head of the table. "While my findings are, at best, incomplete, I believe that the Federation's assessment of the status of Breen technology has been greatly overstated. Their utilization of cryoformic tendrils - an effective but outmoded technology - is emblematic of their entire technological infrastructure," the android said.

"It worked well enough to hold us in place," Geordi opined.

"I did indicate the technology was effective," Data replied, clearly puzzled by Geordi's remark. "However, it was effective only because the method was utilized in concordance with other, illicit and unauthorized actions that effected a negative result on our mobilization."

"We were sabotaged," Worf growled.

Data gave the Klingon a quizzical look. "I believe I just stated that fact."

"The Breen technology, Data," Picard prompted wearily.

The android nodded. "Yes, sir. There were other factors that support my opinion; the age and relatively high level of wear on the Breen ship, the lack of an internal sensor system - though one can propose a rationale that might justify such an omission - the type and quality of the control mechanisms and display panels throughout the vessel..."

"Their hand weapons are not substandard technology," Worf grunted.

"No, they are not," Data agreed, his voice quiet, sober.

Startled by the sudden change in the android's voice - and embarrassed by what he had just said, Worf turned to Data. "I am sorry, Commander," he apologized softly. "I did not mean..."

"I understand, Mr. Worf," Data interrupted. "And you are correct, their weapons technology is not obsolete. Or rather, their hand weapons are not obsolete; indeed, had their weapons utilized a slightly less focused energy beam, the Breen captain might well have survived the attack."

And Andile might never have been wounded.

The thought, silent and unspoken, circled the table.

"Their ships' weapons, however, are more primitive - if they even exist," he added. "To date, we have seen no evidence of an offensive device of any type - and their defensive systems, such as shields, appear to be limited to the energy adsorption tendrils that held our ship. Effective, as I said - but extremely limited in application."

"Then you maintain your belief that the Breen vessel is not a warship?" Worf asked the android.

"I do."

"Which would suggest that this is either an independent Breen group, working without the support of the Breen government..." Will suggested.

"Or that the Breen have encountered severe financial restrictions: that this is the best vessel that they can send out against us," Worf offered.

"There is another consideration, gentlemen," Picard said.

The three faces in the room turned to him.

"And that is, sir?" Will prompted.

"That the Breen are not pursuing an... aggressive... position in relation to the Federation - and that this vessel is appropriate to their mission," he replied.

For a moment, there was a stunned silence in the room - then Geordi's voice broke through. "Their mission? You think they want to make an alliance - a peaceful alliance - with us?" he finally managed.

"An alliance might be overstating the matter - but I do believe the Breen are interested in examining a... relationship... with the Federation," Picard said.

"What kind of 'relationship'?" Worf asked. "Trade? For technology? Weapons?"

"Possibly - if what Data has told us is accurate. But as Counselor Troi has reminded us in the past, we cannot presume to apply our cultural imperatives to another races' culture. What we would seek from a relationship and what the Breen might seek could well be in diametric opposition to one another; we might not be able to truly fathom the reasons the Breen have finally chosen to seek us out - or why," he added, seeing the growing anger in Worf's expression, "they felt this approach would be a successful one."

Worf grumbled his agreement. "Capturing our ship, kidnapping her captain... Did they think we would agree to anything after they have behaved so dishonorably?"

Will nodded. "Worf has a point, Captain; they may have a different code of behavior - but we know they've been studying us, even if it is just as an enemy or an opponent, for the last hundred years. They have to have known how we would respond!" he reminded Picard.

"Suspected, yes," Picard concurred, "but known? I think not. Indeed, I think their actions were to test their assumptions, to see how we would respond - and base their course of action on their observations."

"And?" Geordi prompted over the speaker.

Picard smiled. "I don't think they expected what they got," he concluded.

"There may be another reason for their mode of contact, beyond a simple testing of hypotheses," Data offered.

Picard raised a brow at the android. "And that would be?"

"Desperation, sir," Data replied. "They may be in such need of assistance, sir, that while a diplomatic approach may have desirable, holding our ship captive may have been their way of assuring the cooperation of the Federation in pursuing those discussions."

"And kidnapping the captain?" Worf asked.

"Their way of ensuring the cooperation of the crew," Data concluded.

Will nodded, considering the idea. If Data was right, it would explain a lot of what had happened. After all, the Breen had left the ship and the crew relatively intact; the damage to the ship - and the resulting casualties - had been the work of Tillerman and Czymszczak, not the Breen directly.

But what they had done to the captain? he silently added, shaking his head, rejecting the idea - and turned to the others to argue his point.

Before he could, however, Picard caught his eye - and gave a small, almost unnoticeable shake of his head, as though he knew the argument Will was about to make - and was asking him not to.

Later, the expression said.

Will stared at the man seated at the head of the table, uncertain whether to trust this man who had so recently been held hostage by these aliens, knowing that they had abused him, drugged him, brutally dragged his memories out from the depths of his mind - or to see past those recent traumas, and trust in the man who had been his captain and his friend for so many years.

He stared into the soft hazel eyes - and knew where his trust had been - and always would be.

He nodded; later.

"In addition," Data offered, moving away from the display and taking his place at the table once again, "there is data that could be used to support my argument."

"And that is...?" Picard asked.

"When we broke free of the cryoformic tendrils, we induced a power feedback in the Breen vessel. This feedback manifested itself in detectable power overloads in the Breen vessel - an overload which, at least as far as our sensors could detect, the Breen made no attempt to stop," Data concluded.

"They didn't have the technology to stop it?" Geordi asked skeptically.

Data nodded.

Picard looked at the others at the table, worry creasing the already deep lines on his face. "Was there any permanent damage to the Breen vessel?"

"We're not sure, Captain," Will replied.

"As soon as we backed off, the power overload decreased, and it has continued to taper off ever since," Geordi explained, "but the rate of decrease is far less than I would have expected if they'd been actively working at repairing the system. What we're seeing is more like the slow bleed-off of power back into the tendrils, as though no one's actually working to repair anything. Maybe they don't know how, or, more likely, they can't."

Or maybe, Picard thought to himself, they have something else, something more important, occupying their thoughts.

Such as grieving for their captain.

He considered the idea: certainly the Breen he had encountered were far more emotional than many humans were - but space travel, even without the immediate dangers of war, held perils in plenty for anyone - human, Breen or whatever. A ship couldn't simply stop operating because the captain had died!

And yet, he admitted, that was precisely what had appeared to have happened.

Or had it? he wondered.

"Have we made any attempts to contact the Breen vessel?" he asked.

"We have hailed them repeatedly," Worf said.

"Our comm systems are still borderline, sir, but I think we've been reaching them," Geordi added.

"Any response?" Picard pressed.

Will shook his head. "None."

Picard considered for a moment. "Make no further attempts to contact the ship - but hold our position here. Geordi, prepare a stand-by away team from Engineering to go over and make immediate repairs, should the Breen require them; Worf, prepare a Security team to accompany the Engineering team..."

"It had already been done," Worf interrupted.

Picard gave Will a curious - and approving glance - then looked back at the others. "Good. We'll hold out position here for the time being."

Will glanced skeptically at the captain, only to see the beseeching plea in the man's eyes once again.

Later.

Once again, Will nodded.

With a sigh of relief, Picard looked at the others, seeing the fatigue and exhaustion in the eyes of the organic beings - and the flat unemotionalism in the eyes of the inorganic one.

"If the Breen were going to attack us, they would have done so in those first few moments when our defenses were weakest - and their emotions highest. They haven't - and I don't think we'll see anything happen with the Breen for the next few hours. Therefore, gentlemen, I'm ordering each of you to get at least eight hours rest."

For a moment, Picard could see the protest rise in Worf's eyes - then watched as it fell back, adrenaline and determination giving way to exhaustion.

"You're dismissed," he added.

As he watched the others rose from the table - but only Worf reached the doors without hesitating.

Waiting for the Klingon to leave, Data then glanced at Will, only to realize the other human was also waiting to speak with the captain in private.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Data?"

"As you are aware, sir, I do not require rest. With your permission, sir, I would prefer to continue Geordi's work in Engineering," he said.

Picard considered the request, then met Data's eyes. "I have no objections - but are you sure that's where you would rather be?"

Data gave him a questioning look in response. "Sir?"

"I thought you might prefer to go to Sickbay," he suggested quietly.

For a moment, the android said nothing, then shook his head. "I can do nothing for her there, Captain. If I report to Engineering, I would at least be serving a useful function."

Picard sighed, then glanced at Will, who quietly stepped away from the two, giving them some relative privacy.

"Data, you can't run away from what you feel..."

"I am not attempting to escape my emotions, sir; unlike humans, I am capable of analyzing my feelings while simultaneously performing other tasks," he informed the captain. "To do otherwise would suggest self-indulgence."

Picard smiled. "Self-indulgence is a very human trait, Data - and on occasion, a necessary one. It's going to take time for you to come to terms with what has happened."

"Sir, I fully understand the concepts of self-indulgence - and I have already come to terms with what has happened," the android replied, with more than a hint of anger in his tone. "Indeed, if I had not been as self-indulgent in my pursuit of what I can never be, these events would not have happened - and Andile would not have been injured. May I report to Engineering, sir?" he added, his voice brittle.

Picard started at the unexpected terse response - then nodded. "Of course," he said quietly.

Data bowed his head in acknowledgement, then started for the door, only to stop as Picard touched his sleeve. "Data?"

The android stopped, then turned to look at Picard, his golden eyes dull and lifeless. "Sir?"

"This wasn't your fault, Data," he said quietly.

"I was on the Breen ship, Captain," he said coldly. "I heard her conversation with you. I know that, directly or indirectly, what she did was in response to my actions. I... I may have killed her, Captain," he said.

"Data..." Picard began gently, his heart aching for his friend - but Data interrupted him.

"Please, Captain," the android begged, his voice pleading, beseeching.

For a moment, Picard hesitated, knowing that escape was not what Data needed right now.

But escape, just like the grief and doubt that filled Data at this moment, was a very human response. In time, he would come to confront his pain, his grief, his guilt.

In time.

If he was lucky, Picard added; if he didn't spend the rest of his existence trying to avoid those same emotions.

If you're a better man than I am, he added soberly.

"Yes, of course," he said at last. "You'll reassume your post at ops at the beginning of alpha shift," he added.

Data nodded his acknowledgement - and, Picard thought, his relief.

He watched as Data left the room.

Will watched as well, then turned to Picard, giving his captain an appraising look. "It wasn't your fault, either, sir," he reminded the man.

"She was under my command, Will," he replied quietly.

"Technically," he agreed, "but Andile has always been - and will always be - a force unto herself, sir. I've learned in the past few months that she does what she wants, when she wants to do it - and if it happens to coincide with your orders, then all the better. If not, she'll explain it, rationalize it, justify it - but she's still going to do what she wants," he told Picard.

"I know. Still... I should have done better by her," the older man replied.

"Yes, sir. I tell myself that every day," Will added.

Picard looked at his first officer as if just realizing he was present - and smiled. "That's why you are going to be a superb captain, Will."

Will smiled - sadly. "Thank you, sir, but..."

The captain lay a gentle hand on the taller man's arm. "Will, Tillerman told us what Czymszczak said; that he told you that you had been removed from the 'Captain's List'."

Startled, Will drew himself upright, not realizing until that moment that he had been slouching, hunching his shoulders down as the weight of the loss continued to chew at him. "Captain..." he began to protest.

"It's not true," Picard said.

Will blinked, not certain he had heard or understood the man. "What?"

"It's not true - at least as far as I know. I will admit that things may have changed while I was on leave - but as an informal rule, a qualified candidate is not removed from the list unless his captain has indicated there may be a legitimate reason the candidate is not qualified. I have not done so, Will," he added.

"But... Admiral Czymszczak..." Will gaped.

"The Admiral has no direct input on the selection process, Will," Picard interrupted. "I know he controls more than a few votes - but even so, I doubt that a field captain, someone who's been out there and knows what a starship captain faces everyday - and how we each rely upon one another - would willing dismiss so qualified a candidate from contention. Not every Starfleet captain is the height of exemplary professional conduct, Will, but we do try to not shoot ourselves in the foot," he said.

Will stared open-mouthed at Picard for a moment - then slowly closed his mouth. "Yes, sir," he said at long last - then added, "Why?"

Picard raised a brow.

"Why did he tell me I was off the list - if it wasn't true?" Will explained.

"Emotional manipulation. Part of his plan with the Breen to limit the effectiveness of the crew and officers, and see our responses under duress," Picard explained. "They thought - or perhaps Czymszczak thought - that by telling you that your career was essential over, that you would be incapable of guiding this ship out of danger once I was removed. They never considered that you would be a better officer than that."

Will smiled wanly, chagrined. "Truth be told, sir, they might have been closer to being right than I would care to admit."

Picard shook his head. "No. I know you, Will - perhaps better than you know yourself. You would never renege on your duties; you would continue on as first officer, as acting captain, until the moment they took you from the bridge."

Will hesitated, the uncomfortable expression still marring his usual good looks. "Ummm... I have to admit, sir, that it wasn't that simple. Deanna and I had some long talks about... other things. Leaving Starfleet, getting a ship of my own. I guess I'm not quite as dedicated as you thought I was."

A tired smile crossed Picard's face. "In light of what you had been told, I would have been astounded if you hadn't considered your options; indeed, investigating options is the hallmark of a fine officer - and a good captain."

"And you, sir?" Will asked, curious. "Do you consider your options?"

Every damned day, he answered silently - then met Will's eyes. "I've learned to explore the possibilities life offers, Will. So far, this is the one I've chosen to pursue."

For now, he added, knowing he had not done well by Andile - or, he admitted, by the man before him.

He settled back against the edge of the table and sighed. "Will, I apologize for not having realized how troubled you've been in the last few weeks. If I had, perhaps I would have been able to save you from some of this... grief," he said contritely.

"Captain," Will answered, "you've had other things on your mind. This mission, the sabotage..."

"I know - but the needs of my crew should always have been paramount in my mind - and they weren't. And you suffered for it," he said.

Will smiled, refusing to allow Picard the indulgence of self-pity. "Let's just say I used the opportunity to explore my future," he said. "And speaking of the future," he added, deftly changing the subject, "what the hell are the Breen up to? You know, don't you?"

Picard studied the man - then nodded. "I know."

Will's eyes widened in expectation. "And?"

"They're searching."

"For?"

Picard hesitated - then met Will's eyes. "God," he said quietly.

"God?!"

Picard nodded. "They're searching - and have been searching for almost three hundred thousand years - for God."

Will's mouth dropped. "Then all this," he said, his hands open, gesturing about the room, "has been part of some search for a... a Holy Grail?" he said, dumb-founded.

"Not a Holy Grail, Will," Picard countered. "The Holy Grail was a legend, born from religious belief and myth; no one knows that it ever survived the dawn of the Christian era. The Breen's search for God is based in their scientific knowledge of genetics, interspecies cross-breeding, the work of the Progenitors. For them, seeking God is as much science as belief. Though after so many millennia of searching without finding any answers, I think it is more from habit than anything else."

Will stared - then slowly closed his mouth. "Then why continue? Why all this? If they know God doesn't exist..."

Picard shook his head. "Belief, Will - and need. They need to seek out their creator - and their future." He sighed - then looked at Will. "I just don't think any of them every expected to find her," he added softly.

Will stared at the man, hearing the words - but not able to make sense of them. "Her?" he finally said, doubt and disbelief heavy in his words.

"_Her_, Will," Picard confirmed.

For a long moment, Will gaped, then shook his head. "Captain, surely you don't mean... "

Picard nodded. "As far as the Breen are concerned, God is in our Sickbay - and she's dying."


	146. Chapter 146

**Chapter 146**

"Beej?! God?!" Will gaped - then shook his head in disbelief. "That's not possible!"

Despite the seriousness of the issue, Picard found himself smiling. "Their god, Will; not ours. And not an omniscient deity; for them, it's something even more important. Sit down," he added, gesturing at the chair, "and I'll explain."

It was sometime later before Will pulled back from the table, still gaping in disbelief - but at least beginning to understand the Breen's actions - as far as he could understand them.

Maybe Deanna would be able to make better sense of it, Will thought - when he could tell her, he added, having agreed to Picard's request to keep the matter private. The woman had enough complications in her life, he thought - that is, if she still had a life.

Without a central comm board in the room, he had no ready tell-tale light from Sickbay to alert them to any emergencies - but if something had happened, either for good or ill, a message would have been sent to the captain immediately - and the two had spoken in private for what must have been at least several hours, he added, glancing at the array of cold and empty coffee cups on the table.

Still...

He opened his mind for the familiar touch of his lover - and sighed with relief as he felt only the drowsy touch of her mind in answer.

She was asleep, he knew, or resting - and waiting - until there was something she could do.

Will looked back at Picard. "But if Beej is this god of theirs, why haven't they tried to get in touch with us? To see if she's even still alive?" he asked.

"I don't know, Will," Picard admitted. "I would have thought they would have contacted us to confirm her condition..."

But perhaps they already know it, he thought grimly.

What do you do when your god is killed? Picard wondered. What do you do when your search of millennia is finally at an end... forever? Grieve? Rage? Attack? He shook his head, not knowing.

"Maybe you should get some rest, sir," Will said, seeing the worry and the weariness on the man's face.

"Good advice, Commander," Picard agreed. "And you should take it," he added.

"But..."

"Data will be back in..." He glanced at the chronometer - and was surprised to note more than five hours had elapsed. "... a little more than two hours. I'll take a rest then."

Will nodded, trying not to yawn - then smiled. "Yes, sir," he said, then rose to his feet. "Good night, sir."

"Morning, Will," Picard corrected.

Will smiled again, then aimed himself for the conference room door. Before he reached it, however, he turned and looked at Picard. "Sir? The... deposition?" he said, trying to recall the word Picard had used. "The Breen retrieved all of your memories?"

The captain nodded. "They were searching out what makes us who we are - and what better way than through our life experiences, relived just as we experienced them originally, without the taint of time, glorification - or regret?"

"What was it like?" Will asked. "To remember everything?"

Picard considered for a moment. The agony of the procedure had faded away, forgotten shortly after he had reawakened - but the memories... He shook his head.

"Exquisite, Will - and horrible. Terrifying. First loves - and first deaths. The Borg," he said softly. "Celtris III. The Parrot Bar," he added with a faint smile - then let it fade. "I never want to forget any of what I've experienced in life, Will - but in life, there was time to move from one event to the next. Time to digest. To heal. What the Breen did... It was like a mental assault - but one of my own creation. I know that was not their intention - but that was how it felt."

Add to that the effect of fifteen thousand years of Andile's memories entering his mind, filling his thought - fifteen thousand years of her hell added to his own...

And yet, there were moments, moments of his own life...

Moments from hers.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying not to remember... knowing he would never forget.

"Captain?"

Picard looked up, startled back to the present by the concern in his first officer's voice. "Yes?"

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to get some rest first, sir?" Will pressed.

Picard shook his head, smiling at the man. "I'll be fine, Will - and I want at least one of us thoroughly rested and ready when... When the Breen contact us," he said concluded soberly.

Will nodded, then hesitated, thinking. "Sir," he said after a long moment, "may I ask a personal question?"

Picard nodded slowly.

"Why?"

He didn't have to explain the simple question further.

Picard stared down at his hands, staring at them for a moment - then raised his eyes to his first officers. "I keep asking myself that question, Will. And I don't have an answer. All I know is... I couldn't let her go. Not yet."

"The Breen must have felt the same way," Will offered. "Their captain died trying to save her," Will reminded him.

"Perhaps - or perhaps he died trying to save his beliefs. Perhaps... perhaps I simply couldn't let go of her any more easily than he could."

"Yes, sir," Will said softly.

Picard raised a brow, studying the tall human - then nodded toward the door. "Bed," he said firmly.

"Yes, sir," Will repeated, smiling this time.

Beverly Crusher stared at the two bodies laid out in Sickbay.

One lay carefully arranged on a diagnostic bed, a full array of life support equipment arrayed over her body, regulating every aspect of her body's functioning, a second bank of machines splayed out at the sides and at the foot of the bed, rows of tubes running out from under the blanket that covered the body, carrying away fluids to be processed while more tubes ran back, carrying the clean and purified liquids, even as pumps silently forced artificial blood, plasma and nutrients into more tubes that penetrated what seemed to be every visible patch of mottled purple skin.

Beverly glanced at the display once again - but for the time being, there was nothing more she could do.

This was the hardest part of her job, she thought; the waiting.

She turned to look at the second body, awkwardly curled up in a chair, one arm cradling her head while the other clutched sleepily at the metallic thermal blanket that someone had placed over her.

She sighed, shook her head, then made her way over to the second figure, knowing that at least here was someone she could help.

Crouching down beside the sleeping figure, she lay a hand on the woman's shoulder, shaking it gently.

"Deanna?"

Startled, Deanna jerked her head up - then turned, seeking out the source of the sound that disturbed her - and met Beverly's gaze.

For a moment, there was no comprehension in that look - then wonder, worry - and suddenly relief.

"She made it?"

Beverly nodded. "So far. We moved her out of recovery a few minutes ago," she said, nodding toward the lone occupied bed.

Deanna looked at the bed - then looked back at Beverly, sensing the physician's extreme worry. "It didn't go well?" she asked.

Beverly shook her head. "As well as we could hope - but trauma surgery is not always just a matter of repairing what's been known to be damaged - but also to find out what else has happened. We had to take her back into surgery almost as soon as we got her to recovery the first time - and we'll have to go back in soon. For now, we'll all have to be satisfied with knowing she made it this far. Everything else is minute-to-minute."

"She'll make it," Deanna assured the doctor confidently.

"I hope you're right," Beverly demurred, but not before she silently asked herself: Make it? Make it to what? To be a vegetable? A catatonic, bed-bound patient, oblivious to the world around her - or worse, knowing what was happening - and not being able to do anything about it?

I've condemned her, Beverly thought; condemned her to life. Damn me! Damn me for following his orders! And damn him for giving them!

"Beverly?" Deanna said softly looking at the physician, sensing the grief and anger flooding over her friend.

Beverly looked up, meeting Deanna's eyes once again. "The first thing we learn in medical school, Deanna is this: Above all else, do no harm. Today, I realized there was no way that I could adhere to that dictum. Whatever I did, I would cause harm to my patient."

"Beverly..." Deanna began softly.

"Oh, never mind me," Beverly said, interrupting her friend, brushing aside the concern. "I'm just worn out. We were in surgery over twenty hours. I've sent Alyssa and Greg off for some sleep, just in case we have to go back in."

"And you?" Deanna pressed.

Beverly gestured at the bed next to Andile's. "I'll catch a quick cat nap there. It won't be the first time I've slept on the bed next to a sick patient," she added, before Deanna could protest. "I doubt it will be the last. But I would like to ask a favor," she added. "Two, actually."

"Of course - if I can," Deanna added.

"First, would you report to the captain? About Andile, that is?"

Deanna looked at her friend, reluctance heavy in her expression. "Wouldn't it be better of you did that, Beverly? I wouldn't know the correct medical terminology..."

"Just tell him she's alive," Beverly countered, a little tersely. "That's all that's important to him."

"Beverly...?" Deanna countered, unused to the sharp tone in the woman's voice.

"Please, Deanna," the physician said, almost pleadingly - then softly added, "I can't leave her right now - and I have to get some rest. Tell him I make a formal report within the time frame permitted by the regulations - but right now, I need to be here. So please, talk to him?" she begged.

Deanna stared at her friend for a long time, stunned by the bitterness and the hurt in the woman's voice and in her heart - then slowly nodded. "Of course. But when this is over, we need to talk," she continued.

"When this is over," Beverly promised, knowing it was an agreement she would not have to keep.

When this is over, she thought silently, I'll be gone.

Deanna looked at her friend again, sensing something new - and terribly distressed - in the usually cheerful woman - but fatigue and grief could take their toll on anyone, she decided, even the inestimable Beverly Crusher.

"And the other favor?" Deanna said.

"Tell Will?" Beverly said. "In person. And then stay there."

For a moment, Deanna's expression was one of confusion - then understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're letting me out of here?"

Beverly smiled, genuinely this time. "If you're well enough to sleep in a chair, you're well enough to sleep in your own bed. Or Will's," she added with a smile. "But you're still on sick leave for another few days - so tell him to take it easy. No sexual calisthenics until you're cleared for full duty. And come back for a check-up in two days. If everything checks out, you can resume your regular duties."

Deanna smiled widely, elation in her eyes, then reached out and embraced the physician, who openly returned the hug.

Releasing her a moment later, Beverly pulled back and smiled. "Just remember, easy on the lovemaking. Now go; I need to check Beej - and I do have to start that report."

She watched as Deanna hurried through the double doorway that led to the main triage area of Sickbay - then turned and looked at her one remaining patient.

The lights on the telltales remained unchanged, showing the woman's basic functions had remained unchanged - though it was somewhat disconcerting to watch a living body where the chest didn't rise and fall with each inhalation.

But she didn't breathe, Beverly reminded herself; for the moment, and for the next few days, if she lived that long, the machines would breathe for her, oxygenating her blood, removing the carbon dioxide - all without passing through her abused lung. All without causing her chest to rise or fall.

All removing her one more step from her humanity, drawing her closer and closer to the machines that lived for her now.

But that's tomorrow's worry, she reminded herself; for now all that mattered was that Andile had made it through the surgery.

Beverly studied the machines a moment longer, then stifled a yawn, turning to look at the adjacent bed - and reminding herself that she did have a report to write, both for the captain - and for Andile's medical file. And despite what she had told Deanna, neither could really wait.

Coffee? she asked herself as she passed the replicator, her medical mind knowing it was a bad idea - but the only other option was a hypo of stimulant - followed by a sedative as soon as Greg returned from his rest break.

Not a road I want to start down, she thought to herself - not when I might need that option in the not too distant future. Andile's surgery had been exhausting. Her recovery would make that exhaustion feel like a refreshing walk in the park.

If she recovered, Beverly added.

"Large coffee," she barked at the replicator. "Double caffeinated, double cream, double sugar," she added.

"That combination is inadvisable," the computer droned.

"Tough," Beverly muttered at it. "Medical override, Crusher alpha: large coffee, double caffeinated, double cream, double sugar."

The machine whined its protest - but a moment later the coffee appeared, swirls of cream drifting across the top, playing out an intricate dance of convection and cooling.

For a moment, Beverly watched the clouds rising and sinking, savoring the rising vapor and its fragrant scent, then closed her eyes and sighed.

The cup, overfull, moved in her hand, sending a scalding wave over one edge, racing down Beverly's hand - and eliciting a barely constrained yelp of pain as she hastily changed hands, drawing her injured fingers into her mouth, sucking at the burned flesh - and tasting the coffee and cream underscored by the faint hint of the antiseptic scrub solution she had used hours before.

It used to be like this, she reminded herself; performing real medicine, being in the field, trying to save lives, not wasting my days on a ship in space where all I do is sit and wait for the next emergency. This wasn't medicine, she thought; not real medicine.

Not like it was before, when she had performed surgery so often that her son had grown up thinking that the antiseptic scrub solution that she used was actually her favorite perfume; not like when she had known the corridors and halls of the hospital wards so well she could make her way from building to the next by using old access tunnels and passages - and never have to leave the building.

That's not fair, she reminded herself; here she was valued for her knowledge - and her ability to apply that knowledge, quickly and efficaciously. Lives were saved because she was here.

But how many were lost because I was not someplace else? she wondered.

You do research here that's done nowhere else, she reminded herself - and it saves lives.

Minor research; out there, I could lead research teams...

Justification, she thought. Rationalization. You're trying to find reasons not to stay.

You don't have to have a reason, she reminded herself. You can go.

As soon as I'm finished with Andile, she added.

And then...

And then?

She drew a deep breath.

'Then' would have to wait for then; for now, she had work to do - and a patient who needed her.

Ignoring her idling thoughts, she sipped at the coffee, savoring its sweet thickness, then headed for her office, quickly settling in at her desk, thumbing the computer terminal - then groaning as it failed to light.

No personal computer entries, she reminded herself, at least not for the foreseeable future, she added - then glanced at the stack of padds Geordi had provided.

She took one, thumbed on the power switch, and began to speak.

"Chief Medical Officer's Log..."

Beverly hesitated, then, looking down at the padd in her hands, and sighed disapprovingly.

Why am I bothering?! she thought, her anger flaring. I can't make a proper medical log entry in a padd! I can't download the diagnostics, I can't enter the computer records - I can't record any of the information I should record to track Andile's condition and her prognosis! I might as well try to record a patient's history and status using a pen and paper! she complained silently.

At most, I can record my personal thoughts - and even those are going to be lost if Geordi can't get the entire computer up and running soon, so I can download my files, and create some sort of permanent record of what's happening on the ship these days.

Hmpf! Maybe I should get some paper and a pen, she grumbled - then touched the padd again, activating the recorded.

"Chief Medical Officer's log..."

At least for as long as I am the medical officer, she added.

Damn him! Damn him!

Focus, Beverly! she chided herself. Pay attention to your patients - and not your problems! she thought, using her mentors favorite phrase.

She drew a deep breath, then reached for the coffee, taking a long draw from the cup, swallowed - and felt the hot liquid move down the wrong passage.

Choking, she began to cough - hard - until her eyes watered with the effort and her lungs screamed for air - but the inhalation simply led to another bout of eye-tearing, lung-searing coughs.

Finally, her lungs declared themselves free of the offending liquid - but the tears that ran down her face refused to stop.

Damn him! she cried silently, her emotional hurt mingling with her physical pain - and both blending with her humiliation - and loss.

How dare he say that! she thought, tears running down her face. How dare he accuse me of abandoning my duty!

Damn it! Damn him! Does he think I want her to die? Does he think I wouldn't fight for her life - if it was my choice to make?

But it's not my choice! she reminded herself angrily, choking back the tears. It's hers - and when she isn't here to argue for herself, it's my duty to fight for her, even when I don't agree with what she wanted. But she had the right to expect her wishes would be fulfilled; she had the right to expect that I would fight for her.

She had the right to expect that he would as well, she thought angrily - but he didn't.

Damn you, Jean-Luc! Damn you! Why did you let her down?

Why did you let me down? she added, the hurt rising in her heart even as the tears rose in her eyes once again.

Why?!

Angrily - and worriedly - she reached for the padd that Alyssa had left on her desk hours before and began to study it. She studied the notations there, hoping to find some medical reason, some scientific rationale for his inexcusable behavior - then shook her head, not seeing what she wanted to see, what she needed to see.

Why? she repeated - though she knew she would not find the answer in any padd.

For a moment, she stared at the padd, not seeing it, not seeing anything for the tears in her eyes - then angrily brushed them away. Setting down the padd, she took the blank one - and turned her mind to her work once again.

"Chief Medical Officer's Log. Lt. Andile..." She shook her head, wondering how long Andile would remain a lieutenant, wondering how long it would take before Starfleet stripped her of her commission. Unofficially, of course; officially, she would remain 'Lt. Andile - retired', with all the rights and privileges due to an officer of her rank and experience - and her unfortunate outcome.

Perfect fodder for a publicity-hungry Admiralty that needed to remind the public every so often of the risks that every Starfleet member ran - in the pursuit of the needs of the Federation they served.

Andile's history and exploits would be exaggerated - then glorified - and then, Beverly thought, forgotten, just as she would be, her body confined to a bed for the rest of her long, long life, hooked up to one machine after another. She would need damned little - just constant medical care, constant treatment, constant reduction of her existence from the intelligent woman she was to an unthinking, unprotesting, patient.

A piece of meat, Beverly thought to herself - and felt a pang of grief cut through her.

You should have let her go, Jean-Luc; she deserved that.

She deserved your respect.

Beverly bit her lip - then brushed one last tear from her eye.

Tired, she thought; I'm just tired. It had been too long of a day, for too many days; too many worries, for far too long.

At least now, she added, glancing into the intensive care area of the Sickbay, there would be only one person about whom she would have to worry.

She thumbed the padd angrily. "Chief Medical Officer's log, Stardate..."

Damn it! What was the date?!

Did it matter? she added. She would always know what day it was; it was the day that thirty some years of hope ended.

It was the day Andile's life had ended.

It was the day the rest of their new lives began.

New, she thought - but not better. Not for any of them.

Not for either of them.

"Chief Medical Officer's log. Report on Lt. Andile. After three attempts to repair the damage to Lieutenant Andile's heart, she suffered irreversible cardiac failure at twenty-two thirty hours. Her body was placed in stasis, and the procedure to implant a biogenic replacement was initiated.

"The initial implant of a standard biogenic cardiac replacement intended for an adult female of the same body mass as the lieutenant proved unsuccessful; the high cardiac output volume was incompatible with her vasculature. Flow was stopped as soon as the output level was recognized, but not before the lieutenant suffered damage to many blood vessel and organs. Fortunately, damage to the capillaries of the brain seems to be minimal, possibly due to the unusually large capacity of the blood vessels leading to the brain which may have resulted in a modulating effect.

"Nonetheless, level four neurological panels will be performed as soon as the lieutenant's blood pressure has stabilized sufficiently to establish a baseline levels so that we can determine what, if any progress, she makes in terms of cerebral recovery," Beverly continued.

"After five attempts at remodification to match the lieutenant's circulatory requirements, we finally arrived at a reduced capacity interior chamber that seems to most closely replicate the lieutenant's own heart. While not perfect, we hope that the lieutenant's system will be able to adapt to the altered flow rates over time. What remains to be investigated is whether this unusual cardiac structure is a normal variation within her own people's physiology, a mutation unique to the lieutenant, or a consequence of earlier cardiac damage, is still unknown. A full biopsy of the undamaged tissue and the heart as a whole is planned. The excised organic heart is currently in stasis.

"Approximately eighty-seven percent of the right lung was missing, presumably destroyed by the Breen energy weapon; the remaining tissue was deemed unviable and removed; the remaining sections of the pulmonary vessels were closed. Regarding the left lung, our initial assessment was slightly pessimistic; after removal of the damaged tissue, slightly more than one-half of the lung remains intact and if functional. For the time being, however, the lieutenant is remaining on ECMO until the surgical repairs demonstrate adequate healing to allow the re-establishment of independent breathing. This final lung volume does give us hope, however, that should the lieutenant survive and be judged to be able to achieve some level of functional consciousness, she may, with proper training and in due time, be able to sit upright, allowing the possibility of a limited degree of mobility in a wheelchair. This goal is, of course, highly dependent on both the level of brain damage incurred - and on the ability of her body to adapt to the artificial implant. However, my greatest concern - that of an antigenic reaction - appears to be unfounded; we still have seen no increase in her residual white cell count, and are hopeful that the typically non-allergenic materials of the implant will not trigger a delayed response in the lieutenant."

"The lieutenant's right arm was amputated just below the right shoulder. We opted for this location to sever the limb as it would allow us the best chance for attaching a prosthetic. However, it is unlikely that an artificial arm would be usable by the lieutenant, given what will be her extremely limited mental and motor skills. To that end, I approved Dr. Matthew's idea of connecting the arm to a nutrient rich solution which will approximate the blood supply the arm received. Despite the prolonged lack of blood flow, there is minimal ischemic injury, nor is there initial evidence of reperfusion damage. Once a final determination of the lieutenant's long term medical plan is made, we may attempt a reconnection of the amputated arm, which would allow her a greater chance at control. This will, of course, necessitate a permanent external oxygenator, as her lung capacity will be insufficient to handle this additional load. There are considerable logistical issues with this concern that we will address during her long-term therapy planning sessions.

"We have had to resume the use of dialysis, both renal and hepatic, due to cascading organ failure, brought on by the trauma to the body. This was expected, and will be tapered off as her organs begin to recover. The lieutenant has been catheterized, and we are carefully monitoring her for fluid balance, and for the possibility of bladder infection and UTIs.

"We did discover some bowel necrosis; this is not atypical during cardiac replacement surgery. The area seems stable for the moment however, and resection will be performed as soon as the lieutenant can tolerate it - or if the area begins to spread. However, the lieutenant's already impaired ability to absorb nutrients makes me hesitate to remove any amount of bowel or intestine unless absolutely necessary.

"Her crit remains at twenty-four, despite the infusion of multiple units of synth heme. This may be related to the bowel necrosis, or other, as yet undetected internal bleeding. We're also watching her for the possibility of red cell sequestration in the liver or spleen. If so, additional transfusions would prove more dangerous than beneficial; we'll attempt to keep her hemoglobin at or greater than five. Should it drop below that point, I may have to consider removing the spleen," she added grimly - then took a long sip from her coffee.

"The lieutenant's prognosis is... extremely guarded," she said at last. "For now, we'll watch her closely, and try to deal with each new problem as we face it. Reconstruction will be planned and implemented on an as needed basis; for the moment, a plasticene frame was designed and connected to the remnants of her rib cage and sternum form a closure over the missing section of her chest. In time, it will form the platform on which new muscles and skin will be created."

And if all that goes well, we'll see what we can do about her hands and feet. More synth skin? she wondered - then silently added it to the ever growing list of things they would have to concern themselves with - if, she added, Andile survives.

"Realistically..." she said, as much to herself as to the padd, "Realistically, I don't know if she'll make it. I honestly don't know how she made it this far. But she's here - and we'll do everything we can to keep her with us as long as possible."

She thumbed the save switch - then turned the device's power off.

We'll keep you with us, Beej, she repeated silently, looking out across the room at the nearly motionless body, watching the slight vibration as the mechanical heart pumping blood through what remained of the tiny body gave it the only movement it possessed.

I just hope you can forgive us.

Forgive me.

Forgive him.

She drew a sharp breath and felt the tears beginning to well in her eyes again.

Oh, please find it in your heart to forgive him, Andile, she pleaded softly - because I never will.


	147. Chapter 147

**Chapter 147**

A hand solicitously guided Deanna into her seat at the table in the empty conference room - then equally solicitously helped push in the chair as she sat.

"Thank you, Will," she said, smiling up at him, love radiating from her eyes - but disapproval coloring her expression, "but I _am_ fine. Beverly's released me from care, and I am back on full duty..."

"I know - and I'm sorry if I'm embarrassing you," he said - but there was no trace of repentance in his look or his voice. "It's just... I almost lost you, Imzadi," he reminded her, his voice dropping, growing soft and warm, his hand rising to caress her face. "I'm resolved to cherish every minute I have with you."

"That's going to be a lot of cherishing, Will," she replied, teasing him in reply. "You're going to have the rest of your life with me, Imzadi," she replied.

He bent forward as if to kiss her, but spoke instead. "So when do we tell them?" he asked, his lips brushing against hers.

Deanna stared into his eyes, seeing the burning need in them, not only to be with her - but to share their joy with their friends as well.

She understood - understood and agreed - but understood equally well that this was not the right time. Too much was still unresolved, unknown, unsettled: the Breen were still only a few thousand kilometers away, still and silent even after three days; the fate of the Federation was still hanging in the hands of the delegates; Andile's fate was equally undetermined - and the crew, she knew, was feeling every ounce of those uncertainties.

And it didn't help that the captain's emotions were equally disturbed, she added, sensing the approach of the usually tranquil man - though from him, it not a sense of fear or worry that pervaded his emotional being - but one of grief.

Of hollowness.

Of loss.

A terrible loss, she knew, having sensed the growing emptiness in the man during the last few days, despite her enforced separation from the bridge and the man himself.

A loss she had sensed with equal clarity in Beverly.

They had fought - about what, she didn't know - but fights between the two strong-willed and dynamic officers on the ship were a regular event, she had told herself. They fought, not vehemently but passionately, each adamantly arguing their position, believing utterly in the correctness of their position, unwilling to back down until they were proven wrong - and yet each holding back slightly, unwilling to take the argument too far, not ready to say those words that would take the argument - and their life together - to that ultimate point from which there was no return.

But this time... This time there had been no holding back, she realized. One of them - or both of them - had crossed that line - and everything that never was, but that they both held to in their fantasies, in their dreams, in their solitary nights alone in their quarters - everything that never was - now would never be.

And there was nothing she - or anyone else - could do about it.

There was nothing they wanted done, she knew equally well; in their previous fights, they had managed to let their anger be known, to surreptitiously bring their friends into the fray, not as allies to their points of view, but as arbitrators, seeking out the cause of their disagreement, seeking - and always finding - a peaceful solution for both of them.

But this time... This time there had been no outward manifestation of their rage, no covert or blatant search for a neutral negotiator; this time, there had not even been anger, as each seemed to realize - and accept - that there was no going back.

There was no anger, no tacit cry for help, as though they both knew the end of their friendship had finally come, never to be reconciled; this time, they only grieved, mourning the loss of a friendship - and the ending of an affair they had never begun.

To announce an engagement now would be to throw that dissolution in their faces, Deanna thought, to remind them of what they never had - and, she added, to remind Data of what he had lost, and continued to lose every day.

He was grieving as well, Deanna thought - though his mourning was far more painful, for it lingered painfully, without hope or an end in sight.

In a way, Deanna thought, it might have been better if Andile had died on the Breen ship - not that she wanted the engineer dead, she hastily added - but it would have been easier on Data, she knew; perhaps, she added quietly, it would have been easier on them all.

That was a major part of the ship's disquiet, she knew; her injury had stunned the crew, taking away their collective breath, the lingering uncertainty of her fate still looming heavily over them all.

The effect of Andile's injury, and the subsequent effect it had had on the crew had startled Deanna at first, for as amiable as this ship's crew was, they were also tightly knit - and Andile was, after all, one of the newest of the new. Add to that her strange aloofness, her reluctance to enter into friendships or even casual acquaintanceships - and yet, even with the self-imposed distancing of herself from the others around her, she had made her mark among them, as friend, crewmate, counselor, advisor, supervisor, lover...

Deanna shook her head. In the end, she thought, it always came back to that, she thought, glancing up at Will once more, squeezing his hand - then releasing it. "He's coming," she advised.

He pulled back, still smiling at her, the question still shining in his eyes - then turned toward the conference room doors as they opened.

Jean-Luc Picard entered the room, his head hanging slightly, as he studied the padd in his hand - but there was an air of defeat about him that transcended even his wearied stance, a shadow of time and age that Will couldn't remember seeing before.

"Long night, sir?" he asked, silently advising the man about his appearance.

Picard glanced up, studying Will - but aside from a slight straightening of his shoulders, made no effort to change his demeanor. "Indeed," he answered, surprising his first officer.

"Oh?" Will asked.

Picard raised the padd. "We'll discuss it when everyone gets here." He glanced around the room, a questioning look on his face.

"Geordi and Data are on the way," Will informed them. "They had to stop at Sickbay to check on the status of the renovation with Dr. Crusher," he explained.

"Then Dr. Crusher will not be joining us?" Picard asked - though it was less a question than a statement.

Will glanced at Deanna, then back at Picard. "No, sir. Lt. Andile was taken back into surgery last night; Dr. Crusher didn't want to leave Sickbay until the lieutenant's condition stabilizes. She offered to send Dr. Matthews..."

Picard looked at his first officer, brows raised in question, as if daring the man to tell him he had accepted the offer.

"...but I told her that I thought that would be unnecessary. I can, of course, tell him to report - if you would prefer," Will continued.

He wouldn't take him up on the offer, Will knew; Greg Matthews had stood in for Beverly during the first morning meeting after the captain's return - but his brittle and self-centered attitude had not meshed well with the senior staff. He might be a capable and talented physician and surgeon - but he had no place in this group, Will thought.

Alyssa had done a better job at the second meeting, taking Beverly's place when she had begged off the second day - but Alyssa wasn't Beverly, Will thought. The vibrancy and strong will that marked the CMO's place on the senior staff was absent in the soft-spoken woman; she was a fine physician - but she wasn't Beverly.

But even Beverly wasn't Beverly these days, Will thought - just as the captain wasn't the captain, he added.

Idiots, he grumbled silently at them both. Fools! Love's too precious to waste - but you both give up before you even try to find it!

"Will," Deanna said softly, laying her hand on his arm.

He glanced down, then nodded, forcing back his anger - and his disappointment.

_It's just such a waste,_ he thought to her.

_I know. But they are who they are, Will; they had to find their own way - or not,_ she added sadly.

"She indicated she would forward her daily report to you as soon as possible," he added.

Picard nodded, as though that minimal contact would be sufficient - and Will looked at Deanna, his unhappiness palpable.

And immediately hidden as the conference room doors opened again, admitting Geordi, Worf and Data, the first smiling brightly.

"I can assume from your expression, Mr. LaForge," Picard said, "that the renovation in Sickbay is going well?"

"Yes, sir," Geordi answered proudly. "We've just about finished converting part of Dr. Crusher's research lab into a private area for long-term patients. If everything continues as it seems to be going now, she'll be able to move Biji in there a little later this afternoon."

"That's a full day ahead of schedule, Commander," Picard said, surprised.

"I know, Captain - but I assure you, it hasn't been at the sacrifice of any of our other repairs. Some of the engineering staff - in fact, some of the staff from every department - have offered to give up one or two of their off-time hours to help out - and it cascaded. Everyone wanted to help out," he concluded.

"That's not uncommon, Captain," Deanna interjected. "Right now, everything about our situation is precarious; the crew feels the need to do something - anything - in order to feel they are participating in bringing closure to at least one aspect of their uncertainty. In this case, helping create a private room for Biji - and for any future patients who require extended treatment, of course," she added hastily.

"Of course," Picard murmured, then raised the padd he had brought into the room. "Apparently, the crew is not alone in their desire to bring an end to the ambiguity of our present - and future - circumstances; Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell have petitioned me to initiate discussions regarding the treaty between our worlds. They want to go ahead with the conference, here - and now."

"What? Without a Federation representative?" Will asked, taken aback.

"Not precisely," Picard said, a touch of trepidation edging his voice. "They agree that they would be willing to accept a substitute representative for the Federation. Namely, me," he added.

"But... would not your participation require approval by the Federation Council?" Worf asked.

"Commander," Data interrupted, "there is no Council; they were disbanded immediately prior to the commencement of our mission - and with their release, the terms of the Federation Constitution are in abeyance." He hesitated for a moment, considering the implications of what that abeyance meant. "However, as the Captain - functioning as a Starfleet officer - has performed in the same capacity for the Federation in previous negotiations, there would be little or no validity in any arguments that he, one, cannot act on behalf of the Federation; two, that he was unqualified, or three; that Starfleet does not have the authorization to serve as the Federation's agent.

"It does not assure acceptance of the agreed upon treaty - should such a document come from the discussions - but neither would an agreement derived from the original delegates," Data continued. "However, the agreement would carry the full weight of any other negotiated agreements," the android concluded.

"It sounds like a good idea," Geordi said, "but - begging you pardon, Captain - with our warp engines back on line, we could simply return to Earth and start over with a new negotiator. At maximum warp, we could be back in just over a week."

"A week that the Federation might not have, Geordi," Picard countered. "In the light of everything that has transpired on this ship in the last few weeks, I suspect we have all lost sight of our original mission - to get the delegates to the conference and return with a negotiated treaty. Without that agreement, not only would the Federation lose its remaining credibility with the smaller constituent planets, but both the Cardassians and the Romulans might renege on their decision to move ahead with the talks - and we would all lose a chance at a peace that we all so desperately need. No, I happen to agree with the ambassadors; when we return, it must be with a treaty in hand - or this - all this," he added, gesturing at the empty chairs around the table, "will have been for nothing.

"We have lost good people on the mission, gentlemen; I will not have those lives be lost in vain," he intoned reverently.

"And," Picard continued, "I am not willing to walk away from our first chance to negotiate with the Breen."

"If they're willing to talk," Geordi said.

"If they're even alive," Will added.

Picard looked at him, silently asking for the report.

"There's been virtually no change in the power output from the Breen vessel," the first officer advised. "they seem to be sitting there, doing nothing. For all we know, sir, they're dead."

"Or playing dead," Worf growled.

"To what end, Mr. Worf?" Picard asked. "Knowing their abilities as we do, we're not about to allow ourselves to be lured into range of their cryoformic tendrils again. And..." He hesitated, seeking out the touch of Jemat's mind in his once again.

Startled, Deanna looked up at him, only to see him shaking his head.

"I doubt the Breen are dead," he said at last. "Their technology may be different from ours, inferior in some areas, superior in others - but I cannot accept that they would have undertaken a mission of such import without a crew that could handle what must be a fairly common complication in a ship that relies on cryoformic tendrils for power adsorption."

"I must agree," Data said. "I found their technology different from what we anticipated - but there was no trace of incompetence in the crew we observed."

"Has anyone spoken with the two that were captured?" Deanna asked.

Worf shook his head. "We attempted to interrogate them - but our universal translators have not been programmed with the Breen dialect they speak - and they do not understand our language," he said. "They appear, however, to be in good health; they are eating well, and the medical team's evaluation shows no prolonged injury from the phaser stuns."

Picard sighed. "I had agreed to return the Breen to their vessel in return for our release - but if there is any chance that we could be sending them to their deaths, I am reluctant to let them leave."

"On the other hand, Captain, perhaps the Breen silence is due to that very fact," Deanna offered. "Maybe they don't want to talk with us until you fulfill your end of the agreement."

"No," the captain replied, his face contracting in a grimace as he shook his head. "They knew that there might be difficulty in arranging the transfer, and they were prepared to wait until arrangements for the transport could be made. More importantly," he went on thoughtfully, "I believe they felt the initiation of discussions between our people was important to their mission; I don't believe they would hold back - unless there was a good reason."

"Then perhaps it is a technical issue, as we suspect," Geordi said. "After all, we came in to our mission prepared for every eventuality - but even so, Ambassador Tillerman managed to throw us for a loop. It's possible that even if they were ready to address system problems on their ship, the feedback may have caused more damage than they could readily handle. They may be scrambling to find answers, just as we were."

"They, however, do not have a Lt. Andile," Worf said.

The others at the table turned to face him, the astonishment on their faces unmistakable. "Worf," Geordi said with a smile, "that's the first nice thing I've heard you say about Biji."

"She is an excellent engineer," Worf replied. "Otherwise, Chancellor Drakum would not have asked her to rebuild the Empire's ships - or to be his consort," he said.

"His consort?" Geordi echoed, astounded.

"She declined of course," Worf boasted proudly. "She is, after all, a Starfleet officer - and her loyalties are to the Federation - and Starfleet - above all else."

"His consort?! Biji? _Our_ Biji?" Geordi repeated, still dumbfounded at the very possibility - then looked at his companion. "Data, did you know about this? What happened? When...?"

"It was one of the lieutenant's earlier experiences in Starfleet, Commander," Picard interrupted. "I would suggest you refer to the Federation's historical archives for further detail - when the computer records are available," he added pointedly.

Geordi's cheeks tinged with red and he grimaced at the remark. "Yes, sir. Regarding those repairs... we have completed the re-initialization of sufficient computer memory cells to allow ready access to computer records - and to the ship's recorders. Everything should be working now."

"Indeed?" the captain said, his voice bereft of any trace of amusement. "I attempted to make a log entry five minutes ago - and was informed the system is still malfunctioning."

"I know, sir," Geordi agreed. "As I said, the system _should_ be working - but it isn't. Data and I have been attempting to track down the source of the problem..."

"However, we have had other priorities, Captain," Data cut in.

Picard nodded, unhappy with the response - but agreeing with it. There were things more important to the survival of this ship, this mission - and the future of the Federation - than the specifics of who was on duty when.

Still, the fault irked him, reminding him of the damage done to the ship - and the fact that his engineer couldn't find the source stabbed at him as though the fault belonged to him, rather than his vessel.

"We probably should be thankful that this is one of the few remaining problems," Will suggested.

"I do not believe thankfulness - or a lack thereof - lies at the base of the problem," Data said.

"One would hope not," Picard replied dryly. "But if it isn't a matter of proper adoration of the gods of starships, then what is causing the problem?"

"Not what, sir - but rather, who," the android replied.

There was a pregnant pause as the others looked at him, waiting.

And waiting.

"Who, then, Data?" Deanna finally exploded, exasperated at the android's long silence.

"Ambassador Tillerman," Data replied. "And Lt. Cmdr. James."

For a moment, silence filled the room - then...

"Sabotage? Again?!"

"Data, we found everything..."

"But the logs and data recorders were working..."

Picard raised a hand, silencing the group - then stared intently at the

android. "Explain, Data," he said quietly.

"Sir, if you will recall, it was hypothesized that the saboteur had managed to tap into the ship's internal communications systems in order to attempt to monitor the status of the repairs - and the search for the identity of the saboteur," he reminded the gathering.

"I believe that hypothesis was discounted when no trace of a monitoring system was found," Picard countered.

"Yes, sir - but our failure to find the monitoring system does not disprove its existence. In light of our subsequent knowledge concerning the Ambassador Tillerman's involvement, it is possible that a search of the computer system in and surrounding his quarters may prove the existence of such a system," Data informed them.

"Except it would have been in place prior to his arrival," Worf objected. "Security measures prevented anyone, even Cmdr. James, from having access to any of the ambassadors' quarters."

"Sandra knew he would be representing the Federation, Worf, long before we even knew there would be a mission; she could have installed the system prior to his arrival, prior to any of the increased security operations," Geordi reminded him.

"True enough, Geordi - but she couldn't have known which quarters he would be assigned," Will reminded the engineer.

"She would not need to, Commander," Data interjected. "If I may continue?" he said, looking at the captain.

Picard nodded.

"I believe the installation of this monitoring system was essential to the success of Lt. Cmdr. James' plan. It was imperative that she know what - if anything - we knew - and whom we suspected. By obtaining this information, she could support our beliefs by planting evidence that would implicate others, while deflecting concern from herself. This is, I believe, how the lieutenant was implicated in a number of the acts of sabotage - by identifying our suspicions, and planting implicating evidence that would support those erroneous beliefs. The saboteur could not have known that at least one of those acts would have also vindicated the lieutenant, had any us of reasoned it out at the time," he continued.

Picard frowned. "Explain."

"Sir, the presence - and involvement - of the lieutenant at the site of the internal relay that was destroyed was done so through the use of her fingerprints on the relay itself. However, the fingerprints were identified using Federation records - records from her personnel file, sir. Those records date to the time of her joining Starfleet - over eighty years ago."

"And...?" Will prompted.

"Those are not her fingerprints," Data said.

Again, a moment of silence filled the room, then Geordi softly said, "Data, people's fingerprints don't change."

"I agree, Geordi," the android said. "And those are Andile's fingerprints - according to the ship's records. But the fingerprints found on the relay are not hers - or rather, she did not put them there. She could not have," he added.

The chief engineer stared at his friend for a moment, confused, then said, "But..."

"Data is correct," Picard interrupted quietly. "The lieutenant's hands were amputated two years ago. They were replaced with prosthetics."

There was a soft gasp from the others, which he ignored. "Her current fingerprints, therefore, do not match the ones that are in the ship's computer records. Add to that the fact that the relay's design is less than two years old."

"So she couldn't have handled it at some previous time and left her old prints on it then," Will said, understanding.

Picard nodded. "She couldn't have left those prints on the relay. They were put there by another source," he said.

"But how?" Will asked.

"I suggest that Cmdr. James was able to obtain copies of the lieutenant's fingerprints from the ship's existing records and imprinted them on biomimetic gel," Data theorized, "then temporarily grafted them to her own fingers while placing the detonating device in place, thus implicating the lieutenant in the sabotage of the ship."

"She couldn't have done it very often," Geordi offered. "Biomimetic gel is hard to come by - and she couldn't replicate it, and I doubt she - or Ambassador Tillerman - would have been willing to requisition it through Starfleet - not and risk exposing themselves and their plan."

"It is, however, available through the black market," Worf said, "and she would not have required enough to alert official suspicions. All she would have required was enough to cover her own fingertips, and leave the impression of the lieutenant's presence in the accessway. Once implicated, the damage would be sufficient to keep attention focused on the lieutenant - and away from Cmdr. James," he added, shame-faced.

"What's done is done, Mr. Worf," Picard counseled his Security chief, then looked back at Data. "I appreciate your wrapping up that loose end, Mr. Data - but how does that correct the present problem - namely, the malfunctioning ship's recorders?"

"I believe, Captain, that one of two things has happened. First, it is possible that the monitoring system was deliberately programmed to fail - that is, to create this very situation - or, more likely, that the monitor program suffered the same type of terminal damage that other components of the computer system suffered. And, as with those other functions, we will not regain the use of the ship's recorders until those components are removed and the cells reinitialized," he concluded.

"The monitors shouldn't be difficult to find, Data," Will objected. "It would be in Tillerman's quarters..."

"Except, Commander," Worf interrupted, "no one knew which quarters would be assigned to which ambassador. Therefore, we must assume such a system was installed in each ambassador's quarters..."

"... and possibly in all the guest quarters," Geordi suggested. "And until we find them all - and purge the entire system, we're going to keep getting the same problem," he sighed.

"It will be a tedious project to remove all the components and the related programs from the computer," Data said. "What Ginger would have called, 'grunt work'," he added softly.

Deanna turned to the android, reaching out and gently caressing his arm. "Data? Are you all right?" she asked gently.

"No," he replied quietly, then hesitated, as if to say something more - then stopped himself. "There is a degree of irony in the fact that, even though she is unconscious, it was Andile who found the answer to the ship's recorder problem," he said.

"How's that, Data?" Will asked.

"Dr. Crusher is concerned because Andile's wounds are not healing at the correct rate. They are not healing at all," he added softly.

He hesitated a moment, thinking - then raised his voice again. "Dr. Crusher was concerned that toxins from the necrotic bowel were blocking the cellular transport mechanisms, and regardless of the amount of nutrients she was given, the lieutenant could not absorb the energy necessary to complete the healing function. It occurred to me that a similar problem could be occurring in the recording system; that an existing obstruction to the system was, in effect, blocking the restoration of the normal functionality of the ship's recorder. In order to restore the system, a complete removal of the obstruction would be necessary," he explained, his voice cracking slightly as he finished.

For a long time, there was an uncomfortable silence at the table, as the five watched their friend, desperately struggling with emotions he did not understand – emotions that they each hoped he would never have to face.

Finally, Deanna, still gently squeezing his arm, softly said, "How is she, Data?"

It took a moment for the question to register - then Data turned to her. "She is... alive. She survived the surgery last night. Dr. Crusher is hopefully that the removal of the damaged section of bowel will reverse the cellular obstruction and she will begin to metabolize nutrients again. If so, the doctor is hopeful that she will resume her normal healing rates. If not..." He stopped as his voice broke again - then pulled his arm free from Deanna's grip and rose to his feet. "May I be excused, Captain?" he managed. "I... I would like to begin the removal of the monitoring devices."

"Data, would you prefer to meet with me first?" Deanna started. "It might help if you were able to talk about what you are feeling," she said.

"No!" he barked sharply, then hastily added, "I do not mean to offend you, Counselor, but I do not wish to talk about my feelings. Indeed, I do not know what I am feeling - and what I am feeling, I do not wish to feel!" he snapped angrily. "I just wish to... to return to my work. Captain?" he said, looking at Picard, desperation in his eyes.

The expression met one of understanding and commiseration; Picard studied his friend for a moment - then nodded. "I'll inform the ambassadors about the situation and have them moved to other quarters for the interim. Let me know when the removal is complete."

Data nodded, not willing to risk speaking, then hurried from the room, his friends staring after him until the door whispered shut behind him - then slowly they turned to face one another.

"How is she, Geordi?" Picard asked softly.

He shook his head. "Not good," he told them. "Dr. Crusher's trying everything she can think of - but she's running out of ideas. The surgery last night was a last ditch effort - but I don't think it's working," he added, remembering the look on Beverly's face that morning. "Biji's just not healing - and she doesn't know why."

Not healing, Picard thought; she's not healing.

That's not right, he thought - but for the life of him, he couldn't remember just _why_ it wasn't right.

He thought a moment longer - then looked up at the others. "Unless there's something else...?" he said.

There was a soft murmur of denial, then a soft rustle of chairs sliding back as the others rose from the table.

Deanna held back a moment, smiling at Will as he sent her a questioning look - then watched as the others left the room, leaving her alone with the captain.

"I'm not in a mood to discuss my feelings either, Counselor," he informed her as she turned to face him.

She smiled gently. "Why am I not surprised?" she asked.

"I'm not in a mood to play the 'turn my statements into questions so I can interrogate myself' game, either," he replied.

"It's not a game, Captain - and it's not an interrogation," she reminded him.

"It feels that way," he grumbled at her - then let out a long sigh, reached for her hand and patted it gently. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Deanna - but..."

"But one of your people is dying - and you feel you're responsible for prolonging that death - and you've damaged a friendship you've cherished in the process," she said.

He raised a brow in surprise - then nodded. "I would say that sums it up nicely," he said. "Not an auspicious end to a career, is it," he added.

"I didn't realize this was the end of your career," she countered softly.

The comment provoked a second raising of his brows. "Indeed? I would have thought you could have sensed my need for... what did you call it? Closure? I would have thought you could sense my need for closure on this episode as much as the crew needs it," he replied.

"To this episode, to this mission, perhaps - but to your career?" she asked.

He gave a soft laugh. "It's time, don't you think? I'm tired. Tired of living for my career, tired of watching the people I care for die, tired of knowing that this," he gestured at the ship around him, "is all there is for me."

Deanna studied him carefully, her eyes reaching deep into his soul. "It was enough for you... before."

He looked back at her with equal intensity, knowing she knew what had happened. "That was then, Counselor; this is now - and there's no going back to what once was," he said firmly.

"And even if there was," he added quietly, "I don't think that I would want to."

"Captain..." she began plaintively.

"Counselor... Deanna," he corrected himself. "It's over. Not that it ever was," he added. "It wasn't. It was just a fantasy; a wish that I never acted upon. And now it's time to let those fantasies and wishes fade away, and to move on - for both of us. Now, I do have some reports to review," he said, looking back at the padd before him, flipping on the power with touch.

"Yes, sir," Deanna murmured, watching him as he looked at the words, only to realize he wasn't reading. "Captain, if I might suggest..."

He looked up. "I do have work, Counselor," he repeated.

"Yes, sir. It's just..."

He raised a questioning brow at her.

"You said you needed closure, Captain; perhaps you need it regarding your time with Andile as well as with everything else," she said. "I think it's time you make your farewells with her - so you can move on with that part of your life as well."

He studied her, suspecting some sort of Rikerian machination - but there was nothing in her expression but sympathy - and shared loss.

Still, he felt a strange reluctance to rise from the chair.

Cowardice, he told himself; Tiron was right.

He looked up at Deanna, fear, loneliness, grief, all welling up in his soul - and in hers.

"Would you like me to go with you?" she said at last.

He thought for a moment - then shook his head. Starship captains had no business giving in to fear or grief, he told himself - and if I'm lonely, it's of my own doing.

"No," he said softly, switching off the padd, pushing his chair back. "I can do this on my own."

"I know," she replied. "But part of being on this ship, Captain, part of being a member of its crew, is learning that you don't _have_ to do anything alone."

He looked at her for a long time - then nodded. "Then, yes, Counselor. I'd appreciate your company."

He extended a crooked arm to her - and to his surprise, felt a surge of comfort as she took it.

"Thank you, Counselor," he said quietly - then amended his words. "Thank you - Deanna."


	148. Chapter 148

**Chapter 148**

They took the lift in silence, still together, her hand still capturing the crook of his arm, then stepped from the lift.

Despite the hour, the corridor was unusually silent, due perhaps to the number of crew who were involved in the repair efforts elsewhere in the ship - or, Deanna mused, because they simply could not bear to be so near the place where their crewmate - their friend - lay dying.

Picard must have sensed the unusual stillness of the hallway, for he reached for Deanna's hand, patting it gently - though whether it was to reassure her, or to reassure himself, she didn't know.

Perhaps a little of both she thought, gently squeezing his arm in response.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked softly.

"Pardon?" he said, slightly startled, then murmured, "Oh, yes, quite," - though the words seemed a little forced, a little rushed. "I was just thinking about Tasha," he added a long moment later.

Deanna nodded, grasping his arm a little tighter. "I think we all have been thinking about her lately, sir. About all the people we've loved - and have lost."

She heard the soft grunt of disgust he made in response - but took no offence at the sound, knowing he was repulsed only at his own maudlin self-indulgence.

"There's nothing wrong with missing those people, Captain," she reminded him.

"I'm aware of that, Counselor. It's just..." He sighed disapprovingly. "I never was very good at this," he told her. "Never good at saying 'goodbye'. I rarely went to funerals when I was a child - my aunts and uncles were all young - younger than my parents; most of them were still alive long after I entered Starfleet. By the time they passed away, it was difficult or impossible to go home for a funeral."

"I didn't even attend my parents' funerals," he admitted after a moment's hesitation. "When Father died, I was on the other side of the quadrant; I didn't even know he was gone until weeks later - and it was months before I could return to see Mother. And when she died..." He sighed regretfully. "I had gone home for Christmas that year, had seen her and Robert and Marie - this was before René was born," he added, looking down at her.

Deanna smiled, nodding, silently encouraging him.

"I never thought that I wouldn't see her again," he recalled somberly. "She was still so strong and vibrant... in my mind. But she had been in failing health for some time. I didn't see it, of course; I could only her as I had always seen her, a tower of strength and endurance. I never could imagine her growing weak, growing old - and then she was gone, and I had never said farewell to her.

"And then Robert... and René," he added softly.

She nodded, remembering the terrible toll their deaths had taken on him, remembering the unbearable loss of hope that had surrounded him in those first, awful days and weeks.

In a way, she knew, that loss had been the hardest, harder even than the loss of his friends or his parents; with René's death, his future, his family's future, was lost forever.

And lost again, she knew, in the ending of his relationship with Beverly, feeling a renewal of that same desperate hopelessness welling up in him.

He sighed, the sound of the soft exhalation filling the empty corridor - then turned to look at her.

"It was like this," he said a few moments later as they approached the Sickbay doors, "when I took Beverly to see Jack that last time. The halls were so quiet... She was so quiet," he added softly. "So numb. As if all the life in her was somehow stilled, even before she saw him.

"And she kept thanking me - for walking with her, for going with her... she kept thanking me - as though I wasn't the one who killed him," he whispered.

"You didn't kill Jack," Deanna replied gently. "You know that; Beverly knows that. She never blamed you."

He glanced down at her, his face a mask of silenced protestations of responsibility and guilt. At long last, he whispered, "It might have better if she had."

Deanna stopped, turning to confront him. "Do you honestly believe that, sir? Do you really believe that everything that you two have shared, for good, ill, or indifference, was so inconsequential that it would have been better off never having happened?" she asked him bluntly.

He met her hard gaze - then closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. Never," he whispered plaintively - then opened his eyes and met her gaze again. "I'm sorry, Counselor. I'm just being... mawkish. Overindulging in my own self-pity. Please forgive me," he added.

"For feeling? For grieving, Captain? Those are hardly capital offenses," she replied.

"But hardly appropriate behavior for a starship captain," he countered.

"There would be those who would argue with you, sir," Deanna told him, "and I would be one of them. You need to indulge in your emotions - even if it's only once in a while - and even if it's only with your ship's counselor."

She squeezed his arm in reassurance, then gently prodded him back into walking down the corridor - though she could feel the reluctance and hesitation in every step.

"You don't want to do this, do you?" she said.

He shook his head. "No."

"That's not unusual, sir; saying good-bye isn't something most humans feel comfortable doing," she informed him.

"It's not that, Counselor," he countered - then fell silent again.

"Then why?" she asked after a few minutes.

He hesitated. "It's presumptuous," he said at last. "I barely knew her; there are those who knew her better..."

Deanna started to answer the protest with the obvious answer - that others would make their farewells in their time - then sensed his reluctance had another source.

"Not many," she demurred. "Andile is not a woman to allow anyone - not even her captain - close."

He shook his head, agreeing. "Life was not kind to her, Counselor; she learned not to open her defenses to anyone... Perhaps if she had kept them closed, she wouldn't be where she is now," he added.

"And perhaps she would," Deanna countered.

"Please don't tell me you believe she was somehow... fated... to die on this mission," he asked incredulously.

She shook her head. "I don't believe in fate, Captain, nor, I think does Andile. But I know she believed her life was inconsequential in comparison to the greater good; she would have given it gladly, if it meant saving the crew or her ship."

"But she didn't do it to save them," he said softly. "She did it to save... me."

His voice was soft - but the pain and outrage in his spirit screamed at her, crying out at the unconscionable thought of his surviving at such a hideous price.

Hideous to him, Deanna thought, but not to her. "Maybe she thought it was a reasonable exchange, Captain," Deanna suggested gently.

"Then she was wrong," he retorted, the bitterness in his voice sharp and acrid.

"Maybe," she answered gently. "Maybe not. In either case, she did what she did for her own reasons - as she did everything," she reminded him, "and we may never fully understand them. The question left to you - and to you alone, Captain - is what are you going to do with her gift? Throw it away - or use it?"

He studied her for a long time - then looked at the doors leading to the Sickbay, and shook his head. It's too late to ask that question, he answered silently; I threw it away the moment I confronted Beverly.

He closed his eyes, reaching out for the familiar touch in his mind - and reminding himself that the touch, like all the other things he had finally come to value in his life, was gone.

I'm sorry, he called to them both.

I'm so sorry.

"Captain?" Deanna said, looking up at him, waiting for an answer.

He glanced back. "Yes?" he said blankly.

She gestured at the doors before them. "We're here," she told him softly.

"Indeed," he murmured, staring at the doors - then released her hand, tugged down on the bottom of his tunic - and stepped into the opening doorway.

Beverly heard the doors open - but she didn't need to raise her head to know who had entered her domain.

She had never had to see him to know he was there.

Even when he was just a friend of Jack's she could sense his presence when he entered the apartment she and Jack shared, feel his being when they were at a party together; even at her graduation from medical school, she could sense him in the audience, a face lost in the crush of a thousand other faces, standing out clearly in her mind and her heart even when she could sense no one else - not even Jack.

She could sense him now, standing out there, cold, hurt - and hope surged in her soul...

But only for a moment.

Then her own hurt replaced it, reminding her of things said that could never be unsaid.

Still, she was his CMO, she reminded herself quietly; they had to maintain their professional relationship.

At least, she added, while I am his CMO.

She rose, patting her slightly wild hair back into place, smoothing her lab coat into a semblance of neatness, then stepped to the door to her office - and stopped.

He wasn't standing there, waiting for her, ready to berate her again, she realized with a start; he wasn't ready to greet her with a grimace, or with an impassively stony expression - or with any of the looks she had imagined - and dreaded - and secretly ached for, wishing, in her heart of hearts that he would come, whatever the reason, even to chastise her again - so long as he would come.

But he wouldn't come back here, she thought to herself; at least not for me, she added as she looked across the room, instantly understanding the reason for his presence in her Sickbay.

"I thought he should say goodbye," Deanna said softly.

Beverly started, taken by surprise by the unexpected voice. One hand moving to her chest - then forced a smile at Deanna. "I wasn't expecting you," she confessed, then glanced back at Picard who stood silently beside the life support equipment that surrounded Andile. "Though I suppose I should have been," she added, meeting Deanna's eyes once more. "It's not as though he would have come on his own."

Deanna gave the physician and slightly chiding look. "I'm not sure that's fair, Beverly."

"No?" Beverly replied.

Deanna started to protest - then stopped. "Perhaps it is," she admitted.

They fell silent, looking across the room at the man, watching him as he stood motionless beside the bed, his head hanging, eyes closed.

"Damn it," Beverly muttered softly, "she's not dead yet! He doesn't have to stand there like she's already in her coffin!"

"What would you have him do, Beverly?" Deanna countered.

"Touch her! Talk to her! Let her know he's there - let her know she's still alive - while she still is!" she cried miserably.

The Betazoid reached for her friend's arm, laying a hand on her comfortingly, knowing the grief that was racing through Beverly's soul; grief for her lost relationship, grief for her dying patient.

"Then tell him," she said quietly.

Beverly looked at Deanna - then tensed, as if preparing to do that very thing - and stopped, her body falling back in resignation. "No. This is how he is, Deanna; it's who he is. I can't change him; I don't want to. He is who he is - and if that's how he says good-bye, who am I to try to change him?

"And it won't matter to Andile," she added softly. "She'll never know... or care."

Deanna studied her friend for a moment. "How long does she have?" she asked at last, knowing the resignation wasn't simply over the loss of her friendship with the captain. Andile was dying - and nothing the physician could do would stop that now.

"A few hours," Beverly replied. "I doubt she'll make it through the night. I had hoped that performing a resection to removal the damaged bowel would allow her body to begin absorbing nutrients again - but it hasn't. If anything, the surgery made her weaker. She's not absorbing any nutrients now - and what little healing she had experienced in those first hours have now reversed themselves."

Deanna patted her friend's arm consolingly. "Bev, Biji was ill when she came aboard this ship. You knew how precarious her condition was! She knew it as well! All those hours we both sat with her while you were treating her..."

"She was getting better!" Beverly snapped. "I would never have released her from my care if she wasn't - and God know I would never have let her go on the EVA mission..."

Her voice suddenly trailed off.

Worried, Deanna looked at the woman - then followed her gaze into the room where Picard still stood next to Andile's bed.

"Beverly?" Deanna said worriedly, sensing the sudden surge in the woman's fury.

"Damn it!" Beverly said quietly - then raised her voice. "Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it - damn me!" she roared as she strode furiously into the room.

Startled, Picard pulled back, looking up at the approaching physician, her face blazing with rage.

"Can you hear her?" Beverly snapped at him.

Her question, as unexpected as her profanity, took him completely by surprise, leaving him dumb-struck.

"Damn it, Jean-Luc, can you hear her?!" Beverly repeated furiously.

He stared at her, still blank-faced, for a moment - then shook his head. "No."

"Don't move," she ordered - then barked out, "Aaron! Get me the lieutenant's neurotransmitter profile! Now!" she added.

"Beverly?" Deanna called out to her, hurrying to her side even as the man came running toward her, padd in hand.

The physician raised a hand to the empath, begging a moment's indulgence, grabbing the proffered padd with the other and rapidly studying the readout.

"It's normal, Doctor," Aaron protested. "Unchanged since she arrived."

"Unchanged," Beverly echoed, "but it's not normal. Not for her. Aaron, get Dr. Matthews - then get the OR ready. We're taking her back in."

"Doctor?" the technician replied, startled.

"Now!" Beverly roared.

Startled, he turned, quickly fleeing the physician's side.

"What's happening?" Deanna echoed, confused.

"I'm taking her back to surgery," Beverly said.

"But..."

"Her neurotransmitters are massively depleted," she explained. "I checked it when she first came in - but damn me, I forgot that normal for her isn't the same as normal for others! If I had only thought..."

"Neurotransmitters?" Deanna repeated, ignoring the woman's self-chastisement. "I don't understand. What do neurotransmitters have to do with her condition?" she asked confused.

Beverly hesitated, looking up at Picard pleadingly, wanting to tell Deanna the truth, knowing she might well need the assistance of the only other telepath on the ship - but unwilling to violate the secret Andile had shared with them.

"Andile has several mutated genes," he explained, trying to maneuver around the complete truth without alerting the empathy. "Her ability to heal is contingent on the presence of several unusual neurotransmitters."

Deanna studied him, sensing the hesitation - but knowing better there were some things he could not - and would not - tell her.

"Neurotransmitters that require an inordinate amount of energy to synthesize," Beverly quickly added, "energy she no longer has."

"Can't you just inject the neurotransmitters?" Deanna asked.

Beverly nodded. "I've done that for her in the past when necessary - injecting them directly into the cerebro-spinal fluid - but it takes time to move the components to the brain, time that she doesn't have," she added. "This is the only option I have: to place a series of infusion lines directly into the functional areas of brain and begin direct administration of preconstructed neurotransmitters."

Deanna looked horrified. "Beverly!"

"I don't have a choice, Deanna; she won't survive the way she is," the doctor replied bluntly.

"Yes - but can she survive another operation?" the empath countered.

Beverly looked at Picard, studying him intently, wondering if there was a solution that would meet his satisfaction - then turned back at Deanna, her mind made up. "I don't know. But I don't have any options, Deanna. Either way, I think it might be a good idea if Data were here," she added quietly.

The Betazoid studied her friend for a long time - then gave a single nod of her head. "I'll get him," she said, then looked at Picard. "With your permission," she added.

He nodded, then watched as she hurried from the triage area before facing Beverly once again.

"What do you need from me?" he asked her bluntly.

She met his eyes.

Your heart, she told him silently. Your soul. Your love. Everything you have.

Forever.

But you took every chance of that away, she reminded herself.

"I need you - in the OR and in recovery."

He raised a brow.

"You can hear her - better than anyone. I want you to listen for her," she said. "As soon as you can start to perceive her mind at any level, I'll know the transmitters are reaching the correct areas of the brain, and I can increase the infusion levels at those points." She hesitated, then stared at him, her look a blend of uncertainty, desperation - and a bit of sorrow. "You can hear her at the subconscious level, can't you?" she asked, part of her hoping her could - and part of her hoping he couldn't, aching that another person, another woman, would have that intimacy with him - and intimacy they once had shared.

And that I rejected, she reminded herself harshly.

Retribution? she wondered. Was he striking back at me - or did I simply bring this on myself?

It didn't matter anymore, she reminded herself coldly; all that mattered - for now, forever more - were her patients. "You can hear her, can't you?"

He met her eyes, seeing her anguish, knowing his answer, whatever it was, would hurt her - then nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "If she's there... yes."

They stared at each other for a moment, wishing, wondering... regretting.

"Beverly..." he began softly, but Beverly interrupted him with a barked, "John!"

Another nurse hurried to her side.

"Get the captain scrubbed and into a surgical outfit. He's going into the OR with us," she explained.

The nurse stared at the man, stunned - but knew enough not to argue with the ship's CMO. "Yes, ma'am," he said, then gestured Picard toward one of the doorways. "Through here, sir," he said.

For a moment, though, the man held back, still looking at Beverly - then turned and followed the nurse into the dressing room.

He had declined the offer of the chair, unwilling to allow himself a comfort that his crewpeople could not share - but now, well into the third hour of surgery, he was wishing he had accepted, his legs and back aching from the strain of standing in place, barely able to move from the crush of people and equipment surrounding the surgical team.

How do they do it? he asked himself; how does _she_ do it? he asked silently, remembering Beverly's every move as she orchestrated the intricate dance of equipment and patient that had accompanied the transfer of Andile from the triage area to surgery, astounded at her ability to follow everything that was happening, to integrate all the information that was being thrown at her, her insistence on maintaining Andile's dignity as she had guided the movement of the body from one bed to the next, all being handled with terrible efficiency - and with utter compassion.

How does she do it? he wondered again, watching Beverly as she worked now, her eyes pressed to the monitoring device as she directed the placement of the minute fibers, working with a certainty that belied the fact that a fraction of a misstep could destroy part of the patient's brain, leave her paralyzed, destroy her intelligence - or simply kill her outright - and seemingly without being aware of the press of time and physiology that was rapidly draining the life from the woman on the surgical bed.

"Advance it one millimeter, Greg," she ordered.

The second red-gowned physician made the adjustment, only to hear one of the attendants announce,"BP's dropping. Eighty over thirty."

"Pulse?" Beverly asked.

"Forty," came the answer.

"You're too far, Greg," Beverly said. "You're on the vagus."

"Backing off a half millimeter," he replied.

"Pressure stabilizing," the tech answered.

"Infuse two milligrams," Beverly said, watched for a moment - then glanced at Picard.

He met her eyes for a moment, then closed his own, seeking, searching - then opened them again and shook his head.

"Nothing," she murmured to the others.

"Doctor," Greg Matthews said, lifting his head from the microscopic that stood before him, "we need to consider that this therapy is ineffective. We've placed twenty-two lines - but there's no response at any location. I think... I think we should call it," he said at last.

Beverly glared at him, her protest ready on her lips - then stilled the protest. "You may be right," she said, staring in disgust at the equipment before her, around her, knowing that it - and not her knowledge, not her expertise - was all that was keeping Andile alive, and that soon enough, even that would not be enough.

She turned look at Jean-Luc, half-expecting another of his tirades - but there was no anger in his eyes now, none of that terrifying expression that accompanied his manic insistence on her saving a life that couldn't be saved, of prolonging of life that was over.

Instead, she found an expression of grief and sorrow as he stared at the form that lay prostrate on the surgical bed, covered in the obligatory red sheets.

"We can continue," she told him softly, though her tone left no doubt that she thought there was no point.

He stared at the form, seeing only the small patch of exposed skin at the back of her neck, stained red by the light of the sterile field generator, the flesh beneath still mottled purpled from the bruising of the original surgery - and beneath it all, the six puncture marks left by the Breen device.

He raised a hand in silent empathy to the similar marks on his own neck - then looked at Beverly, a thought suddenly coming to his mind.

"What is it?" she said, seeing the glimmer of an idea in his eyes. "Jean-Luc?"

He looked at her, then lowered his hand. "When the Breen performed their procedure - their deposition - they used something like your infusion lines to introduce the chemical destabilizer to my brain," he said.

Beverly nodded. "Yes. I've seen Alyssa's report - but the lines were much finer, infiltrating the entire brain..." Her voice trailed off as she suddenly understood - the whirled around, turning to the others.

"Begin infusion of the neurotransmitters," she ordered.

"On which line?" Matthews replied.

"All of them," she said.

There was a moment of stunned silence - then the technicians began unclamping lines, setting flow rates, even as Greg Matthews began arguing.

"Dr. Crusher, there is no evidence that flooding her brain with neurotransmitters will work..." he began protesting.

"It worked for the Breen," she snapped back.

"Yes - when they were brainwashing their prisoners!" he countered.

Beverly looked up, her smile hidden by her mask. "Exactly. We're going to do just that - wash out everything that's there - and replace it with unadulterated neurotransmitters."

"That's ridiculous! The pressure increase will destroy tissue..."

"No. We'll equilibrate the pressure by drawing it off at the same rates of infusion," Beverly countered. "Place a line at the base of her spine," she ordered. "That way we're not drawing off what's just been infused - and let's monitor the intercerebral pressure; there's going to be the normal loss through the tissue and I don't want the pressure to decrease below normal either."

"Putting a line so low could paralyze her," Matthews argued.

"So we paralyze her," Beverly snapped back. "We'll deal with that later - but at least she'll be alive for us to deal with it. Now do it - or get Alyssa in here. I'm not going to waste any more time arguing with you."

"We're ready to begin infusion, Doctor," one of the red-suited technicians replied.

"Let's start with one microgram in each line; we'll increase the rate as soon as we have a line in place to keep the pressure balanced," she added, glancing at Picard.

He nodded, as though his approval had any place or meaning in this room - then closed his eyes, seeking out the familiar touch once again.

_Lieutenant?_

He held his breath, waiting, aching for the touch - then let it out in a sigh.

"Nothing," he said softly, opening his eyes, meeting Beverly's devastated expression.

"One point five," she ordered.

"We're getting an increase in intercranial pressure!"

She can handle a little hyperperfusion, Beverly told herself, hoping it was true, looking at Picard in desperation.

He shook his head.

"Two micrograms," she said breathlessly.

"IC pressure is reaching maximum!"

"Get that line in, Greg!" Beverly roared.

_Lieutenant? Answer me!_

"Two point five!"

"Cellular walls are losing structural integrity!"

"Greg!"

"One minute..."

"We don't have a minute!"

"We're losing her, Doctor!"

_Answer me, Lieutenant! That's an order! Damn it! Answer me!_

"The synaptic network is beginning to destabilize..."

Beverly looked at Picard, then drew a deep breath, looked to the others, and said, "Three micrograms."

_Unnecessary, Captain._

Picard drew in a sharp breath, then felt himself stagger back a step.

"Jean-Luc!" Beverly replied, whirling around, reaching out to steady him - then saw the look in his eyes. "Can you... Is she...?"

He shook his head, confused. "I..." he started - then shook his head again, a presence back in his mind... but not hers.

_It is all right, Captain. We have her._

_Jemat?_ Picard thought incredulously.

There was a soft, relieved sigh in his mind.

_Yes. Yes. You can release her now; we have her._

_Release her? I don't understand,_ he said.

_I know,_ came the soft reply. _But you will. Now let her go,_ he urged softly.

There was a gentle pressure in his mind, as thought something were tugging at it - then with a rush, he felt the pressure release, and the terrible weight lift from his mind.

He staggered back once again - then stared around the operating room for a moment, dazed.

"Jean-Luc?" she asked worriedly. "Are you all right?"

He hesitated for a moment, confused, finding himself suddenly... empty - then nodded. "Yes. Yes..."

"Have you got her?" she asked softly.

"No... but they do," he said in a bewildered voice.

She stared at him, confused - only to turn as a voice called, "Doctor!"

Following the voice, she saw one of the techs staring at the undraped patch of flesh on Andile's neck. Stepping close she looked at it - and felt herself draw in a breath.

The skin was still stained red from the lights, still marked by the puncture wounds, still mottled in purple... but in a few small places, the purple was slowly turning to green.

The bruises were healing.

Healing! Her heart shouted joyously, even as her voice calmly announced, "We'll hold at two point five. Greg, get that line in - now."

"It's in," he replied soberly, "but I hit a lot of nerve tissue placing it."

"That's all right," she said softly. "We can deal with that... tomorrow."

Tomorrow, she thought.

We have tomorrow - then looked back at Picard.

We _all_ have tomorrow.


	149. Chapter 149

**Chapter 149**

Picard lowered his head into his hand, slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose as he let out a long, frustrated sigh. Finally, he looked up and transfixed his Security officer with a hard stare.

"Mr. Worf, we've been over this a half dozen times - and nothing's changed. This meeting is going to happen, with or without your approval. Make whatever arrangement you feel necessary - but make them!"

He reached for his tea cup, only to find the brew cold - again.

Twice he had replicated a cup of the liquid for himself - and twice they had gone from deliciously hot and soothing to cold and bitter - and both times without his having the opportunity to enjoy more than the briefest sip.

Rising, he strode to the replicator slot, set the chilled cup back in, then announced, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot," then added in a softer voice, "in a thermal cup." After all, he reminded himself, arguing with his Chief Security officer was one thing - but being deliberately rude was quite another.

And, he added, as he took the cup back to his desk, taking as hasty sip as he did so, it wasn't as though Worf was being deliberately belligerent; he was doing his job, trying to protect the ship, the captain - and, Picard admitted, the Federation - all of which, as far as the Klingon knew, were still at risk.

And he might be right, Picard added, taking another sip as he settled in behind his desk, savoring the path of warmth that traveled down his throat and into his stomach; for all I know, for all the mental contact I've have with Jemat, they may have duped me - and the only reason they want to have a face-to-face meeting was to finish their initial mission - or to seek revenge on me for the death of their captain.

Still...

"Worf, I am not going to ignore this opportunity to discussions with the Breen."

"Sir, they are our enemies!" Worf protested - again.

"Were, Worf," Picard sighed, repeating his protestation for what seemed the hundredth time. "They were our enemy; now they are an unknown - and how we address that state will shape our future together," he reminded the Security officer.

"They kidnapped you once before..."

"Which is why we're having the meeting here, Worf, and not on their vessel - as you requested," Picard reminded him.

"Yes, but Data's report suggests that the nature of their transporter system is such that they could use them, regardless of whether our shields were in place or not," the Klingon continued.

"If kidnapping me - or anyone on this ship - were their goal," Picard sighed, catching another quick sip of his tea, "they could have done so long ago. It's been five days since we've returned," he added.

Five days, he thought with a smile; was that all? It felt like a lifetime.

It had been a lifetime, he amended a moment later - but a lifetime lived out in reverse, starting with the dissolution of everything he had once deemed important: his career, Andile's life... his relationship with Beverly - and ending with a new beginning: a renewed sense of hope for the future as Zumell and Tiron had convinced him to begin negotiations, as Jemat had made formal contact with him in the first step to open discussions between their races, as Andile made the first steps toward healing, and Beverly...

Beverly, he thought soberly.

She could never forgive him, he knew; he doubted he would ever forgive himself for his barbarous behavior that day.

And yet, when they had looked at each other in the operating room, there had been something in her eyes...

Or perhaps it was merely the reflection of hope from mine, he admitted; they had had no direct contact since the moment Andile had been taken from the surgery, with her absence from the morning staff meetings continuing - and now, even her reports being written by Alyssa Ogawa or Greg Matthews.

That could be explained away, he insisted to himself, by Beverly's dedication to her work, knowing that though Andile's condition had improved, it had only improved fractionally - and that she was still spending every hour of every day in Sickbay, monitoring her condition, formulating and adjusting the nutrients that were being fed into her veins, watching the slow changes in her body's chemistry, directing her therapy even now in the first few days after her surgery, governing the physical therapists who were manipulating her limbs, preventing the muscles from atrophying further, guiding the reformation of the glial cells that had been transplanted to her damaged spinal cord, even setting up schedules of volunteers to read to the unconscious form in the hope of providing the stimulus needed to reform and reconnect the neural circuitry of her damaged brain...

He took another sip from the cup, savoring the flavor - and the memory. My God, he thought to himself: How does she do it?

Standing in the operating room, watching her - he had never been in a surgical suite before - at least, not as a participant, he added, knowing he been on the receiving end of a phaser scalpel more times than he cared to remember - he had found himself amazed, astounded, dumb-struck - and impressed beyond anything he had known before. It was impressive enough that she - that anyone! - knew that much about the intricate workings of the human body - not the mention the fact that she was equally well-versed in the physiology of a half-dozen other species - but add to that the fact that she understood how to diagnose failures in that complex structure, the pharmacology related to it, the surgical repair of the internal organs, the process and reactions needed to keep someone alive, the equipment involved...

And yet, in the midst of all the chaos, she had never lost her humanity, her gentleness, leaning down to murmur a word of encouragement to the unconscious body or to gently pat a drape-covered shoulder - or to offer a word of positive reinforcement to the others in the room.

She even talked to me, he remembered - as though I was anything except a hanger-on, as though I had a useful function amidst the well-choreographed dance that was the operation.

In a way, he admitted thoughtfully, it's not that different from what I do - I understand this ship and all her complexities, I understand everything about her operations, her functions - and I use that knowledge to fulfill my training, to complete our missions, to make and keep the peace in the quadrant...

Our work is related - and they're both important - but somehow, what she did was different, he knew.

She keeps people alive.

Amazing, he thought. Just amazing, he repeated - then smiled.

_She_ was amazing.

But she was also working herself into exhaustion, he added. So many of the tasks she had undertaken to herself could have been done equally well by others, he knew; Beverly had no need to oversee every moment of Andile's recuperation personally - let alone taking to eating and sleeping in Sickbay, leaving only long enough to bathe and change clothes.

It transcended dedication, he thought to himself; it went beyond commitment, verging on monomaniacism - or obsession.

Or fear, he reminded himself painfully.

Of me? Of what I did - and said? he asked himself again - as he had so often in the last two days. Did I terrify her so badly that she feels she must drive herself to exhaustion watching over Andile, lest I... what? he asked himself. Do what I threatened to do? Remove her from duty - and charge her with malpractice or incompetence?

She was neither, he knew; even in those moments of rage, when he was striking out at the person he held most dear, he knew that there was no finer physician in the Federation, no one who had a better chance of saving Andile's life than she did - but just because he had absolute faith in her knowledge and abilities, that didn't mean that she had the same faith in herself.

Did I shatter that self-confidence? he wondered. Did I hurt her even more deeply than I was aware - and is this her way of answering my threats - and her own self-accusations? By working herself to the point of exhaustion - and beyond?

I'm sorry, he told her silently, feeling his so-recently sense of optimism fading once again.

And surging back as he looked at his stony-faced Security Chief, and remembered the reality of his position - and the potential it offered them all. "I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Worf - but I will not pass up this opportunity to start peaceful discussions with the Breen. This meeting _is_ going to happen," he said firmly. "It's up to you to implement sufficient Security precautions to ensure that there is no untoward outcome from those discussions."

"Which I could do - if you were not simultaneously trying to negotiate with the Cardassians and the Romulans!" the Klingon countered.

Picard smiled. "No one said this was going to be easy, Mr. Worf," he jibed gently.

"It is impossible!" Worf roared back.

"No. What is impossible is creating a perfectly safe environment for these discussions. What is impossible if guaranteeing the absolute safety of me, the ship, the delegates - or the Breen themselves. But we will do the best we can, Worf - because the one thing that is possible is seizing the opportunity that has been presented to us - and chance to open a dialogue with a species we barely know - and creating a peaceful relationship with them.

"And that, Mr. Worf, is what we will do; what we must do. The question is: how do we do it?"

Worf stared at Picard, gave a low growl - then let out a long breath. "We must begin with your safety, Captain," he declared.

"Worf..." Picard sighed frustratedly.

"Captain, I accept that your tasks include finding a peaceful association with the Breen and a creating mutually acceptable treaty with the Cardassians and the Romulans," Worf said, his voice low and earnest. "However, the successful completion of both those missions revolves around a single point - that is, that all parties have deemed your involvement as incontrovertible. Therefore, if these discussions are as critical as you claim they are, then you must allow me to place your safety above everything else."

Picard glared at the Klingon - then gave a reluctant nod of agreement. "All right - but within reason. What do you suggest?"

Deanna refused to laugh, deeming the behavior inappropriate for the bridge - but she was utterly unable to conceal the smile from her face - and equally incapable of hiding her mirth from the man sitting beside her.

"What is it? Someone telling a good joke, somewhere?" Will asked as he watched her face light up with a genuine pleasure and joy he hadn't seen since...

Well, since this morning, he conceded, sending a wicked leer at her.

She looked back innocently - then let her eyes widen. "Will!" she gasped in mock indignation and outrage.

He grinned at her, then let the smile fade. "That wasn't why you were smiling?" he asked in a hurt tone.

"That's why I was smiling... earlier," she countered primly, then smiled letting the stern look fade. "Now... Now I'm sensing the captain...," she informed him.

"And he's in a good mood?" Will said, surprised - and relieved; it had been far too long since the man had had a good day.

"Actually, he and Worf are arguing," Deanna countered.

"They're fighting? And you find this amusing?" Will asked in surprise.

She shook her head. "Not amusing. Just..." She let her focus drift, attuning herself to the emotions surrounding her. "Refreshing. Healthy. Hopeful," she added with a soft sigh - then met Will's eyes once again. "It's been a long time since I've felt that sort of hopefulness from the captain - or from anyone else on the ship, Will," she informed him - then reached for his hand. "It's been hard on everyone, Will; the realization that the Federation was willing to sell out the Ba'ku people, the length of time the war seemed to drag on, our inability to become involved - we've been trapped, Will, impotent to act on the what we feel is important, meaningful - and for the captain, that powerlessness has been doubly cruel, in part because he felt the same inability to act as we did - but more so, because he knew that the acts that led to our frustration were his fault, his responsibility.

"Now, after so long," she told him with a smile, "he has the opportunity to act in a meaningful way once again - and through him, so do we all."

She gave a laugh of exquisite delight. "And I can feel that same joy radiating throughout the crew, Will; there's a hopefulness among them all I haven't felt in a long time."

"I hope having the Breen come aboard isn't going to change that," Will said, a dour grimace crossing his face. "There are a lot of people who lost friends and family when the Breen attacked Earth," he reminded her soberly, his face carefully blank.

"Including you," she answered softly, reaching for his hand and squeezing it sympathetically. "I know you lost friends in the attack..."

"And in some of the battles near DS Nine," he said quietly.

"As there must be many Breen who lost friends and crewmates, and who suffered through our acts in the war, Will," she countered. "War doesn't take sides, Will; it brutalizes us all, not caring if right exists on either or both sides. All war is is death and suffering - and we need to remember that when the Breen come on board," she chided him gently.

"_If_ they come on board," Will countered sternly. "If Worf has his way..."

She smiled. "He's not going to," she answered. "Whatever objections Worf might have, these talks are going to go forth; I can sense the captain's absolute resolve in this matter, Will - and I think he's right. We've had war long enough; we need some better, something hopeful - for all of us."

Will nodded - then looked forward, staring at the perfectly coifed head that sat at the ops position just ahead of the captain's chair.

"Including Data and Biji?" he asked Deanna softly.

She followed his gaze - then looked back solemnly at her lover, dropping her voice to where only he could hear it - though, she reminded herself silently, Data could overhear anything he wanted to - if he would allow himself the breach of good manners.

Which he wouldn't, she knew equally well; he was a gentleman - even if he wasn't a human, she thought.

"I have to believe there's hope for her, Will - for both of them. But even if... when... she recovers, they're going to have a long row before them - and there's no guarantee that they'll regain what they had. Life isn't a fairy tale, Will, and all the endings aren't always good."

He met her gaze - and realized she was no longer speaking of just Data and Andile.

He raised a brow in silent inquiry - but her only answer was a small shake of her head; she would never reveal a professional confidence, he knew - nor would he ever ask her to do so - but this was more than a professional issue, he argued to himself. The captain's mental and emotional health affected the entire ship - and would certainly have some bearing on the negotiations ahead - and certainly Beverly's health was crucial to their own survival; if she was emotionally debilitated, all their lives were at risk!

No, he decided, this was too important to keep hidden under the covering of 'professional confidentiality'!

He drew a deep breath, steeling himself for the argument he was about to launch.

"As first officer..." he began - then fell silent as he met Deanna's eyes.

She didn't know, he realized.

"They're not talking," she confirmed. "To me - or to each other."

"You would have thought they'd have worked it out by now," he grumbled.

"It's been almost a week..."

"Will, they're both strong-minded..." she reminded him.

Stubborn, pig-headed fools, he thought to himself.

"... and they've never been the fastest at healing wounds between them..."

Because neither of them was ever willing to admit they were wrong - at least, he added, not to each other.

"... but I'm not sensing the usual animosity between them," she continued.

He frowned. Not good, he thought, preferring his fights to be out and in the open - and over with. Beverly and the captain, however, kept their arguments - and their disappointments - hidden, pushed into the dark, moldering and festering in their hearts until someone intervened to set things right... until the next time.

This time however, they were both acting as though there was nothing wrong, as though nothing had happened between the two of them - except, of course, he added, that it had.

Though what it was, he confessed silently, he still didn't know.

And neither, he added unhappily, did Deanna.

Then again, as ship's Counselor...

"No, I'm not going to ask them - either one of them," she replied indignantly to his unspoken question. "There's a difference between counseling - and prying," she reminded him.

"It would be for the good of the ship," he reminded her.

"Will, the ship's morale is better than it's been for months - maybe for years," she protested. "And neither the captain nor Beverly is exhibiting any outward manifestations of stress related to their personal relationship," she added. "I cannot, and will not, abuse the privileges and obligations of my profession by... snooping into something that is none of my business!" she snapped, then rose to her feet. "If I may be excused, Commander?" she added.

Will's brow raised in question. "Leaving, Counselor?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied haughtily, adding, "I have a headache. Brought on by

arguing with my superior officer," she added.

"Ah," Will said, a knowing smile flickering across his face. "And since even the ship's counselor occasionally needs to talk with someone, who better than the one person who can both understand her issues - and treat her headache?"

"Commander!" she said indignantly. "You make it sound as though I was scheming, as though I was plotting something unethical in order to circumvent the ethics of my profession. You make me sound... Machiavellian."

He grinned at her knowingly.

She grinned back, leaning close to him once again.

"You make me sound, Will, as though I were you."

"Hi."

Beverly looked up from her patient - and smiled.

A genuine smile, Deanna realized immediately, born as much of the woman's nature good humor as from the positive turn of events in the last few days - though it did absolutely nothing to offset the dark circles that underlined her eyes - or the hollows that showed beneath her cheekbones - or, Deanna added, the sallowness that stained the usually fair complexion.

She looked awful, Deanna decided - but no worse than she had looked when dealing with any of the other difficult cases that had passed through her Sickbay, she realized.

Or rather, she amended a moment later, she looked no worse than she had looked when dealing with her most difficult cases - namely those where the captain was her patient.

And in a way, Deanna thought to herself, maybe he was.

She looked down at the recumbent form on the bed and smiled. "Hello, Andile."

Beverly followed her gaze to the unconscious woman, then gently moved the single errant black hair from her face, carefully positioning it alongside the others, splayed out over the mattress behind Andile's head, a black fan of luxurious tresses, framing her pale skin.

Her pale, unbruised, un-mottled skin.

"You're looking better," Deanna informed the engineer - then looked at Beverly. "Can she hear me?"

"Yes - and no," Beverly replied unhappily. "While her senses are working, the last neurological scan indicates there are no functioning higher cognitive processes. Technically, she _can_ hear - but her brain can't process the information."

"Is it permanent?" Deanna asked worriedly.

The physician drew a breath to answer - then stopped, letting the air out with a sigh. "I don't know, Deanna," she admitted quietly. "I have no idea how much is trauma from the infusion, how much is damage from the lack of oxygen, how much is just a degree of protective mental fugue, trying to insulate her from the trauma of what happened. It could be permanent; it could also just be a matter of time - but if it is, it might be a day, a week - or a year," she said.

Or a century, she added silently, feeling her anger and shame at the fate to which she had condemned the woman welling up in her heart once again - and feeling the hot sting of tears.

"Beverly? Beverly, what's wrong?" Deanna asked, reaching out for the woman's arm.

Beverly allowed the touch - but only for a moment, then gently shook it off. "Oh, don't mind me, Deanna," she said, brushing away the tears with her hand, plastering a false smile on her face. "Write it up to fatigue. I haven't had a good night's sleep since... since I don't know when. Before this all started," she thought.

Since that day I slept in his room, she admitted to herself, still able to remember the faint scent of his cologne, his clothes, his possessions - of him! - that pervaded the room, filling her dreams and her dreamless rest with a contentment she hadn't felt, since...

Since Jack died, she thought.

No. Since before he died, she corrected himself, remembering...

Deanna looked across the room, noting the extra bed that had been added to the room that Geordi had created for Andile. "Maybe if you slept in your own quarters?" she said quietly. "Alyssa and Greg _can_ watch her, you know."

Beverly smiled, but refused to blush at the suggestion. "Andile may have damaged cognitive processes - but she is aware at some level; her blood pressure rises - sometimes alarmingly - when Greg's in the room. I've excused him from her care for the time being."

"And Alyssa?" Deanna prompted.

"Andile does fine when Alyssa's attending her - but she's got to assist Greg in the others duties in Sickbay," she reminded the empath.

"And Andile requires constant attention?" Deanna asked skeptically.

"For the time being," Beverly replied quickly - and, Deanna thought, a little too insistently.

"Until when, Bev? You can't be her guardian forever, you know."

Beverly met her friend's eyes, then looked down. "Not much longer," she admitted - to both Deanna and to herself. "Now that we've found the correct balance of neurotransmitters, her healing is progressing at a remarkable rate. We'll be weaning her off the dialysis tomorrow - and if she stabilizes, we'll implant the regulator for her diaphragm, so that she can resume independent breathing - at least to a small degree - on her own. She'll be dependent on the oxygenator for the rest of her life - but at least she'll be able to speak... if she can," she added miserably.

"She recovered before," Deanna reminded her.

"No, she didn't, Deanna; she survived - but she never recovered," the doctor said bitterly. "Oh, Deanna, what have I done? I was trying to save her - but all I may have done was to condemn her back to that hell!" she cried.

Stricken by the doctor's unbearable pain and guilt, she reached out, pulling her friend into her into her arms, holding her - and waited for tears that she knew Beverly would never permit herself - not on front of her patient - even if that patient would never know she was crying.

The empath sighed as she gently stroked the physician's back. "You really need to get some rest, Beverly," she counseled her friend.

Beverly held the embrace a moment longer, then pulled back, nodding wearily. "And I will - in a few days. When she's a little more stable." She sniffed back an invisible tear. "Geordi's going have the extra bed taken out, and bring in some chairs and a reading light. I know Biji isn't aware of our presence, but she can still hear - and there is ample evidence that patterning can help reestablish or recreate neural circuits. I've started a sign-up sheet for people who want to help by reading to her around the clock, giving her constant input - just as she'll be receiving twenty hours of physical therapy a day to try to repattern the new neural paths in her spine. Greg damaged them when he placed the line - but we have been treating the damage very aggressively. I think that with the glial cell transplant, the medication - and the patterning, she'll be able to recover full sensory function in both legs."

"But she'll never be able to use them," Deanna said.

"No," she said quietly, then added, "Maybe."

Deanna's eyes widened at the faint concession. "Beverly?"

"I've been researching some early work on autologous cell transplants - regrowing organs for transplantation into the donor/patient. The work fell into disfavor in light of new techniques of transgenic organ transplant - but Andile's not a candidate for that. There were multiple attempts to transplant transgenic hands onto her arms after the accident - and they were rejected. But if I can clone Andile's own lung tissue..."

"Beverly! That would be wonderful!"

"If it works," Beverly conceded grimly. "If it doesn't... I don't want to offer her hope only to have to take it away again," she explained.

"Beverly," Deanna said firmly, "five minutes ago, you were telling me she might never regain brain function; now you're telling me you think you can give her back everything she's lost! I know you would never offer Andile false hope - but she needs to know you'll never stop trying to find a way to give her back everything she lost - and then some."

Beverly felt a small wave of hope and confidence wash back over her then rubbed at her eyes, sniffed back the threat of a runny nose - and looked at Deanna curiously.

"Please tell me you didn't come all the way down here because you could tell I was having a bad day," she begged the empath.

"Hardly. I'm here because I was having a bad day - and a worse headache."

Beverly narrowed her eyes, allowing herself a flash of suspicion. Deanna rarely got headaches - except when they were convenient to her as a counselor.

"I didn't intend to bother you with it," she continued. "I thought Alyssa or Greg would be on duty..."

"Greg's on the night shift for the time being - and Alyssa went on meal break," Beverly replied, the suspicion fading from her face - and her emotions.

Deanna nodded understandingly, hoping Beverly wouldn't realize that she had been waiting outside Sickbay for the last half hour, waiting for precisely that turn of events to occur before entering the room. Instead, she allowed herself a slightly pained frown, then murmured, "I'm sorry. I'd wait - but it's been bothering me for the last hour, and it's getting worse..."

"Of course," Beverly said, rising from her desk, reaching for Deanna's hand and guiding her to the now deserted triage area in Sickbay.

"Quiet in here," Deanna noted.

Beverly smiled. "Andile's is 'her' room now. I know it sounds callous, but having her out here, where everyone could see her - and be reminded about her prognosis - was taking a terrible toll on my staff. You couldn't walk past her without wondering when - not if, Deanna - but when! - she would die. Moving her into her own room has reduced the stress level in Sickbay considerably - and I think she's showing some response to it as well. We've been able to stabilize the temperature so she isn't cold all the time - or at least, she isn't displaying a shiver reflex," Beverly conceded. "I hope she's not cold," she repeated softly. "I remember what she said..."

"About always feeling so cold when she was at Starfleet Medical - but she couldn't tell them," Deanna said sympathetically.

"She couldn't tell them anything," Beverly repeated, her eyes growing misty as tears began to form. "Trapped in a body that wouldn't work - but her mind still active, still functioning... I didn't want that for her here," she said softly.

"And it won't be that way, here," Deanna said firmly, taking Beverly by the shoulders and looking at her friend. "I'll make a point of coming by to visit her a couple of times a day, Beverly. I'll try to see if there's even a glimmer of conscious thought in her mind - and if there is, I'll find a way to get in contact with her, to let her know we're here - and that we know she's there. It won't be like it was before, Beverly," Deanna said firmly. "We won't let her go through that again."

Beverly stared into her friend's eyes for a long moment, then forced a tired smile to her face. "Of course. But I'm forgetting you," she added. "Sit down," she said, then moved to one of the consoles, grabbing a medical scanner before moving back to Deanna's side. "Where is the pain focused?" she asked as she began passing the scanner over the empath's head and neck.

"Right here," the empath replied, touching the back of her neck, rubbing at it, then slowly craning her neck as though trying to stretch a recalcitrant muscle.

"I'm not seeing anything," Beverly replied a moment later as she studied the scanner's read out, "but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Are you sure this is your headache?" she added.

Deanna looked at her in surprise. "Pardon?"

Beverly smiled. "You're empathic, Deanna; normally that limits you picking up emotions - but more than once, I've seen you react to other people's headaches. Are you sure this is yours?"

Deanna nodded, her expression a blend of certainty and misery. "Oh, yes; this one's mine. The captain's headache is here," she explained, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"The captain has a headache?" Beverly said, unable to mask the worry in her voice.

"A little one," Deanna demurred. "He and Worf have been arguing all afternoon about the details for the Breen coming aboard - and I know he hasn't eaten all day - and you know how bad his headaches get when he does that - but as I said, his is all focused here," she said, touching her nose once again. "My headache's in the back of my neck - though if there's a real pain in my neck, it's Will," she added with a sigh.

"Trouble?" Beverly pressed gently, moving away to retrieve one of the devices displayed on the console.

"Not trouble really, Beverly," she sighed. "Or rather, no more trouble than you'd expect from two people who have spent a lifetime developing their own personal habits and behaviors start sharing aspects of their lives with one another."

Beverly smiled. "Such as...?"

"Oh, just little things. They seem trivial when I'm talking to you..."

"But they're not trivial when they happen, are they?" Beverly said.

"No."

"Like leaving wet towels in the middle of the bathroom floor?" Beverly said. "Not putting away his dirty dishes? Insisting everything be 'just so' - and complaining when it isn't?"

Deanna's expression turned to one of complete astonishment. "How did you know?"

"I was married, remember?"

"And Jack did all that?"

Beverly smiled. "No; I did. Jack and I married when I was young - but I had been on my own for some time. I was set in my habits. Oh, I wasn't a slob; I knew I'd pick the wet towels and put them in the refresher as soon as I was finished dressing - but it drove Jack crazy! He'd follow along behind me, picking up the towels, grumbling the whole time - then I would start grumbling - and soon we'd be shouting at each other."

"Well, we don't shout," Deanna said, "but it gets pretty tense, sometimes. I may be the ship's Counselor, Bev - but I didn't have anything in my training to be a psychologist that covered sloppy men!"

The physician smiled again. "Deanna, I'm going to tell you something I learned just before Wesley was born - and it has been the best piece of advice I've ever received."

"Yes?" Deanna said anxiously.

"Pick your fights."

"Pardon?"

"Pick your fights. There's going to be enough things in your life that you can argue over - but it will make you both miserable if you're constantly fighting over nothing. So decide what's important to you; if it's critical, then fight for what you believe in, or what your think is right. If it's not important, then let it go," she advised.

Deanna nodded, mulling over the advice. "I'll keep that in mind, Beverly."

Beverly studied her scanner. "You're crit's still a little low - and that might well be triggering your headache. I'm going to give you an analgesic, which should help for the time being. I also want you to take it easy for the balance of your shift - and get plenty of rest tonight. Early dinner - then straight to bed."

"Will's going to be delighted to hear that," Deanna smirked.

Beverly grinned back. "I'm sure he will. He'll probably be sending you down here every day, just so I can make it an official order." She stepped back to the console, searched for a hypospray, then filled it, then pressed it against Deanna's neck.

The empath raised her hand to the cold spot where the spray was administered, rubbing at it for a moment - then sighed relievedly as the muscles began to relax.

"For the rest of the day, drink plenty of fluids," Beverly continued, "and no skipping any meals. If your headache comes back, I'll do a complete work up, just to make sure that everything's healing the way it should. But I don't think you have anything to worry about - including wet towels, dirty clothes - or anything else. You'll find a way to work it out."

Deanna nodded - but didn't get off the bed. Instead, she affixed her friend with a firm gaze. "And you?"

Beverly raised a brow in question. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Will you - the both of you - find a way to work it out?" Deanna asked solemnly.

For a moment, the physician stared at her in confusion - then understanding registered. She looked away, then gave a small shake of her head. "It's not the same thing, Deanna. This... I can't let this just go."

"No, I wouldn't think you could; you said the things you fight for are the important ones - not the trivial ones. But your relationship with the captain, Beverly - that's important, to both of you. Isn't it worth fighting for?"

For a moment, Beverly remained silent, staring at the empty hypo in her hands - then looked at her patient, her professional face back in place once again. "I need to get back to Andile," she said softly. "Let me know if the headache comes back," she added, then turned and walked away.


	150. Chapter 150

**Chapter 150**

"I must admit I am concerned," Data said as he put the padd aside. "We have been searching out the system monitors for eight days, now - and to date, we have removed fifty-four of the devices. Even so, we have been unable to reinstate the ship's recorder system, indicating there are additional monitoring devices as yet undiscovered.

"This troubles me, Ginger," he told Andile from his place beside her bed, where he had spent almost every free hour since the accident, watching her face intently as he spoke - though he knew there would be no reaction to his words, to his concerns, to the troubles he lay upon her brow. There might never be a response, he knew - and yet, somehow he felt better speaking to her - not because she could hear him, he knew - but because one day she would awaken, and he knew she would never forgive him if he had not told her everything that was happening in the ship.

And everything that was happening in his heart.

"I do not believe Cmdr. James was capable of placing so many devices on board the ship in the brief time she was here, even with the relative degree of freedom she had while we were at Utopia Planitia - nor would there have been any reason to place them in as many locations as she did. Indeed, the majority of the devices have been placed so covertly as to suggest that no one was aware of their presence - except the one or ones responsible for their implantation. But if she was not responsible, then who? - and if the intent was not just to monitor the events on the ship during this mission, then why?"

He shook his head and gave one of his perfect, practiced sighs. She would not approve the feeble attempt, he knew - and so he drew another breath, and let it out again, a little less evenly this time, a little more raggedly - and so much more humanly.

"I am practicing," he told her gently. "I am trying to accept the feelings, Andile, to live with them - but it is very difficult. The feelings - _my_ feelings - are much harder to control than the ones the chip generates; they feel... different, as though they were the ones that were artificial - while the ones that I know come from the chip still feel 'real' to me. I know this is simply a matter of adaptation; that in time, as I experience these genuine emotions more and more, I will learn to accept them as being real. But it is difficult, Ginger," he confessed, leaning close to her ear, whispering softly. "There are days I do not believe I can bear it... alone.

"There are days, Ginger, when I believe I can bear nothing... alone," he told her softly. "Come back to me, Ginger. I miss your wisdom; I miss your insight. I miss you."

He bent his head into her shoulder, feeling the thick, oily tear slide from his eye to his cheek, then drop heavily onto her bare shoulder.

He raised his head slightly, watching as the tear traced a viscous path to the bed below her - then he placed a finger on the damp spot, gently rubbing the tear away - then lowered his head, kissing the spot tenderly.

A tiny shudder vibrated in the woman as her body responded to the change from warm wetness to the room's cooler air - and in an almost equally automatic response, Data took one of the blankets that stood neatly stacked near the biobed and carefully draped it over Andile's shoulders and arm, sheltering them against the chill that seemed to be the only thing that penetrated her inactive mind.

"Ah, my little one is cold again," a deep voice boomed behind Data, a giant hand clapping him roughly on the shoulder. "Do not worry. I will take you home to Romulus, my little _baj_, to my house on the desert plains - and there, you will bake in the heat of the sun, until you are warm to the heart of your bones!" Tiron roared as he looked down at the tiny woman.

"Not until she has been to Cardassia first," Zumell countered softly, pushing her way out from behind the giant Romulan. "Ignore him, my little one; I will take you to my home on Cardassia first, and there I will cook for you until you are well and healthy. You have not enjoyed life until you have tasted home-made _vis ha ji_." She glared up at the massive Romulan. "Warmth will do those bones no good until she puts some meat on them first!" she insisted to him.

"And who will put meat on _your_ bones, old woman?" Tiron laughed back playfully. "No, you will both come to my home - and there, you will sit in the sun and _I_ will feed you until you are both big and plump and warm and content as old women and beautiful young girls should be!"

He leaned forward, smiling down at Andile. "Wouldn't you like that, my little one? A nice long vacation on a warm, warm planet, with your _patchni_ ready to grant you your every wish?" He glanced back at Data, then added, in a not-too-subtle whisper, "Or perhaps not every wish, my little _baj_ who is not so little? Perhaps there are some wishes only this young _tu'j_ can satisfy - yes?"

Tiron straightened turned to Data and gave him another powerful clap on the shoulder - but let the hand rest there after the thunderous blow. "You will come with us, Mr. Data? Back to Romulus, so that the little one can recuperate among the ones who love her - and who she loves?" he asked.

Data hesitated. "I am not certain whether Federation citizens would be welcome on Romulus, Mr. Ambassador..."

"Nonsense!" Tiron replied. "Allegiance and fidelity to one's people is very important on Romulus - but money has an equally loud voice - and I am very powerful, Mr. Data - and very wealthy. If need be, I will adopt you both, make you both my heirs - and thus citizens, and you can walk about as free citizens."

"Andile cannot yet walk, Ambassador," Data reminded him.

Tiron met his eyes, then patted his shoulder once more, gently this time. "She will, Mr. Data; she will. We must have faith - and patience - and courage."

"And love," Zumell added. "But you have that in plenty," she said softly, pushing past the two men to take her place next to the bed. "Good morning, my little one," she said softly. "I hope you slept well. I have a new book for you - one of mine, this time. Stories from my world. Better stories than you learned when you were there," she added sadly, then patted her arm and looked at Tiron.

"We should be going, Ambassador," she reminded him. "The little one starts her therapy in a few minutes - and we should not deprive Mr. Data of his time with her. We will have ours later," she reminded him, then stepped away from the bed.

Data turned to follow the two to the door. "I wish to thank you both for your attendance on Andile - but she would not wish you to forsake your ambassadorial duties for her sake..."

"Mr. Data, our duties mean nothing if there is not a person at the heart of them - and in our little one, we remember that heart, that person every day," Zumell said. "And..."

"And your captain is busy with the Breen today," Tiron added, grinning.

"Yes," Data murmured, as though he had forgotten the arrival of the Breen ambassador - as though he could forget anything... even those things he wished he would forget.

"We have postponed the day's meetings until tomorrow so that he can fulfill his other duties - and so that we can rest. Your captain is a fine negotiator," Tiron added, a hint of disappointment in his words. "Had we known he would so admirably represent his people, we might well have opted to postpone the meeting until someone less competent could be found."

Zumell gave the huge Romulan a contemptuous look, added an ineffectual slap at his round belly, then shook her head as she turned back to Data. "Never mind you him; your captain is a worthy delegate. If he has his way, we might all find peace yet," she said. "Come, Mr. Ambassador," she added, pulling at Tiron's arm - then smiled at Data. "We are going to your Ten Forward for our morning meal," she told him.

"And then for a walk in your arboretum," Tiron said - then took Zumell's arm - and gave Data a wink.

For a moment, the android stared at the departing couple in unmitigated astonishment - then turned back to Andile. "Ginger... I believe... I believe that Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell might be at risk of damaging their objectivity. Indeed, they may even be acting in collusion in the current negotiations," he said worriedly.

"They're not conspiring, Data," Beverly interjected as she entered Andile's room.

"I beg your pardon?"

"They're not conspiring," she repeated, "they're... enjoying themselves. They're learning about one another - and about their respective worlds. Losing their objectivity? Yes, perhaps - but in an enlightening way. But collusion? I don't think so. If nothing else, they're not being very subtle about their friendship. I don't think there's a member of the crew who hasn't seen them together."

"I had not," he reminded her.

"Because you've been spending all your time here, Data," she reminded him, then turned, drawing one of the bedside tables next to the bed and placing a blue wrapped package on the stand. "And if someone's to blame for that, Data, it would be Biji here; Tiron and Zumell both offered to take a turn reading to her - and since they both had time only after the day's negotiations, they ended up coming down at the same time, taking turns reading to her - then leaving together." She smiled down at the unmoving body as she began to unwrap the package. "Still trying to bring people together, even while you're asleep, eh, Lieutenant?" she asked.

There was no response from the body, nor from the android beside it.

Instead, Data's attention was focused on the package.

"Doctor? Is that not a dressing change kit?" he asked worriedly.

"You've seen enough of them to know that it is, Data," she replied, glancing back at him before continuing to unwrap the package. "You know, if Biji were awake, she'd tell you that dancing around the question you really want to ask can be somewhat annoying. If you have question, Data, then just ask it," she instructed him.

Data pursed his lips, cocked his head - and considered. "It was not my intention to be annoying, Doctor," he said.

She forced a pleasant smile to her lips, not willing to tell him that the slight whine in his tone was, on occasion, equally annoying. "Data, if and when you ever have children, you'll learn to distinguish between what they do and who they are. You are not annoying; your behavior, on the other hand, can be. On occasion," she added diplomatically as she slid a pad beneath Andile's left arm and hand, then turned on the sterile field.

Pulling out a pair of gloves from the kit, she slid them over her hands before looking at the android again. "Rather than dancing around the topic, Data, why don't you just ask me?"

Data thought over the idea, then gave a single nod. "Perhaps you are correct. Andile was always forthright - and she did seem to reach the heart of a topic most expeditiously."

"Indeed," Beverly murmured. A nice way to phrase it, she thought to herself, although the rest of your friends would generously call it 'audacious' - and everyone else would call it out-right rudeness. But Data was right - Biji did get to the heart of things - and, she added, remembering the slightly dark stain of a tear on Data's cheek, to more than a few hearts as well.

And now that you've reached those hearts, Beverly thought to the woman, we can't let them be broken; one broken heart per starship ought to be the limit, she proclaimed, taking a small device from the kit and began to neatly cut open the bandages on Andile's hand.

Data considered silently as Beverly peeled away the soiled bandage. "Then allow me to be somewhat more forthright, Doctor," he announced a moment later. "Andile's dressing changes are performed in the evening, after the conclusion of her physical therapy; that you are performing them now suggests that something untoward is happening. I would like to know what is the nature of that event," he said - rather formally, Beverly noted.

"I am changing her bandages," Beverly replied as she deftly removed the silver metallic wrapper from the still raw flesh and began to carefully examine the tissue, "because the Jemat has asked if he may examine her - and the Captain has granted him permission to do so - as part of the initial talks between the Breen and the Federation."

"The Breen physician?" Data repeated warily.

Beverly nodded, her attention locked on her task. "One of them. The Captain said that he was involved in the surgery that restored the infrastructure layers to Andile's hands and feet on the Breen vessel. If that's so, then it's possible he can determine if the outer epidermal layers can be reconfigured using the same procedure – something we can't do," she added.

She looked at Data. "At best, Data, I could give her a epidermal layer not unlike yours - but I have no way to restore the nerve systems, especially at the concentration levels that humans hands have. Based on what I've seen on Andile's hands, the Breen do have the ability to do so - and if Andile's to regain her sense of touch, we're going to have to investigate every possibility. And..."

She drew a deep breath.

"'And' what, Doctor?" Data prompted.

"Data, if they can restore the fine musculature and vasculature of her hands, then they must also have the knowledge that would let me do the same for the right side of her chest. Rebuild that - and we can reattach her arm," she added hopefully.

"That would not correct the damage to her brain - or free her from the external oxygenator," he reminded her.

"Data," Beverly sighed, wondering if the android's pessimism was born of the same fatigue that had been wearing at her, "every day means another chance to find a solution. You just have to have a little faith that someone, somewhere, is going to look at the problem - and help find a solution. By the time we get back to Earth, who knows what we'll find? Maybe someone will find a way to overcome her autoantibodies - and I can clone new lungs for her. Maybe someone will have discovered a way to oxygenate the blood efficiently - and using a smaller unit. Maybe... maybe many things, Data," she sighed.

"There are many 'maybes' within your statement, Doctor," Data replied. "Indeed, there are far too many 'maybes' for me to feel sanguine about Andile's long-term rehabilitation," he added.

"Then don't rely on 'maybes', Data; go look for your own answers," she countered.

He looked at her, then cocked his head to one side - and fell silent.

Beverly glanced at him - then turned her attention back to Andile's hand.

She hadn't been exaggerating in her appraisal of the Breen's work; the musculature and vasculature they had created for her was far beyond the technology of anything the Federation had, incredibly fine and detailed. Add skin and nerves to it, she thought, add a few months of physical therapy - and she would have her hand - maybe even both hands - back.

And no scars, she added, noting that the Breen had excised the thick white tissue that had encircled her wrist. That would have been necessary, she told herself; the old and thick scars would have hampered the blood flow to her hands and imperiled the recovery of the extremities.

And possibly imperiled the recovery of the woman as well, she added, knowing that the scars were somehow linked to the tragic loss of the child... Varel, she thought, reminding herself of the child's name, her heart surging with grief for the girl - and for Andile.

She looked at Andile's face, aching for the woman - then stopped.

Something was different, she thought; something was... wrong. She glanced at the bandage change kit, wondering if something had fallen to the floor, or rolled from the sterile field - but everything was where it was supposed to be.

She looked at Andile, studying her face, searching out some change - some slight movement of her eyes, her mouth, perhaps? But saw nothing different there, either.

For moment she tried to convince herself it was nothing more than her imagination - but her years of medical experience kept insisting something had changed.

A machine, maybe? She wondered, glancing at the various displays, looking for something out of place.

Her blood pressure was elevated fractionally, she noted - though there was nothing terribly abnormal in that; a person - even an unconscious person - underwent changes in blood pressure throughout the day. Her oxygen saturation levels were normal, her temperature was slightly elevated - but still within normal range, and her respirations were steady at fourteen point one per minute.

She looked back at Andile, staring at her in confusion, knowing something was different, but unable to put her finger on it...

Fourteen point one, Beverly thought with a frown, suspecting the slight aberration was the cause of her unease. It should be exactly fourteen, she knew; indeed, she had set the level when she had implanted the pacemaker in Andile's diaphragm, beginning the process that would, in time, allow the woman to breath for herself.

Even if she only had half a lung in which to draw air, Beverly added.

But half a lung still meant regaining the ability to speak, something the ECMO would never grant her, she reminded herself.

Breathing, Beverly thought with a sorrowful smile; speaking. How I dream, she thought solemnly, knowing full well there was little chance that Andile would ever be capable of doing either again.

She reached for the machine, about to reset the level - and watched as an erratic spike flashed across the monitor.

She stared at the woman for a moment - then spoke softly. "Data?"

The android stirred himself. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I think she's trying to breathe."

He stared at the physician for a moment - then looked at Andile. "Perhaps an involuntary spasm of the diaphragm," he countered. "She was subject to them..."

"At first; immediately after the pacemaker was implanted," Beverly agreed. "But that was a week ago! Ever since, the machine has regulated the contraction of the diaphragm with perfect regularity."

"Perhaps the level was reset accidentally..."

"I checked it before I went off duty last night, Data - and you've been with her ever since. Did _you_ change it? Did anyone else change it?"

"I would not alter the settings on the equipment used to regulate Andile's condition, Doctor," he replied, in as close to a hurt tone as his android persona would permit, "and neither of her night attendants altered any of the machine settings."

"And yet it has changed," she pointed out. "I think she's trying to breathe - or rather, her body's trying to breathe," she conceded. "I don't think it's a conscious action. But..." She hesitated, then faced Data, smiling. "I think it's a positive sign, Data; her brain is beginning to exert control over her autonomous functions."

"And her attempt to breathe...?"

"Without her normal lung capacity, she's probably feeling as though she's fighting for air - even though her blood and tissues are showing excellent perfusion levels." Beverly gave a soft sigh. "You wouldn't understand the sensation, Data, of fighting for air - but it can be terrifying, even traumatic - as if you're drowning."

"But such a feeling would be a conscious reaction," Data pointed out, "and she is not conscious. Furthermore, you indicated her oxygenation levels are adequate."

"They are - but the functions of inhalation and exhalation aren't controlled strictly by oxygenation levels. The pH balance may have been off for a moment, her metabolism might be spiking as she goes through a phase of regeneration - I could give you half a dozen reasons why her body might be trying to make her take an extra breath - but they all boil down to the basic fact that her body needs an extra inhalation - but the pacemaker prevents that.

"It's preset to initiate inhalations at the preprogrammed rate," Beverly explained, "but it's not permitting the body to exert any control in response to those changes. It's a good sign – that she's trying to re-establish autonomic control - but for now, I can't remove the pacemaker. Her body is just too weak to maintain control of the diaphragm. What I can do is to reset the pacemaker, allowing her body to, in effect, override the setting when she feels the need for an additional inhalation." She smiled at the android again. "It's a good sign, Data," she said softly. "The best one yet. But," she added cautiously, "it's only one sign. It's no guarantee that she'll recover further, that she'll ever be able to come out of her current state - and I think that we both need to keep that thought firmly in mind," she added firmly.

Data looked at her curiously. "I am confused, Doctor," he admitted - though there seemed to be no hint of confusion in his expression.

"Confused? About what?" Beverly replied.

"You said that I should have faith - that a stranger, who has never met Andile and has no idea of her needs - or my need for her - would provide her with the appropriate technology to help her recover the abilities she once had - and yet I should not place that same faith in her? That I, knowing what her capabilities are, knowing of her ability to heal, to recover, to overcome odds that would daunt almost any other being, should believe less in her than in someone I have never met? That I should have faith in someone I do not know - but not in the ones I do?" he asked.

Beverly looked at him for a long time - then down at her patient.

He doesn't understand, she thought to herself - and to the silent woman lying on the bed. He doesn't understand what you've been through, the pain you've faced... he doesn't understand that sometimes you just can't bear to face the hurt, even just once more.

Even for him.

Especially for him.

She looked up, studying the android - and saw the hope there, the faith - the need, she realized, to make right what had gone so terribly wrong.

But correcting that mistake - any mistake, she added, would take faith... and hope, and long hard work on his part.

On both their parts, she added.

It's going to be a long road, Biji, she thought silently to the woman - but he's worth it; you're both worth it.

We all are.

"I stand corrected, Data," she said softly. "Perhaps the faith we really need is in ourselves - and in those we know best. Maybe... maybe it's just somehow easier to believe in those we don't know than those we do," she added.

He nodded. "I understand, Doctor. Sometimes fear - of repeating failure, of being hurt, of hurting those we love, even unwillingly, unintentionally, scares us away from doing what we know in our hearts and in our minds to be the correct course of action," he said, then looked at Andile for a moment, studying her expressionless face. "But I am willing to take that risk," he told her, told them both.

He watched the motionless face for a moment, a newfound determination shining bright from his golden eyes - then looked at Beverly once again. "Doctor, you had indicated that you knew of others who would be interested in reading to Andile - that is, aside from Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell? To provide additional mental stimulation throughout the day?" he asked.

"Know of others?" she echoed lightly, smiling at him. "Data, there are so many who want to help Biji that I've had to make a waiting list!" she replied, almost laughingly - though telling the nearly countless volunteers that Andile's free time was already spoken for had been anything but a laughing matter - or rather, it hadn't been until she had explained that it was Data who was occupying Andile's resting hours, she added.

"Perhaps, then, you could make arrangements for one or more of them to spend time with Andile during at least part of the next few evenings?" he asked.

Beverly gave him a curious, and slightly disappointed, look - then nodded reluctantly. "Of course. I'm sure there will be no problem, but... why?" she asked, wondering if her faith in him... in everyone... had been misplaced. "Aren't you going to be here tonight?" she asked disappointedly.

"I shall - but there is something I must do first," he said. "If you could make arrangements for someone to be with her until the end of beta shift?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course," she replied, then watched as he leaned over her body, placing a gentle kiss on Andile's forehead, then carefully removing an errant strand of raven hair from her face before neatly tucking the blanket under her bandaged shoulder.

"Do not let her become chilled," he cautioned Beverly, then turned on his heel and left the room.

Beverly watched the android leaved, then sighed, and looked down at Andile. "He loves you, you know," she said softly. "Whatever happened between you, he still loves you - and I think he'd do anything for you. Give him a chance, Andile; don't give up - on him - or on yourself. Love - real love, that kind that endures - the kind he feels for you - is so rare, so precious - don't throw it away. Don't let go. Let him try to make it right - for the both of you."

The sound of a communicator chirping interrupted her litany of sage advice to the somnolent woman.

"Picard to Crusher," came the captain's voice, gruff and formal with command.

To her surprise, the sound of his voice, terse at it was, sent a shiver through her soul.

Don't be stupid, she chided herself; that's all done with... isn't it?

Do I want it to be? Do I want to give up on him, on me, on us?

She looked at the unconscious woman in question - then tapped her commbadge.

"Crusher here," she replied softly.

There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke again - and for that moment, Beverly wondered if he, too, was aching at the sound of her voice.

Nonsense, she insisted; he's probably just preoccupied with his duties.

And yet the voice that came back was softer, gentler. "Jemat and the Breen ambassador will be arriving shortly. Transporter room three," he added.

"I'll be there," she replied, tapped her badge again to break the connection, then looked at Andile - and gave a rueful laugh.

"I know, I know," she sighed. "I'm just setting myself up for another disappointment, another bruising. I loved Jack - and he died; I loved Wesley - and he's gone. I... I love Jean-Luc," she finished softly. "I don't want to lose him, too.

"But then," she added softly, "I've never really had him to lose, have I?" she asked the unmoving form - then sighed. "In a way, I'm jealous of you and Data. For everything that went wrong, the two of you at least tried. We never have. Maybe that was just wise precaution on both our parts."

"Or complete cowardice," she added after a moment's thought.

"Or both," she conceded.

She attended to the dressing, neatly removing the last of the old bandage before examining the raw tissue, carefully cleaning the flesh, then neatly re-bandaging it.

Piling the used materials into the wrapper, she rolled it up, peeled off the gloves, dropping the whole mess into a disposer unit, watching the faint blue flash as it turned into aseptic ash, then touched the control that turned off the sterile field.

"There," she said with an air of finality and satisfaction. "You're all ready for the Breen. Don't worry; I won't let them hurt you," she began - then stopped.

"No, Beej, that's not true; if they can repair your hand, help me rebuild your shoulder and reattach your arm, then yes, it will hurt - but I'll do everything I can to make it as easy on you as possible. But if it works, it will be worth the pain," she added - then stopped once again, biting her lip - then shook her head and smiled.

"Yes," she said softly. "It will be worth the pain."


	151. Chapter 151

**Chapter 151**

Despite himself, Worf was impressed.

He had never thought Ballorians to be much more than adequate Starfleet officers; they were too rigidly attuned to the specifics of rules and regulations to see behind them, to understand the spirit - as opposed to the letter - of the laws that structured Starfleet and the Federation. For the most part, they seemed to have little internal inspiration, doing what was necessary - according to the requirements - but little more, never finding in themselves the personal motivation that marked them in the eyes of their superiors as prime candidates for promotion - or the esprit de corps that would mark in the eyes of their compatriots.

And so to find G'Sef, the ship's Ballorian transporter chief, hurriedly dictating notes about the readouts from his transporter console as well as rapidly describing the play of shimmering pink and silver light before him as the Breen began their transport sequence, astonished him - and impressed him.

After all, Breen transport cycles had been observed - and documented, albeit sketchily - for the last several decades, but no one had yet been able to reverse engineer the process from those observations; for G'Sef to try - perhaps even presume that he would succeed where no one else had - spoke highly of the alien's faith in his knowledge and abilities, his determination to give the Federation an upper hand in their interactions with the unknown species - and, Worf conceded, of G'Sef's personal drive.

He glanced at the captain who was standing beside him before the transporter console, but the man was oblivious to the minor miracle playing out just behind him, his concentration fixed and absolute - though whether it was on the display presenting itself on the transport platform, the potential glories - or disasters - that these negotiation could yield, or whether Picard was desperately concentrating on trying not to notice the red-haired physician standing on his other side, Worf didn't know.

Most likely the former two, Worf told himself, reminding himself of the man's dedication to his work, his near absolute denial of a meaningful personal life; he would not allow himself to be distracted by his personal feelings... even, perhaps, he added grimly, when he should.

A Klingon warrior could not always fight for the honor of the Empire, he reminded himself; sometimes, he had to fight for something more important.

For some _one_.

There was nothing wrong in having a personal relationship, he admonished the two silently; it enhanced one's life; it gave life a meaning, a depth, a reason, that nothing else, not even glory - not even honor - could replace.

And yet you both choose not to even try, he admonished the two senior officers; what honor, what glory, could there be in blind resignation?

But the people he knew, the physician and the captain that he had come to know - and respect - would never yield to such resignation, he told himself.

Indeed, even now, even as they stood beside each other in the transporter room, each intently focused on the platform, seemingly unaware of the other beside them, they seemed keenly aware of the other's presence, studiously keeping a distance between themselves, bobbing and weaving in unconscious response to one another's accidental approach, one occasionally brushing a dress uniform sleeve against the other's arm, making slight adjustments of position as the faint currents of air carried his cologne to her, and her perfume to him...

No, Worf decided, they had not yet abandoned the relationship - for watching them, he found the scene no different from any other time they had met in the transporter room to greet a visiting dignitary; they had always played at this game, bobbing, dancing, their sleeves and scents meeting and mingling, teasing and tormenting one another - but always light-heartedly, joyfully, both silently playing at who would dare to go further before they both had to don their professional personas one more time - and become the Captain and the Doctor once again.

Today, however, there was no joy on either face - but neither was there any trace of the pain that had marred both of their expressions in the last few weeks, he conceded - though whether by sheer dint of time and fatigue, or by some mutual consent to try - or not to try - to resolve the situation, Worf didn't know.

But the weariness that had blunted their animosity had taken its toll on Picard's perspicacity as well, Worf thought - else he would have noticed the transporter chief's unusual behavior - and complimented the man on it.

That the captain was preoccupied didn't absolve the Security chief of that same obligation, however; he leaned toward the Ballorian.

"I applaud your efforts, Mr. G'Sef. Although no one to date has been able to reverse engineer the Breen transporter technology, I admire your dedication in attempting to gather sufficient information to make the same attempt."

G'Sef smiled at Worf, knowing high praise from a Klingon when he heard it - and shaking his head. "I won't take credit when it's not due me, sir; I may understand these boards better than anyone else on this ship - but I'm no engineer. And that's what it's going to take to solve this riddle - someone who knows transporters and engineering."

Worf affixed the Ballorian with a confused look. "Then...?"

"I got a shift reading to the Lieutenant this evening," G'Sef replied proudly.

The Klingon frowned. "I was not aware that such opportunities existed," he grumbled.

"They didn't - until this morning," G'Sef explained. "Apparently Mr. Data had some obligation - and Dr. Crusher started calling some of the people who had volunteered," he said, gesturing with his head at Beverly.

"And you were selected?" Worf muttered.

The Ballorian shook his head. "No. I wasn't even close to the top of the list - but one of my staff was," he added. "When I heard about it, I offered him two weeks of my shore leave to trade with me."

Worf considered. "And he accepted?" he said at last - though the disapproval was evident in his voice.

"Grudgingly - but he had used up all his leave just before we left Earth, and has nothing coming when we finally get back home. I'll admit it was a little unfair," G'Sef conceded.

"On the contrary," Worf replied, "it is an object lesson in the conservation of resources. Better planning on his part would have given him a stronger position," he concurred - then considered again. "I will offer you three weeks of leave in exchange for your shift with the lieutenant," he countered.

G'Sef smiled - then shook his head. "I appreciate the offer - but I have plenty of leave coming. And more importantly, I want to be the one who tells her the specifications of the Breen transport cycle. If that's not the challenge that helps her wake up, then nothing will," he insisted.

Worf's expression tightened. "I appreciate your position," he replied respectfully, then added, "Four weeks."

G'Sef only grinned.

"Mr. Worf," Picard interrupted, bowing his head at the two forms beginning to materialize on the platform.

Worf turned, his attention focused on the Breen bodies coalescing - then glanced once more at G'Sef.

"Five weeks," he mouthed silently.

G'Sef's grin broadened, but he shook his head. Turning his attention to the console before him, he let his fingers fly across the board, then spoke. "Captain, I have confirmation from the Breen ship that their transporters cycle is completed; the Breen ambassadors should be materializing... now," he announced - then looked up to study, for the first time, their enemy.

The hardest part of having an enemy, G'Sef knew, was finding out they weren't so different from you.

It was easy to hate - and fear - the mysterious beings in the black body armor, with their almost undefeatable weapons, with their unknown technology; it was easy to hate and fear something with a thousand tentacles, or that breathed a nitrogen atmosphere, or that clattered about in a chitinous exoskeleton.

It was much harder to automatically hate the two beings standing on the platform before them, both rather human in their appearance - albeit with more planar faces, less hair, and both of unimpressive physical stature - both dressed in rather unimpressive brown and gold uniforms, and each carrying only a small bag that, according to his Security scan, carried padds, a small book, and a few innocuous instruments.

Yet they had crippled the ship, G'Sef reminded himself; they had killed some of her crew; they had kidnapped the Captain and the lieutenant - almost killing her in the process, he added bitterly - then stopped himself.

They hadn't, he reminded himself sharply; the captain had been explicit about that point in his announcement to the crew about the forthcoming meeting; everything that had happened, every death, every injury, every act of sabotage, had been the doing of their own people, Federation members and Starfleet officers. Whatever supposition, rumor and gossip had claimed about the Breen's involvement was simply that, Picard had reminded them all: supposition, rumor and gossip. These meeting would begin on an assumption of innocence - and with the hope of a peaceful resolution for both races.

The announcement had stilled much of the growing disquiet on the ship, G'Sef thought, for above everything else, the crew held to the certain knowledge that their captain would not lie to them.

He would, of course, withhold the truth as decorum and politics required, G'Sef reminded himself - but without a focal point for the gossip-mongerers to grab onto, the rumors were varied and scattered, ranging from conspiracy to madness to another invasion by parasitic organisms - and each died a rapid death as other, newer and more interesting events came to pass.

Such as the presence of these two, G'Sef reminded himself, noting the readouts from the scanners, hoping that the information they revealed might help the lieutenant to put together some of the other pieces of the puzzle and solve the mystery of the Breen transporters.

He started to make a note about their physiology - then stopped, and slowly raised his head.

The Breen were still standing on the platform, unmoving - and one of them was looking at him.

Staring at him.

Smiling.

The row of razor sharp teeth glinted white and shiny in the light of the transporter room, eerie and terrifying in the dazzling white sharpness - but there was nothing of malice - or hunger, G'Sef thought - in the expression behind them. Instead there was a peacefulness, a gentleness, that the Ballorian had never thought to find in the eyes of so reputedly brutal an enemy.

I'll tell her about this too, he began to think - then felt a soft touch at the back of his mind.

_Have faith,_ a voice echoed through his thoughts, soft and reassuring. _Faith and love. These, above all else, are what she needs._

G'Sef stared at the being, captivated by the expression, lost in the comfort and certainty of the being's voiceless words - then blinked and realized that somehow the two were already making their way down from the platform, stepping toward the captain, Dr. Crusher and Cmdr. Worf, the words of greeting already filling the room.

He glanced around him, shaking his head to dismiss the sensation - and the memory - instantly chalking up the moment to... fatigue? he wondered. Worry? Imagination?

Whatever it was, he had other things to think about now - like realigning the pattern buffers to prevent the Breen for wantonly using their platform without their permission - though, he added, it would not stop them from beaming anyone to any other part of the ship if they decided to do so.

Maybe there was something in that alignment configuration the Breen had provided, he mused to himself, his attention falling from the two visitors and back to the console before him.

Jemat smiled to himself - then turned to face Picard. "Captain," he said quietly, extending his hand in the human fashion, "I am pleased to see you. How are you feeling?" he added, an expression of professional concern crossing his face.

"_Outo_ Jemat," Picard answered, taking the proffered hand. "It is..." He hesitated - but only slightly, as worry and experience tempered that automatic response. "It is good to see you again," he said after a fraction of a second's pause.

Jemat smiled, then turned to his companion. "You are warned, Ferata; the captain's hesitates to speak outside the truth. It is not good that we are meeting again, for it is sorrow and pain that has brought us to this point. But it is good in that this may be a beginning for us all. Perhaps tomorrow he will be able to speak those words without hesitation," he advised the being beside him, then turned back to Picard. "Captain Picard, I am pleased to present Ferata, our representative to your people for these discussions."

The second Breen, slightly taller and heavier set than Jemat stepped forward, extended his hand awkwardly and uncertainly - then withdrew it, giving a half bow instead.

Picard responded with a half bow of his own - then looked at Jemat, surprised. "Then you will not be at these discussions, _outo_?" he asked.

Jemat shook his head. "I am not a diplomat, Captain; I am _outo_ and physician; I am here to see in what ways - if any - my people and our medicine might help to heal Garave. Ferata, on the other hand, is trained in the ways of a diplomat; I would hope that he can heal the wounds between our people as well as I would like to heal Garave's wounds," he said solemnly.

Beverly stepped forward. "Garave?" she repeated, confused.

Picard turned to her, the explanation on his lips - and his eyes met hers.

It was the first time he had looked directly into her eyes since the day of that desperate and terrifying surgery, the first time he had seen her since he had realized the awesome responsibility of her field, of her career, of the life she had chosen for herself.

The week had not been kind, he thought; her eye had sunk into the depths of her exquisitely carved cheekbones, lost in darkening circles of fatigue and worry - and loneliness, he knew; the planes of her face had grown stark, haunting, paling from the ivory porcelain clarity to a chilling, chalky grey, her lips colorless, raw from being chewed on as she worried over a patient who was not recovering, who might never recover - and grieved for a friendship she knew was lost forever.

A friendship I destroyed, he reminded himself.

I'm sorry, he thought to her. There were things I should have told, things you needed to know...

No, he stopped himself harshly. Those were only explanations, justifications - excuses - for what I did. And didn't do.

I should have told you - but I didn't - and now...

Now, he knew with a certainty that tore at the very breath in his lungs, now it was too late.

For a moment, a wave of regret washed over him - but this wasn't the time for regret - or for apologies, he reminded himself harshly; he was a starship captain: he had duties to perform, obligations to attend to; this was not the time or the place to give in to his personal problems.

There would be time enough for that later.

Indeed, there would be the balance of a lifetime he could spend in empty, solitary regret.

"Excuse me," he apologized to the Breen. "_Outo_ Jemat, Ambassador Ferata, may I present the ship's Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Beverly Crusher."

Beverly stepped forward, offering her hand to each of the Breen - and after a moment's hesitation, receiving theirs in return.

"Doctor, I am pleased to meet you," Jemat said, "and I thank you most sincerely for the information you have provided on the lieutenant's condition. In return, I hope that I may be able to assist you in resolving the complications you've encountered."

"As do I," she said. "Although the lieutenant is continuing to recover - very slowly - I'm growing concerned about her hands and feet. I've seen some fluctuations in her immune system, and I'm concerned that she may be becoming susceptible to infection. In humans, the epidermal layer is one of the strongest defenses against infection - and while I can keep her hands and feet covered much of the time, they need to be exposed for both dressing changes and range-of-motion therapies. I'm concerned that it's simply a matter of time until infection sets in," she explained.

Jemat nodded knowingly. "It is much the same with our people, Doctor," he agreed. "Indeed, if she had remained with us, I would like to think she would have regained the full use of both her hands and feet by this time. But," he sighed regretfully, "what we wish and what comes to be are often far different, are they not, Doctor?" he added, studying her intently as her gaze flickered from him to Picard and back again, his eyes taking in every nuance of her expression as she did so.

But whatever hurt she was feeling was held in carefully check, he realized as she spoke. "I'm afraid you're correct. However, I was hoping you would be able to share your techniques us, here aboard the Enterprise, so that we might be able to repair that damage, even now, _outo_," she said, trying out the Breen honorific - and earning a smile in return.

"Despite your captain's usage of the term, _outo_ is not a medical title, Doctor," he explained. "I would be pleased if you would simply address me as Jemat."

"Of course... Jemat," she replied. "But if _outo_ doesn't mean 'doctor', then what does it mean?" she asked.

Jemat considered, then glanced at Ferata, who gave a slight jerk of his head in negation. Jemat sighed, then looked back at Beverly. "I am afraid we do not know your language or your culture well enough to find an accurate translation. Perhaps Garave can assist us - later, of course," he added.

Beverly shook her head. "I'm sorry? Garave? That's the third time you've used that word - but I don't know what it means," she confessed.

Jemat gave her a confused look. "What it means...?" he said - then looked at Picard. "Captain? You have not told her?"

"Told me what?" Beverly pressed.

Picard looked at her. "Garave," he said quietly, "is the lieutenant's real name."

Jemat made a soft sound. "That would not be entirely correct, Captain; it is her birth name - but she has come to see herself as being 'Andile'," he advised him.

"That word is not a name; it's an obscenity," Picard snapped instantly, angrily

"As she knows it, yes," Jemat agreed, "but it was not always so. The derivation is from an ancient word..."

"Jemat," Picard suddenly interrupted the Breen, the caution - the concern - evident on his voice.

The Breen looked at him, surprised at the interruption - and by the sternness in the human's tone. "Captain?" he asked confusedly.

Picard hesitated, then spoke. "This is not the... proper venue for this discussion," he explained.

"Venue? For discussing Garave...?" Jemat began, puzzled - then stopped abruptly, understanding suddenly registering.

_Then... you have not told them? None of them?_ he added, glancing at Beverly then back at Picard in astonishment. _Not who she is? To us - to you? Nothing?!_ he thought, clearly incredulous - then closed his eyes, and Picard felt his own eyes close as the soft touch of the Breen _outo's_ thoughts reached into his own.

Picard staggered, the touch in his mind at once familiar and yet startlingly unfamiliar, sending him reeling against the transporter console. He reached out to steady himself - but not before G'Sef rounded the console, his phaser coming out of the holster even as Worf stepped between the human and the Breen, shielding the captain - and as Beverly reached for Picard's arm, steadying him.

"Captain?" she said softly, gently - worriedly. "Jean-Luc?"

For a moment, the man did nothing, then slowly his eyes opened, focused on her - and he nodded.

"I'm fine," he answered in his usual, professional tone - but for a moment his eyes lingered on hers.

For an instant, hope flared in both their souls...

... and faded away.

Tightening his grasp on the console, Picard turned to Worf.

"At ease, Mr. Worf, Mr. G'Sef; Jemat was not trying to harm me. It's simply one of the ways the Breen communicate," he informed the Klingon.

Worf glared at the two suspiciously, then back at Picard, who nodded again. Reluctantly, the Klingon gestured to the Ballorian to return to his place, then returned his phaser to its holster - but not without another glare at the Breen. "We are aware that your race is highly telepathic; however, you will restrict your communications to verbal methods while on board this ship," he growled at the two. "Any further exhibitions of such... communications... will be interpreted as an assault - and will be dealt with accordingly."

Ferata nodded diplomatically, bowing his head in slow, but dignified acceptance of the dictum. "As you require," he agreed.

"I too, apologize," Jemat concurred. "But there are things we must discuss, Captain," he added worriedly, then glanced at Beverly, still holding Picard's arm. "Things we assumed... things that should have been discussed before now," he added, disapproval unmistakable in his voice.

Beverly stared at him curiosity and worry filling her eyes. "Jean-Luc?" she asked in a troubled voice.

He shook his head, dismissing her concern, then turned to Jemat. "Humans are not the Breen, _outo_," he reminded the being. "Our thoughts, our minds, are our own; there are some topics we prefer not to share, topics that are personally offensive, topics we don't openly discuss."

"Offensive?" Ferata interjected. "To whom, Captain? Her? Or you?"

Picard stared at the Breen, his jaw tightening at the remark - then felt the gentle pressure on his arm.

He looked down, surprised to find Beverly's hand still resting there - then slowly raised his eyes to hers.

Sadness, she thought; such sadness, such regret - such shame, she added.

"What is it?" she said softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper, inaudible to anyone else in the room.

For a moment, she saw the temptation in his eyes, the desire to tell her, the need to break down the barriers he... no, she corrected herself, the barriers they both had spent most of their lives building.

But he was not a man who yielded to temptation - no matter how desperately he might wish to - and even as she watched, the hope in his eyes faded away.

He looked down, gently lifting her hand from his sleeve, then released it, letting it drop away - then looked at Jemat and Ferata.

"Perhaps we can continue this conversation in the conference room, gentlemen," he said - then turned to Beverly. "I'll have Jemat escorted to Sickbay as soon as we're finished, Doctor," he began - only to see her mouth drop in outraged astonishment.

We're in this position because you can't let me into your life, she raged at him silently - and now you're going to leave me out - again!

Not this time! she seethed. I'm not going to let you block me out this time!

"Captain," she growled through gritted teeth, "if this... 'discussion'... has anything to do with my patient's health, I demand to be present."

Jemat turned to her. "And I insist upon it, Doctor," he agreed.

Picard glared the two, his anger suddenly flaring - then felt it damped down, pushed back in part by his own efforts - and, in part by Jemat's.

Despite Jemat's promise to Worf, Picard felt the words, gentle and calming, touching his mind. _You cannot continue like this, Captain. Your pride, your vanity, your doubt - it will destroy you... and her... and perhaps, in the end, destroy us all._

Picard stared at the man, the vestiges of rage still glowing in his heart - then gave a reluctant nod.

"Worf, please inform your Security team that the visit to Sickbay will be delayed... briefly," he added pointedly.

Jemat gave a tolerant, toothy smile, deigning not to argue with the man - though Beverly could see in his expression the same look she had seen in her own frequently enough when dealing with the recalcitrant captain: regardless of the captain's words, the final decision was going to be his.

And she realized as he turned to add her to his intense gaze, hers as well.

I think we're going to get along splendidly, she thought to herself.

_As do I_, Jemat replied wordlessly.

Her eyes widened at the unaccustomed touch in her thoughts - and then she gave a slight bow of her head to the Breen.

He nodded back - then proffered a crooked arm. "Doctor?" he said.

She slid her hand into his arm, taking it as though they were old friends. "My name is Beverly," she replied quietly.

Jemat smiled. "Beverly," he replied - then glanced at Picard. "If you are ready, Captain?"

Picard stared at the two, gave a resigned sigh, then led the group from the transporter room.


	152. Chapter 152

**Chapter 152**

Ideally, Picard thought as they entered the conference room, ideally, this meeting would be taking place in one of the larger conference rooms that lined the exterior edge of the ship, the floor-to-ceiling windows exhibiting the glorious expanse of stars beyond to all who entered the room - and, Picard knew, subtly and simultaneously reminding them of the technological prowess possessed by the Federation in being able to create and build a ship that could allow such a display.

Of course, they would also be facing on to the view of the Breen ship, with its graceful web of tendrils enveloping the vessel - a reminder of the technology that the Federation was confronting - and, Picard added, a reminder of the fact that they had yet to understand, let alone to best, that same technology.

But it wasn't the subtle one-upsmanship that had determined the location of this meeting; that had been Worf's doing, choosing this smaller - and more secluded - room because of pragmatic concerns rather than psychological ones: here, deep in the bowels of the ship, the Breen would have a far more difficult time trying to beam in a boarding party; here, a hidden bomb carried by one of the Breen delegates could do less damage to the critical systems of the Enterprise - or to Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell; and, Picard knew, here, he could assign guards to patrol both the horizontally and vertically adjacent areas, protecting the Breen themselves from any attacks by outraged crewmembers - just as he had lined every passage between the transporter room and the conference room with Security officers.

Perhaps 'lined' was not the correct term, Picard amended his thoughts; while there were an ample number of guards positioned through the halls, they were discreetly positioned - and while they were armed, their weapons were in their holsters, readily accessible - but not out in the open, not held at the ready.

Still, the presence of the guards stationed in the hall had an oppressive effect on the four; they separated, moving in single file, silently trooping through the passage, then into the small room, each finding a place at the small table and took their positions.

Or rather, Picard realized, they all sat down - except for Jemat.

Instead, the Breen stood at one side of the square table, studying the two humans - then gave a soft sigh in preparation of starting the discussion.

But before he could speak, however, Picard began, suspecting he knew all too well the direction the _outo_ intended for this discussion - and not willing to go down that path without a fight - or at least without letting his disapproval - and his objections - be known.

"Jemat, I do not believe this is the proper venue for these discussions. Your ambassador - and you - were invited aboard with the express purpose of an initial discussion that would, I hope, lead to peaceful negotiations between our races. To depart from that purpose..."

"Captain," Jemat interrupted sharply, every trace of the kindheartedness that had marked his arrival gone, "you misunderstand. If Garave dies, there will be no negotiations."

Picard and Beverly gaped at the alien. "But..." they each began, only to be cut off once again.

"Indeed, if she dies," Jemat continued, "it is very possible that our two civilizations will find themselves at war with one another - and this time, we will not back down. Now, if you feel that your ego, your possible embarrassment at your own actions, are more important than the survival of two cultures, then so be it. We will end this conversation here and now - and Garave will die. And then both of our races will follow her. So which is it to be?" he asked finally.

He watched as the two humans glanced across the table at one another, Beverly's eyes filling with confusion and concern as she saw Picard's fill with rage and defiance - then watched as the emotions faded and pragmatism - and duty - replaced them.

"Proceed," Picard said at last - though the undercurrent of resentment was impossible to miss.

"Then..." Jemat started - and stopped, looking at Beverly, seated across the table from Picard.

Not next to him, Jemat thought quietly, nor beside him, as she had appeared in so many of the man's memories - and in his thoughts. In his mind, she was his equal, his companion, his compatriot, his confidant - but across from him, as far distant as he could place her, across from him, as though she was his opponent, rather than his dearest intimate.

I am sorry, he told her - told them both - silently. Had I known...

But I did know, he reminded himself; I knew what humans were, how they acted - and didn't act; I knew them from what we have learned as scientists - and I knew you from what I had learned from your thoughts, he added, looking at Picard.

And yet I saw in you so much that was Breen, so much that reminded me of my people that I committed the greatest crime a researcher can commit: I assumed.

I assumed that since you had some of our attributes, that you were as we were, after all Breen: that you would think as we do, reason as we do - and act as we do.

But you are not Breen: you are human - and even among that race, you are unique.

Something we never truly are - and something, perhaps, that we will never truly understand.

I erred - and perhaps we will all pay the price.

Or perhaps not, he added, hope flaring in his soul.

"Then I will digress, for a moment," Jemat continued, "so that we might bring the good doctor here up to the same level of understanding that we three have - of the Breen race - and the Breen culture," he said, looking at Ferata and Picard.

"Jemat, that isn't necessary..." Beverly protested.

"On the contrary, Doctor, it is. Your patient's survival, and my patient's recovery," he added, looking at Picard for a moment before turning back to her, "are contingent on you understanding what has happened - and what must happen."

Whether it was the reminder that Jemat still saw him as a patient - a role he was loathe to play even in her Sickbay - or whether it was the reminder that something - an indiscretion or perhaps private revelation was about to made public - Beverly heard Picard draw in a sharp, disapproving breath, and glancing at him, saw the muscles of his jaw tightening.

No, she thought; whatever happened to him, whatever has or has not happened between us, I will not them humiliate him.

"No," she said firmly. "If there is something you need to tell me, then we can do so later, in private and in professional confidence, as physician to physician," she said firmly. "Whatever your ethics may be, mine prevent the embarrassment or humiliation of a patient..."

"Doctor," Jemat interrupted, "Garave's survival depends on your understanding of what has happened."

She hesitated, the needs of her patients - both of them - fighting for pre-eminence in her mind - then shook her head. "No. The captain is as much my patient as Andile is; I can not violate my duty to him - even to save her."

"Beverly," Picard interrupted, turning to her, their eyes meeting - and nodded. "It's all right," he assured her.

She looked at him uncertainly - but there was an expression of certain reassurance in his expression.

Or rather, she thought, a very uncertain reassurance - but with a determination that was unquestionable.

Whatever Jemat was about to say, whatever humiliation he was about to reveal, he could take it.

Still, Beverly hesitated...

"It's all right, Beverly," Picard repeated - and reached across the table, placing his hand gently over hers. "It will be all right."

She studied him for a long moment, knowing that the confidence in his words was not mirrored in his heart - but knowing that his own devotion to duty overrode everything in his heart - even personal humiliation.

And knowing, she realized with a start, that despite everything that had happened, he trusted her.

For a moment, she stared at him in stunned amazement - then upturned her hand, accepting the gentle touch, feeling him squeeze her hand in response - then broke the grasp and turned to Jemat. "Go ahead, _outo_," she said after a moment.

Jemat nodded - but before he spoke, he paced for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts - then stopped and turned to face Beverly.

"From the moment a Breen is aware, Doctor," he said quietly, "from the moment we are cognizant of our selves as individual, sentient beings, we begin preparing ourselves for death."

He must have seen the shock in her expression, for he quickly took a seat at the table beside her. "Oh, do not misunderstand what I am saying; we Breen do not crave death; we do not actively seek a rapid end to our lives, searching out and ending in some blaze of glory or self-sacrifice; we are, in many ways, no different from you. Though we each have our own motivations and goals, in general, we all would like a long, full life, rich in the pleasures of our existence - and full to the extent a long life can grant.

"But unlike you humans, indeed, unlike most species, when our lives are over, our lives are over."

Beverly shook her head. "That's no different from any other species, Jemat; death is the end of all our existences," she countered.

"No," he protested. "In your species, life continues - in the form of children. You share not only your culture and beliefs with your offspring, but the blending of both parents' genetic heritage as well. And that, Doctor, is a gift we cannot give our children," he said with a sad finality.

"But your society has survived - even thrived - without that," she reminded him.

"Yes, we have - because we have learned that while we cannot pass on the fullness of a more diverse genetic heritage, we can pass on the learning that each of us, as individuals, have accumulated - and not just for our own budlings," he informed her, informed them both.

"You see, as telepaths, we have..." He searched for a word, then continued, "... 'access' to the thoughts of those within our society. However, every society requires a degree of privacy in order to function, to maintain a sense of self - and so, we do not freely share every thought, every idea, every experience, with one another. And yet, accumulated over the span of our lives - which average three hundred of your years - those experiences - and the learning and wisdom borne of those experiences - are a wealth of information; information we can pass on to the next generation. And at the moment of our deaths, we do just that - we impart a full lifespan of education, experience, wisdom - everything that made us the creatures we were - into the fullness of the entire Breen society."

"That sounds very much like the Vulcans and their preservation of the katra," Beverly remarked.

Jemat smiled. "You'll forgive my saying so, Doctor, but for the Vulcans, the preservation of the katra is a frivolity, an emotional sop for a race that refuses to accept their emotions - and yet cannot fully accept the emotional of corporeal death. They die - and what they were dies with them. Unable to accept that finality, unable to yield to the grief that fills them yet that they deny themselves, they put away the essence of their being - their katra... and do what with it? Haul it out in remembrance or on holidays? Ignore it?" he said disparagingly.

"It is their repository of knowledge," Picard protested.

"Only of some knowledge," Jemat corrected him. "After all, less than one percent of Vulcans participate in the ceremony. Indeed, only a few prepare themselves for the transfer - and even when they do, when death comes, too often they find themselves either alone, or with a being who cannot carry the katra back to the Hall of Thoughts, or in places where such a transference cannot take place. These days, most Vulcans lease their knowledge and wisdom to the next generations through writing, teaching - and genetics. The Hall of Thought is used less and less as a repository of knowledge - and more as a Hall of remembrance, a place for those who deny themselves grief to hold on to the memories of those they have lost.

"I do not say this to denigrate the Vulcans; they once needed the Hall of Thought for their survival. But that time has come - and gone. We, on the other hand, survive only because of our ability to share our final moment of existence with the totality of our people. Thus, we spend much of our lives preparing for that moment.

"And sometimes a moment is all we have, for death can be as unexpected among our people as it is with anyone else."

He stopped, drew a long breath, then looked at Beverly. "This is how we survive - and grow - as a species, Doctor; each of us is dependent on his fellow Breen to explore life, to learn and enrich themselves, to expand on the fullness of life that every other Breen has experienced - and to move beyond that. We each strive to become more - and then to share that with our brethren so that they may continue the journey from that point forward.

"Our death gift is the ultimate moment of our life, for with that gift, we can progress as a race - and that is, after all, the ultimate intent of every culture."

He hesitated for a moment, an expression of what could have only been sorrow crossing his planar face.

"Jemat?" Beverly said worriedly - and was rewarded with a weary smile.

"Forgive me, Doctor," he said softly. "I am tired - as we all are. These last few weeks have been tiring for all of us. But I would rather face fatigue instead of the finality of a war."

"As would we all," Picard agreed.

"Indeed?" Jemat replied. "I wonder..."

Picard gave him a surprised look, as did Beverly. "Wonder what, Jemat?"

"I wonder what Huziah was thinking at the moment of his death," he admitted. "Was it the horrors of war?"

Beverly studied him for a long moment - then shook her head. "I don't understand, Jemat; you just said that at the moment of death, the Breen share their life experiences with the rest of your people. How, then, do you not know what Huziah was thinking?" she asked.

"Because Huziah did not share himself with us at the moment he died."

Beverly gaped at the Breen - then shook her head. "I don't understand," she said. "If sharing one's life is so important, so critical to your survival as a people, why wouldn't he share his life? Wasn't there enough time?" she asked, remembering the horrific - and almost instantly fatal - injury Picard had described.

"The transference is almost instantaneous, Doctor - and we are all trained to recognize the change in our bodies, to know that death has arrived. No, Huziah had time. He chose not to share his life, though, not because he thought that it was not important, but rather because he thought there was something more important to be shared."

"And that was...?" she pressed.

"Huziah chose to share _her_ life with us", Ferata interjected, the emphasis on the pronoun soft - but unmistakable. "Not his own, but Garave's. He believed her life, her existence - her soul - was more important to us as a people than his own was."

"You see, Doctor, for three hundred thousand years, we have searched for the ultimate justification of our existence; we have sought our salvation," Jemat explained. "Huziah - and I - believed we had found it."

She stared at the Breen for a moment - then comprehension dawned. "You think Andile... Garave... is this salvation?" she asked in stunned disbelief. "But... how? I mean, how can a human be the salvation of _your_ species?"

Jemat looked at Picard - and smiled. "Will you tell her?" he asked.

The captain drew a long breath, then looked at Beverly. "Garave... Andile... the lieutenant... Whatever her name is, she's not human. Not fully. The lieutenant is a Breen, Beverly," he said slowly.

Beverly's jaw dropped as she gaped at the man - then shook her head. "That's not possible!"

"It is - and we can prove it," Jemat said. "Long ago, we realized that asexual reproduction is a genetic dead end. Oh, every now and then we see a genetic variation - a mutation here or there - but very few of them - and affecting only a few Breen. The genetic diversity that supports the growth and variation of a species was unavailable to us. Seeing our future thus limited, we chose to try to maintain our genetic heritage by sharing it with other species. We planned, selected those genetic aspects we possessed that we felt would enhance the lives of other species, then found worlds that possessed species that were genetically compatible. We grafted those select genes into those people, moved them to colony worlds - and then we watched and waited."

"And Andile's people were one of those races? And Parash was one of those worlds?" Beverly asked, her voice rising as she spoke, her eyes beginning to flash.

Jemat nodded, surprised by the unexpected vehemence in the physician's voice. "Yes. A colony of humans, taken from your own world. We altered them genetically, transplanted them to a suitable - but distant world - and observed them.

"But you didn't just watch and wait, did you?" Beverly interrupted, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "You visited them, didn't you? Checking up on your experiment, in situ, weren't you?"

Jemat gave her a look of blinding obviousness. "Of course. Our work was not static, Doctor; where our initial gene grafts were successful, we would proceed, adding additional genetic material to the culture in order to try to more fully integrate ourselves into each species. Not all our work was successful, of course - some grafts failed - and where some took, the culture itself failed."

"I would argue the ethics of altering the genes of another sentient race..."

"The definition of sentience is a very subjective one, Doctor," Ferata interrupted, "as is the topic of ethics. What we did..."

"Is a topic better suited for another time," Picard interjected.

Ferata glared at him, then at Beverly - then glanced sharply at Jemat.

For a moment the two stared - then Ferata relented, bowing his head in acceptance of what most likely a telepathic rebuke from the _outo_.

"Another time then," he agreed with Picard, bowing his head slightly, then turned back to Beverly. "You were saying..."

"I was saying that on those worlds where the grafts did take, didn't it occur to you that your reappearance, your very presence, was altering the people almost as much as the genes you were changing?" she railed angrily.

Jemat shook his head. "That was never our intention."

"Your intention?" she cried angrily. "Your intention was to manipulate a primitive society - a dozen societies, a hundred societies! - and manipulate their evolution for your own purposes! What did you think would happen? Those societies were primitive, technologically unaware; how do you think they viewed your technology, your science, when they had nothing of their own that could explain it - except the supernatural? To them, you were gods - and around you entire religions developed, explaining, justifying, sanctioning the actions and activities of their people in accordance with what they thought were your wishes, your desires? They worshipped you - and then, when you finally, and far too late, realized what was happening, you stopped visiting them!

"You gave them a god - and then you took it away!" she railed furiously.

"You don't understand..." Ferata began.

"No," she countered, cutting him off. "_I_ do understand. You don't. You took their gods away; you let them believe that they had somehow failed you - and they had to blame someone.

"On Garave's world, an entire society took out their fear, their anger and their rage on those who could not defend themselves: the andile," she snapped angrily.

"The _hah-n-deela_," Jemat interjected, the word sliding from his lips in soft reverence.

Beverly stopped in mid-tirade, staring, confused, at the _outo_. "I beg your pardon?"

"The _hah-n-deela_," Jemat repeated.

"The beloved," Ferata added in translation.

Beverly stared at the two Breen, her rant now thoroughly derailed. "Beloved?"

Jemat smiled. "The _hah-n-deela_," he said again. "The beloved ones. Those few individuals in whom we saw a glimmer of hope for our people, where the transplanted genes appeared to be taking hold. We did not try to favor them, doctor, but we did focus much of our time and attention on them, checking on them, detailing their histories, their offspring - until we realized what our presence was doing to the people on those worlds." He looked at her soberly. "We did realize what was happening, Doctor; we simply realized it far too late."

Ferata bowed his head in plea. "Please understand, Doctor, our evolution proceeded along a different path than yours; with our telepathy, with our evolution as both single and group mind, we never developed the concept of a supreme being acting on - or against - our behalf; for us, God was a complex creature that evolved _from_ simpler creatures; we grow to become God, not develop from God. We did not, could not, comprehend that these societies thought differently."

Jemat picked up the thought. "It took us centuries, millennia, to understand - and by then the damage was done from our very presence among these people. We knew we had to step back, to allow them to develop as they would, to observe only from a distance - but in doing so, we lost track of so many of our worlds... including Parash."

"You cannot know, Doctor, the sorrow that filled us when we realized that, on Parash at least, our _hah-n-deela_ - our beloved - had become andile, the refuse, the hated of a society."

Beverly stared at them, seeing the grief and repentance in their eyes - and realizing that sentiment was being echoed in a billion minds across a hundred worlds, felt the harsh edge of her rage and pain begin to fade away.

"Who else could they blame, Jemat?" she asked the two quietly. "You prized your beloved ones - then you suddenly disappear? Obviously, they were the ones who had failed; they were the ones who must be punished. They survived only because they served one small, wretched purpose in that society - to carry away the psychic and emotional refuse of the dying. But they were denied society, education, family, emotions - even children..."

"And with that, we almost destroyed the one thing we had worked for, for three hundred millennia: the preservation of our genetic materials," Jemat said softly.

"Those who displayed those genes were exiled from society," Ferata agreed.

"Exiled - or worse," Beverly reminded them. "We'll never know how many died because they were andile, because they carried your genes.

"And yet the genes persisted," she continued. "Andile... Garave," she corrected herself, "carries them, as did some, perhaps many of the others, try as her society did to ferret out the carriers."

"But now," Ferata said softly, "only she carries them. You can see why her survival is of paramount interest to my people; she is our only remaining chance of salvation."

"And you can see, also, why we had thought the captain would have explained this to you; why, above all else, she must survive," Ferata said, his tone drifting toward accusation.

Beverly shook her head, dismissing the charge against the man. "I can understand your feelings, gentlemen, and perhaps, to a degree, I can even understand the reasons for those feelings - but the captain cannot betray the trust one of his officers has placed in him simply because it is expedient for your people. Garave has spoken to him of her past - in confidence - and nothing, short of the survival of his ship, his crew, or Garave herself, would allow him to betray that trust. His oath of office was to them - not to you," she said.

"Or to you?" Jemat countered.

For a moment, righteous indignation flared in her heart - and then she smiled.

You are so right, Jemat, she thought silently; we think we know one another - and yet, when it comes down to it, we don't know the slightest thing about one another.

Six months ago, gentlemen, and it might have worked, she told them silently. Six months ago, I would not have realized that you were manipulating my emotions, playing with my feelings, trying to provoke the reaction you desire. But six months ago, I had not met Andile... Garave... whatever the hell her name is! - and whatever, or whoever, she may be, she is far better at this game than you are.

You cannot trick me that easily, she cautioned them.

Picard's behavior toward her as an individual may well have been reprehensible - but his behavior as an officer was irreproachable - and after half a life in Starfleet, she knew well the difference between the two - and an amateurish attempt at emotional manipulation by an alien _outo_ was not about to change that.

That he was entirely correct was another matter altogether.

"The captain has revealed information he knew was critical to Garave's health and survival - as required by that same oath," she countered, finding herself defending him easily. "Beyond that, however, her faith in his integrity was vindicated - as is the faith of every crewman aboard," she added, glancing at Picard. "He did not, could not, and would not reveal personal information that he could not have known was relevant to her health."

If he had trusted me more, however... she added silently.

No, she thought instantly, stopping the thought before it could drift into another round of recriminations against the man who sat across from her. That isn't fair - and it's not worthy of either of us. Trust was never the issue here; duty was. And you fulfilled your duty to Andile as best you could - indeed, perhaps better than I did. You forced me to keep her alive when I would have let her go.

Even now, she added, glancing at the two Breen, I am not sure that was the right decision; not even with the survival of an entire civilization hinging on that choice. The life you've condemned her to live is not the one she would have chosen for herself - but that was not your choice to make. The only choice you had was whether to follow the oath you took - or to betray it.

And he had betrayed it, she reminded herself - but never when there wasn't a greater good a risk, when the moral imperative that lay behind the oath took precedence over the words.

For you, duty would always be first, over everything - and everyone - else.

I'm sorry, she thought to him, both proud and sad at the same time. Sometimes... sometimes I forget that your duties, your obligations of command, transcend even the bonds of friendship - but I do respect and cherish that dedication.

As your fellow officer, I thank you, she added wordlessly.

But as your friend, as someone who once hoped there would be more...

She let the thought fade away; there would be ample time later to think about the limits of friendship, command - and love - and how those limits could never truly mesh.

"To betray her, to reveal what he knew about her, would have violated his oath - and her trust," Beverly concluded.

"To reveal that the lieutenant was Breen might well have been to doom her as well," Picard interrupted. "She has been under suspicion for a number of crimes - including treason," he explained. "Being found out as Breen would have sealed her fate - even if the charges were ever discounted. We have seen lesser genetic relationships doom Starfleet careers," he added soberly.

Jemat looked at the two, the shock and revulsion evident even in his very Breen expression. "To penalize, even to kill, an individual because of their genetic heritage? Because of something they could not control?" he said in horror. "That is... barbaric!" he gaped.

"But it is so very human," Picard replied, equally disapproving.

And so unchanging, he added silently; even as Starfleet could condemn her for her heritage, so had the lieutenant and her kind been damned a thousand - ten thousand! - years before, by her own people - and, he added in silent anger, because of the effect of the Breen's genetic manipulations.

"I am not attempting to rationalize or justify the actions of my people - then or now," Picard continued quietly. "We acted, indeed, we still act - often from ignorance and fear - but we are trying to move beyond that ignorance, to discover the truth about who we are, and why we act as we do - and, when possible, to change those behaviors for the better, for ourselves and for those around us. But so often, indeed, too often, those behaviors are rooted deeply within both the society - and the individual - and try as we might sometimes we cannot change who we are, either as a group - or as an individual," he added quietly.

He looked at Beverly, apology and regret in his eyes.

"We are who we are - and we cannot change that," he said softly - then straightened, almost imperceptibly, and turned back to Jemat and Ferata. "It is a flaw in the human psyche, but one that, had you better understood the nature of humans, you could have considered. Had you done so, you might have saved her - saved all the andile - from the brutality of their own people," he chastised the two.

"But damning the children because of the parents is not unique to humanity," Beverly countered. "The Bajoran castes, the Cardassian Chiemma... even in violent ways, we seem to need separate the population, to create ranks and files, to categorize people by nothing more than birth. The idea of a noble class in almost every Earth culture, the Houses on Betazed... almost every humanoid culture we've met has differentiated - and often persecuted - those who are different, those they don't understand. Perhaps, Jemat," she added quietly, "in all the galaxy, the Breen are the only culture that never needed to do so - because you each understand, and have always understood, from your most fundamental to your most conscious levels, that you were part of a greater whole."

Jemat stared at Beverly for a long time - then nodded. "I do not believe we had ever considered that possibility, Doctor. But," he added a moment later, "if you are right, then it is all the more important that Garave survive - to share her genes - our genetic gist - with the generations to follow, so that, in time, we may all someday become god."

Beverly smiled tolerantly. "I wouldn't presume to try to dissuade you from your goal, Jemat - but all this," she waved her hand at the two Breen and the captain, "is still conjecture. "Andile's sun went nova millennia ago; that world is gone, those people are gone - you can't even be sure that her colony was the one you planted! And more to the point, it still leaves me wondering how this revelation affects my patient."

Ferata jerked his head in negation - then stopped, and made an awkward shake of his head. "It is not conjecture, Doctor; our belief has been verified - and by no less an authority than your captain," he added, somewhat smugly.

"The captain...?" Beverly began, glancing at Picard - and received a confused shake of his head in return.

"I?" he echoed.

Jemat smiled. "You, captain - through your deposition," he said.

Beverly shook her head again, still confused. "But..." she began, then stopped. "According to the medical debriefing that was performed, the deposition reveals the memories of the individual - and according to my own scans, the procedure was initiated - but not completed on the lieutenant. Isn't that correct?"

Ferata gave an awkward nod. "It is."

"Then how...?" she pressed.

"An old memory, Doctor, one we did not note at first," Jemat answered. He looked at Picard - and smiled. "Do you recall?" he asked.

Picard considered for a moment, then started to shake his head - then stopped. "Her name," he said - then looked at Beverly. "The lieutenant... The first time I met her... Rather, the second time," he amended, "the time I attended her class, she introduced herself as Professor Handeela," he said - then looked at Jemat. "As in..."

"_Hah-n-deela," Jemat agreed, sliding the emphasis from the second syllable to the first - but making the similarity between the two words unmistakable. "I believe the linguistic shift that occurs in most spoken languages may account for the change from the Breen pronunciation to the Parashian one..."

"And a second, similar shift to explain the change to the pronunciation we use," Picard continued, nodding.

Jemat drew a breath, the hesitation - and regret - obvious in the Breen's manner. "No. I wish that were the case - but I believe that once we have finished reading Garave's memories in full, we will learn that her culture was responsible for the shift in pronunciation from _hah-ndeela_ - 'beloved' to andile - 'filth', in order to reflect the radical change in the meaning. In time, I believe we will discover that 'handeela' still existed in her people's language, and still possessed the same benevolent and loving import that it possesses for us."

"Then why did she change the pronunciation?" Beverly asked. "If she could be 'beloved', why allow herself to be called 'filth'?" she asked.

Picard turned to her, sorrow covering his face. "Because it was a pretense," he told her. "She was posturing, trying to elevate herself - maybe even to overcome the self-image she had of herself - to be something more. No one in Starfleet knew the difference; no one knew better..."

"But she did," Beverly concluded, understanding at once.

Andile could become Handeela, she thought; she could pretend she was something more than the wretched filth her people had decried her to be... at least for a while.

Until something went wrong.

Until someone was hurt.

Until her own conscience rebelled against her self-glorification, and slammed her back; until ten thousand years of indoctrination overwhelmed a few years of self-reliance and self-determination.

And then Handeela would become Andile again - and Andile would become a spy, a thief, a prostitute, a murderer - whatever she had to be - and know she deserved nothing better than whatever crumbs of solace her people would give her.

Beverly shook her head, wishing she had been there when... when what? she wondered. What had driven that emerging sense of self-worth back, crushing it so thoroughly that Andile would prefer the ultimate fate of a suicide mission over the work that she professed she loved.

She didn't know - and risking a glance a Picard, she knew he didn't either.

I wasn't there then, she thought to herself - but I am here now, she thought defiantly, and looked at Picard once again. I couldn't help her then - but I can now.

If that's what she wants, she added - then glanced at Picard.

People do change, she thought at him - when they want to change.

When it's important to them...

She looked at him - and watched as he looked back, his eyes, his face, his composure all perfectly composed once again - and utterly professional, the consummate captain.

But only if it's important to them, she realized in slow finality. And when it isn't important...

She bit at her lower lip, feeling the sting of tears building in her eyes, then blinked them back. There had been enough tears of late, she told herself; she had cried over him too many times already.

Enough, she thought at herself and at him, angry but resolute; you may not want to change - but I do. I have to; I can't go on like this.

She drew a long, slow breath - and turned to Jemat. "So she's Breen; how does this affect her as my patient? Do you have medications...?"

Jemat shook his head. "Despite my comments, physiologically, she is still, for the most part, human. Our medications would be ineffective - if not dangerous - for her, for any human. Nonetheless, our surgical techniques should allow the reconstruction of the exterior layers of her hands and feet - and perhaps the reattachment of her amputated arm. Since these extremities are also rich in nerve receptors, their restoration may provide the needed additional sensory stimulus to promote the progression in brain function to take her to a conscious level. In addition, there are other therapies we have used in similar cases - but whether they are applicable or not, I cannot tell - not before examining her."

Beverly turned to Picard. "If there's nothing else we need to know...?" she asked.

He met her gaze - and for a moment, his eyes lingered on hers, reluctant to let them go - as if there was something he wanted to say, something he needed to tell her...

Then he shook his head. "Nothing. You are dismissed, Doctor. Jemat, I will have a security team escort you and the Doctor to Sickbay."

"Thank you," Jemat replied, then pushed the chair back from the table. "Doctor?" he said, reaching out a hand to help her up, then wrapping her hand in his arm, just as he had done earlier, then patting it gently.

Just like Jean-Luc does, Beverly thought.

No, she thought; like he _did_.

But that was over.

She bit her lip again - then pushed the pain away.

It was over - not that it have ever begun, she added - and it was time to move on. On to her patients. On with her life.

She looked at Jemat. "Despite the setbacks, we've have had some positive results," she began as they moved to the door. "There has been a reduction in the size of the adrenal cortices..."

Picard watched as the two left, then turned to Ferata.

"And where do we begin, Ambassador?" he asked the Breen.

"Where all things begin, Captain - at the beginning," the Breen countered smoothly. "But before that perhaps some tea? I have not read your deposition in depth - but I believe there is a prominent memory of something called 'Earl Grey'...?"


	153. Chapter 153

**Chapter 153**

"There appears to be some stiffening of the ligaments..." Jemat muttered, more to himself than to the physician standing beside him, gently manipulating the hand of the unconscious woman, flexing the fingers back and forth, then gently rotating the wrist. "Minimal regeneration of pseudo-epidermis as well," he added, prodding carefully at the raw flesh that stretched over the bones.

"I didn't want the flesh to heal over, Jemat," Beverly protested, somewhat defensively. "Andile had massive rejection issues with her previous transplants; once she stabilizes, I was hoping to draw skin fibers down from the existing tissue on her arms and allow them to regraft - but that has required a higher degree of immobilization of the joints than is standard. Still, I have been using intermittent range-of-motion therapy and adjunct chemotherapies to maintain a degree of muscle tone..."

Jemat, still hunched over Andile's bed, her hand still resting in his, looked back at Beverly - and smiled.

"I was not criticizing, Doctor," he replied respectfully. "Indeed, I am not sure I would have been able to maintain this level of flexibility in the joint in one of my own patients in a similar condition. And, as you have surmised, the failure of the underlying tissue to lay down a pseudo-epidermis will minimize the trauma of any attempts to create a true epithelial layer; had a secondary layer begun to attach itself, we might have been faced with having to excise the flesh once more, and repeat the surgery that was performed on our ship. Considering the amount of time that has passed, and the fact that we were unable to complete her surgeries before she returned to your ship, I am quite pleased. When you feel she is stable enough to tolerate the procedure, we can perform the surgery to restore the outermost layer of flesh to her hands."

Beverly stared at the Breen for a moment - then nodded, letting out a sigh of frustration and tension. "My apologies, Jemat. As much as I appreciate your opinion - and your expertise..."

"It's difficult to not feel as though your work was being judged," he concluded for her. "I understand; I don't think there are many, human or Breen, who appreciate having someone second guess their decisions.

"And that is not why I am here," he continued as he watched the last vestiges of tension fade from her face. "I offer the expertise and knowledge I have acquired - but to be used as you see fit. She is, after all, your patient, Doctor," he said.

"She was yours, as well," Beverly countered sympathetically, knowing how difficult it was to relinquish the care of a patient to another physician.

Jemat nodded, appreciating her understanding and turned back to his examination of Andile.

"As was the captain," she added, somewhat more softly this time.

Jemat glanced back at her - then returned to his examination.

"He was," he agreed after a moment. "There is a slight increase in the amount of adipose tissue in the forearms," he murmured.

"Actually, I'm rather happy about that, Jemat. Normally, a healthy human body carries a percentage of body weight as fat - but Andile had metabolized most of her body fat in recovering from her last... injury," Beverly murmured.

Jemat nodded absently, turning over Andile's arm, studying the underside, then lay it back down again. "I am aware of the nature of her last... injury, Doctor - and of the physical and emotional sequelae. Perhaps more so than you are," he added, then fell silent for a time.

"All that she is, Doctor, all that she was, is a part of us now," he informed her quietly, then let his hand drift down over Andile's arm, stopping as just before he reached the exposed muscles that surrounded her wrist. "There were scars here," he said quietly.

"Yes," she answered softly.

"I removed them," he said.

Beverly nodded.

For a moment the two were silent.

"Are you aware of cause of the scars?" he asked at last.

"I know they were self-inflicted," she answered obliquely. "Self-mutilation - but they were not suicide attempts."

"No," Jemat agreed. "Andile are forbidden suicide. But they are not forbidden punishment. And she had to be punished - for living when the child did not; for killing the budling whose life she had sworn to protect.

"She tried to cut off her own hands," Jemat said, almost angrily - though whether his anger was directed at Andile, or at Starfleet for their having sent her on the mission - or at himself for his people having placed Andile - albeit it indirectly - in the position she found herself, Beverly did not know. "She tried to cut them off, not once - but hundreds of times, always knowing she could never succeed, knowing she would fail - and try again, punishing herself over and over for her crime."

"Her crime?" Beverly repeated, appalled.

"Her crime," Jemat echoed, "her sin. She returned, whole and intact, when the child did not."

Beverly shook her head. "She came back, Jemat, but she was neither whole nor intact," she countered softly. "There was no crime - but even if there had been, she's been punished enough for a hundred lifetimes."

"We know that," he agreed. "But she does not. Repairing her body is one thing, Doctor; the harder task will be repairing her spirit."

"If there is a spirit that can be repaired, Jemat," Beverly cautioned. "She was oxygen deprived long enough that there was significant brain damage. Even if her brain can physically heal, those areas will have lost their function. She'll have to re-learn tasks - from simple to complex - but, given time, that can be accomplished. What can't be re-learned, Jemat, are the memories that were lost. When those areas of the brain were lost, so were the memories."

She sighed thoughtfully. "And perhaps that will be for the best: if she can't remember the painful episodes..."

"An hour ago, you questioned my people's ethics, Doctor," he reminded her. "Would those same ethics you touted so readily permit you to pick and choose what aspects of a person's life you would return to them, given the choice?" he asked pointedly.

"To spare her pain..." Beverly began.

"Sometimes, Doctor, our work requires us to hurt our patients, to cause them pain, that we might, in the end, achieve a greater good. Would you opt not to perform a surgery, knowing that if you did the procedure, the recovery would be painful - but knowing that, in the end, the patient's life would be spared?"

"It is not the same thing, Jemat," she argued. "Andile... Garave... the lieutenant," she finally decided, "would be alive either way..."

"Would she?" he interrupted. "Her body would survive, yes - but the woman, the spiritual being might not. We are the totality of our life's experiences, Doctor; what we said and did and felt - what we cherished - and what we regretted - all these things make us who we are. All Garave's experiences made her who she is - both for good and ill; would you take that away from her, would you risk changing the person she was, even to spare her pain?" he asked. "Would you want someone to do that to you?" he added softly. "_For_ you?"

Beverly studied the alien for a long moment - then shook her head. "No," she conceded. "But as a physician, as a human, as a compassionate being, how can I permit her to return to this... this self-induced hell?" she asked, her eyes locked on the woman's wrist.

"You must," he said softly. "For now, at least. She must find her path - as you must find yours," he added. "As we all must find our own way."

Beverly looked at him, hearing the silent message in his words, finding herself tempted to pursue them - then stopped herself, stopped the flicker of hope that sparked in her soul.

No, she told herself. Not this time. Not again.

Never again.

"If she can find her way," Beverly countered ominously, "To be blunt, Jemat, I'm not sure that's possible. Her condition is stable..."

He nodded, giving a very human sigh. "... but that is all, yes?"

Beverly drew a deep breath - then let it out in exasperation. "Yes. She progressed wonderfully the first few days after we placed the lines into the cerebral cortex - then she plateaued out. There's been progress since then - but it's been minimal at best," she admitted. "Given her genetic make-up, I had expected to see the same healing patterns now as we had seen earlier - rapid wound closure, quick tissue regeneration - and yet it's not happening. She's making no progress - and I'm at a loss to explain it, let alone to reverse it," she admitted.

Jemat pursed his lips, the human facial expression oddly out of place of the Breen's near lip-less face - but the intent unmistakable to Beverly. He too was perplexed.

"Rapid healing is to be expected from one of the genes that was transplanted to all of our subject groups," he agreed. "There are only two biological limitations to that effect..."

"I know," Beverly interrupted. "Malnutrition and neurotransmitter insufficiency. I've tried to monitor her nutritional status since she came back, especially in light of having had to resect her bowel. I've kept a very close eye on her nutrient balance in order to ensure that she's receiving - and absorbing - the necessary proteins required for the healing process to occur. The balance and absorption are as good as I could hope - but the healing is not," she said.

"Liver damage?" Jemat tried. "That could affect the protein levels..."

She shook her head. "Liver function is still slightly depressed from her previous injuries - but it's higher than it was when she just before the accident - and her healing rate was remarkable then," she countered. "As it was - briefly - after we began the infusions of the neurotransmitters. Damn it, she's getting a continuous influx of everything she needs - and it's having no effect!" she muttered in frustration.

"Perhaps the balance of the transmitters...?" Jemat began.

Beverly shook her head again. "No. I've maintained the same proportions that were in the samples of cerebral-spinal fluid we extracted prior to the... incident; the infusions worked prior to the accident and during the surgery - but since then, they've been almost completely ineffective."

Jemat considered for a long time, then looked at her. "Some Breen neurotransmitters have different ion suffixes than the human forms of those same transmitters," he said. "Perhaps the infusions worked at first because they filled an immediate need - but as her body accustoms itself to the presence of the transmitter, it requires a more specific chemical match to her receptor site. If so, we may be able to replicate the appropriate transmitters from our pharmacoligcal replicator files," he suggested. "May I see her transmitter profile - and the molecular configurations of the transmitters she is receiving?" he asked.

Beverly nodded, then turned to the terminal in Andile's room. A moment later, the two pieces of data were displayed on the screen.

"Hmm..." the Breen mused. "A carbonate ion here, where there would be a sulfate ion in the same chemical in a Breen brain... but that should not account for the difference in the two transmitters. Not if it worked before..." He considered for a few more minutes - then looked at Beverly. "The dialysis, perhaps? A change in her kidney function..."

Beverly shook her head, negating the idea. "I considered that idea - and dismissed it. Jemat, I've found almost nothing that's changed since we began the therapy - except the results," she protested.

Jemat considered. "Perhaps the therapy itself is responsible for the change," he said at last. "The increase in mental processing may be affecting the balance in the available neurotransmitters. If you were to analyze the fluid in the ventricle..."

"Not possible," she said flatly. "The tritanium in her skull blocks the medical scanners - and when the scanners are remodulated to allow for the presence of the tritanium, the readouts are, at best, imprecise."

"Then an analysis of the fluid itself," he countered.

She drew in a long breath. "That's a surgical procedure, Jemat - and a dangerous one, given Andile's... Garave's... condition. It could kill her."

"And it could save her," he countered - then looked at Beverly. "Doctor, I know we can regenerate the tissue of her left hand, restore much of the function to the limb. I also believe that we can induce the regrowth of the vascular tissue that would allow you to reattach her right arm. But without the certain knowledge that she can heal from those injuries, there is no point in attempting to do so. I will not cause a patient unnecessary pain - not without there being at least some chance of recovery - not even for the sake of the survival of my people," he said bluntly.

Beverly studied the alien for a long time - then touched her commbadge. "Alyssa, prepare the OR - and let's prep Biji for surgery. We're going back in."

The chimes to his room rang out, once, twice, then a third time before the fact that they were ringing found its way into his unconscious mind. It took a fourth repetition of the chime, however, before he could wake himself enough to rise from the bed, calling out, "One moment," as he reached for the familiar blue and white-striped robe that lay draped over a nearby chair - and a fifth repetition before he could wake sufficiently to successfully pull the robe over his sleeping clothes.

"One moment! Computer - lights!" he called out again as he fumbled with the belt - but the caller, whoever it was, apparently was in no mood for patience. The door chimed a sixth time - and most likely would have chimed a seventh if Picard had not finally called out in frustration and mounting anger, "Enter!"

The door had barely opened when he began to add, "What the hell is so damned important..." when Beverly pushed her way into the room.

"Beverly?" he asked, confused by her unexpected appearance, his wrath fading instantly. "It's two in the morning," he began to add, only to be interrupted by the physician.

"We have a problem," she said bluntly - and he realized a moment later, quite angrily.

He stared at her for a moment, fatigue and confusion lingering for a moment - then turned walked to the replicator. "Tea, Earl Grey - hot," he said quietly.

He waited a moment for brew to appear, then took a long sip, feeling the heat of the tea travel down his throat and settle in his stomach before turning to face her once again. "What kind of a problem?" he said at last.

She shoved the padd in her hands at him. "Someone's trying to kill Biji. I think," she added a moment later, a little less certainly this time. "Or maybe not kill her, but keep her from recovering. Or maybe they're trying to kill us all... Or... " She shook her head, then raised a hand to her temple rubbing at it. "Or maybe it's just another computer problem," she admitted wearily. "I don't know. I... I'm sorry," she finally said. "I shouldn't have come here. I just didn't know who else I could talk to, who else I could trust," she said softly, shaking her head.

For a moment, Picard studied the woman - then reached out for her arm, guiding her toward the couch, gently pushing her into its depths before returning to the replicator.

"Here," he said a few seconds later, pushing a second cup and saucer filled with steaming tea into her hands, then settled himself into the opposite end of the sofa, watching as she took a sip of the strong brew - then gave a long sigh.

"Better?" he asked softly.

She nodded - then opened her eyes and looked at him, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

Which needed color, he thought to himself; she looked awful, her complexion grey, her eyes dark with exhaustion... She looks, he decided, like I feel.

No surprise there, he added; her day had been as long as his... longer, he amended, realizing he had gone to bed almost an hour ago - while she was obviously still working.

At what, however, he had no idea.

"You think someone is trying to kill the lieutenant?" he repeated.

Beverly hesitated - then shook her head. "No. Maybe. Damn it, Jean-Luc, I don't know," she admitted.

"All right," he said calmly, "then let's start with what you _do_ know. And that is...?" he prompted.

"At Jemat's suggestion, we extracted several milliliters of fluid from Andile's ventricle this afternoon. She has not been recuperating as we hoped..."

Picard nodded sympathetically. "I know; I've read your reports..."

"And we agreed that the only possibility left to investigate was to examine the fluid from her brain to see if there was some indication as to why she's not recuperating. An imbalance in the neurotransmitters, perhaps an infection, receptor site blockage... There were dozens of possibilities that could have explained it," she said. "The one I never anticipated however, was the one I found."

"And that was...?"

"I spent the last eight hours studying the fluid from Andile's brain, Jean-Luc. The balance is correct, the chemical composition is correct..."

"But...?" he prompted.

"The conformations are wrong," she said quietly.

He raised a brow at the revelations - then gave a vague nod. "Indeed," he murmured. "The conformations."

It took her a moment to realize the significance of the information was

not as self evident to him as it was to her.

"All drugs," she explained quietly, "rely on two components to function in the body: chemical composition - and conformation. Structure. Not only must the drug contain the correct atoms in the correct quantities and correct organizational arrangement - but they must be shaped correctly as well. Shaped correctly, the drug works. Reverse the shape - make a mirror image of the drug..." She shook her head. "...and the drug doesn't work. Worse, the results can be devastating - or fatal.

"Chemically, the neurotransmitters that we've given Andile are perfect - but the organizational structure within the molecules themselves are mirror images of what they are supposed to be - and as such, they simply don't work."

"But... I saw the effect during surgery! They were working..." he protested gently.

"Yes, they were," she said, emphasizing the last word slightly.

"But something has happened to change that," he murmured understanding registering.

She nodded.

He sipped his tea, thinking, then looked at her. "You said that her brain deconstructs the neurotransmitters, then reforms them," he reminded her.

"All human brains do that," she confirmed.

"Then couldn't this simply be a matter of her brain breaking down the transmitters you gave her and reforming them?" he asked.

"It could - but we would have seen the left-handed conformations in her CSF the first time we extracted a sample," she countered.

"But you said she'd experienced brain damage," he countered. "Couldn't that have caused her brain to..."

He stopped in mid-sentence as Beverly shook her head. "The process of catabolism and reconstruction is genetic in nature, Jean-Luc; to see this sort of change from within her body, she would have had to have had her entire genetic structure altered at the cellular level. I don't know that it could be done on this level - not without killing her - and certainly not since she's been returned to the ship. No, I think we have to face one of two possibilities - neither of which is good.

"One: there is still a problem with the replicator system..."

Picard shook his head. "Geordi and Data have checked the system thoroughly," he reminded her.

"They checked it after the discovery of the sabotage," she corrected. "Not since - and since we know the neurotransmitters we gave Biji were functioning correctly in those first few days, we know the replicators were also functioning correctly... then. But now?"

Picard gave her a hard look. "Sabotage? You think we may have had another event in the interim?" he asked worriedly.

"That's one possibility," Beverly said.

"Meaning we may still have a saboteur aboard," he concluded grimly.

"Possibly - but what are the chances that a saboteur would allow the same type of replicator error to announce his - or her presence - twice?" she asked him.

"Unlikely," he concurred after a moment's thought. "Sandra James may have made that mistake the first time - but if there is a second saboteur aboard, he or she would have known better than to repeat the error. Of course, if it was only affecting the pharmacological replicator in Sickbay, the saboteur might not have known..."

Beverly frowned. "Jean-Luc, the Sickbay replicators are the most accurate, most carefully protected replicators on the ship; there are more safeties, more internal double and triple checks on that piece of equipment than on any other on the ship - and for good reason: one error, one misaligned component in a medical device, one atom missing - or one too many..."

"One incorrect conformation," he said, understanding at last.

"... and my patients could die - or worse."

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Then you think the neurotransmitter wasn't malformed by accident," he said.

"The odds are almost inconceivable. No; it was done deliberately, not to sabotage the ship or the crew - but specifically to hurt - or maybe even kill, Biji," she replied. "Someone intentionally programmed the replicator to reverse the conformation on some - but not all of Andile's neurotransmitters. Enough to harm her - but not enough to be self-evident. The problem is that I don't know who - or why," she conceded.

"The why can be inferred," he countered. "There are more than a few people who would prefer that the lieutenant - and what she knows, what she's experienced - never see the light of day. Permanent incapacitation might be preferable to her dying, since it could be explained away by her injuries - whereas her death would require an autopsy - but either might suffice, as long as, in the end, what she knows remains locked in her mind. As for the who, however..." His voice trailed off.

Beverly nodded grimly. "I know. She's been in Sickbay for weeks - and there have been dozens - maybe even a hundred or more - people in and out of there. Any one of them could have made the alteration to the program..."

"But wouldn't they have needed the specialized knowledge of what to do, what changes to make in the neurotransmitters?" Picard countered.

"You mean, wouldn't it have had to be one of my medical team?" she asked.

He hesitated, reluctant to confirm her worst fear - then nodded. "Yes."

"I hate to think it was one of them, Jean-Luc," she replied miserably. "I hate to think that there's one of them who I can't trust - but, yes, it's possible. Probable, even - but it's not absolute. With the computer's security systems damaged, almost anyone could have had access to Andile's medical records; it wouldn't take a genius to figure out what we've been trying to do for her - and how to affect that regimen. Someone - an engineer, for example, could have made the changes in the replicator program - God knows there were enough engineers coming in and out of Sickbay when Geordi was constructing her room to have made the change without us noticing it - and my medical staff would be administering the affected transmitter to Andile without ever knowing we were doing it.

"Unfortunately, the replicator records are tied in to the same areas of the computer that records other information; I have no record of who made the change in the program - or when," she conceded. "All I know is that they had to have done it at the Sickbay terminal - but as I said, that could be almost anyone who has passed through in the last few weeks."

"So it could be anyone," Picard agreed quietly.

She nodded. "Anyone," she echoed - then bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "One of my team, one of my friends... Jean-Luc, I don't know who I can trust anymore," she said.

Picard studied her for a moment - the reached for the tea cup, taking it away, setting it on the low coffee table - then taking her hands in his.

He ran his thumb over the soft flesh of her hand for a moment, savoring the familiar touch - then stopped and met her eyes. "Thank you, then, for trusting me, Beverly," he said softly.

She looked back - then turned her eyes down to where their hands were joined - and gently withdrew from his touch before looking up once again. "You're the ship's captain," she reminded him - not coldly, but distantly. "If we can't trust in you, then we're all dead," she said.

He froze at her words - then forced himself to nod in agreement. "Yes. Of course," he replied - then rose from the couch. "As her physician, how do you suggest we address the lieutenant's medical needs from this point forward? Can she recover from what has been done to her?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know that she can recover at all, let alone what the effects of the infusions of altered transmitters will be. If they've simply blocked the function of the other transmitters, then, in theory, her condition should reverse, and she should - in time - begin to recover once again. If they've damaged her brain further however..." Her voice trailed off.

"What I do know," she continued a moment later, "is that it won't continue. I've already deleted the incorrect neurotransmitters and blocked their re-introduction to the system; if anyone attempts to alter any of the other neurotransmitters, I'll know about it," she replied, her voice growing firm as her emotions faded. "It won't stop someone from trying the same thing with other drugs, however - which means that only I can be responsible for ordering the drugs Andile is to receive - and even then, I'm going to have to test them for purity and potency."

"I understand," he agreed. "However, you can't be responsible for watching over her around the clock, Doctor," he reminded her.

"I know," she agreed, having already considered that possibility - and dismissed it as impractical - and dangerous, both to Andile's safety and to her own health.

"Then we're going to have to trust in someone else," he continued - then sighed. "And while Data would be the optimum candidate, I cannot afford to have him away from his duties indefinitely," he informed her.

"I know," she agreed. "and I wouldn't want him - or anyone - there constantly. Working with someone who is so ill, so unresponsive to all our efforts as Andile is, is emotionally debilitating. It takes its toll on those of us who are prepared for it. For Data, for anyone whose emotions are still so new, so undeveloped, such prolonged contact could be unhealthy, perhaps even dangerous.

"No, I was going to suggest limiting Data - and myself - to one shift per day, each."

"And the third shift, Doctor?" Picard pressed,

"I was going to suggest... Worf," she said quietly.

Picard raised a brow in surprise. "Worf?" he echoed - then considered the suggestion. "I'll agree he can be trusted, but..." he mused.

"Trust has nothing to do with it, Jean-Luc."

"No?" he replied, surprised again. "Then what?"

"Honor," Beverly replied. "Worf dishonored Andile. He insulted her, disparaged her, publicly damaged her credibility - and he was wrong," she added, her voice so cool, so bitter, that, for a moment, Picard was unsure if she was talking about the Klingon - or about someone else who had dishonored - unjustly - a loyal crewman.

For a moment, there was a heavy silence between the two - then Beverly spoke again.

"Now his honor demands that he do something to correct his offense - and putting him on guard duty over her would go a long way toward doing so," she explained. "He would die before allowing her to come to harm - and it would keep her safe," she added, almost as an afterthought.

Picard studied her for a long moment - then nodded. "Make it so, Doctor," he agreed, then rose to his feet, tightening the belt to his robe, and moving toward the door. "You will, of course, keep me informed of the lieutenant's status?"

Taking the less than subtle hint, Beverly rose as well, following him. "Of course, Captain. You'll speak with Worf?"

"In the morning," he agreed.

"Fine, I'll stay with Andile for the time being - until we can get a schedule arranged," she added.

"Good," he said - then touched the actuator pad on the door frame.

The door slid open, and Beverly looked out at the hall - then turned back to Picard, her eyes seeking his - and finding them.

For a moment, they both hesitated, searching for something in the other's expression, seeking out...

What? Beverly asked herself.

Hope, she answered herself - then turned away, knowing hope was a thing of her past.

Still, she hesitated before she stepped through the door, looking back at him one more time. "Thank you... Captain," she said softly.

"You're welcome... Doctor," he replied, then watched the door slide shut as she entered the hallway.

He watched the door for a few minutes, just he had done once before, when she had walked out of his life that night a few years before - then he too, turned away.


	154. Chapter 154

**Chapter 154**

"Oh, yes; _that's_ going to fly," Will muttered sarcastically as he looked up into the eyes of the woman straddling his hips, noting the look of satisfaction on her face, knowing that he had been responsible for part of that expression - but only part of it. The remainder of that gleam of self-satisfied triumph had been caused by her own determined proclamation.

A proclamation about which he was not nearly as confident. "I'm sure they're both going to agree to stand up for us at the wedding," he agreed, then added, "right up until they learn the other one is going to be there. Deanna," he went on as gently as he could, "we can't even get them on the same deck, let alone in the same room - it's been how many months since Beverly's come to a staff meeting? - and you're expecting them to stand next together at the ceremony - then share a table at the reception?" he asked his fiancée incredulously.

"It's only been two weeks since the last time she was at the meeting," she objected, deigning not to mention that she had attended only because Alyssa had been ill on that one morning, forcing Beverly's presence at the assemblage. "And yes, I do expect them to agree to be there - and to stand together throughout the ceremony on Earth - and then I expect them to stand at the second ceremony on Betazed," Deanna replied. "And they're going to do it," she added firmly.

He gave her a dubious look. "Yes. Of course they are," he murmured doubtfully.

"No," she countered, "they'll do it - and not because they know I'd badger them into it if they even thought about declining - but for all the right reasons."

She stopped, then looked down at him, smiling, then reached down, caressing the face that looked up at her from their bed, and feeling her love for the man surge once again.

How can I not love him? she wondered as she ran her long fingers against the angle of his jaw. After all, what other man would surprise her with a picnic lunch in the middle of the work day - a picnic lunch filled with all her favorite treats - then set about sating all her other appetites as well?

Well, perhaps not sating them completely, she admitted, feeling a new wave of hunger beginning to fill her as she ran her hands over his chest - but it was a damned good effort, she added to herself. Certainly enough to tide her over until their shift was over, she thought, and they could make love again - and again, she added, happily looking forward to her future with the man.

A future that was going to start in the presence of her friends - and in the presence of their joy, she added.

"Will," she continued softly, "whatever problems they have between them, whatever they feel - or don't feel - for one another, the captain and Beverly both love us both - and no matter what's happening in their hearts and minds, they can - and they will - put aside their problems for a few hours - or a few days - so they can share the beginning of our new life together with us," she told him. "Unless, of course, you'd rather run off to Risa and elope as soon as we get back," she added, grinning mischievously.

"Mmmm, Risa," he murmured, letting his imagination play for a moment, remembering the days and nights of pleasure he had found on that idyllic world - then, looking up at Deanna, imagining how much more incredible those same pleasures would be with her, with his wife at his side.

Or on top of him, he added.

Or beneath me.

Or all of the above, he decided - then decided that there was no need to wait for Risa.

He let his hands trail down her body, caressing her from shoulder to breast to hip, exploring each curve as if it were the first time his fingers had touched that exquisite flesh, then letting his hands drift to her back, his fingers spreading to encompass the round globes of her buttocks, squeezing them gently, then gently pulling her hips close to his once again.

"Eloping on Risa would be fun," he admitted, "but then again," he continued with a hungry, raspy growl, "we could just skip the wedding and go straight to the honeymoon."

Deanna gave a soft groan of her own as she responded to his touch, slowly moving her hips against his. "Keep this up, Will, and you're not going to survive until the honeymoon," she told him.

"Making up for lost time, beloved, for all those years when I was willing to settle for friendship - when we could have had so much more."

Despite the waves of pleasure washing over her, she forced herself to remain cogent as their bodies began to move in unison. "No," she replied. "You weren't ready then - and I was too ready. We had to have time to discover who we were as individuals before we could become the people we are - as a couple. I don't regret the time it took... but I don't regret you wanting to make up for lost time either," she added with a smile - then drew in a sharp breath as a new wave of pleasure crested over her.

"My imzadi," he murmured. "My insatiable imzadi," he added, reaching up, his hands caressing her breasts, smiling as she gave a soft gasp of delight at the touch.

"I'm... not ... insatiable..." she managed. "You are. Twice... this morning. And twice... at ... lunch? Ohh!" she cried out, throwing her head back in a spasm of exquisite torment.

Not insatiable," he countered. "Inspired. Only you, imzadi, can do this to me." he told her, feeling his excitation growing with every her motion and her every cry.

"And only... you... can do this... to me," she gasped back. "Oh, god, Will..." she cried out, feeling her desire mounting, merging with his, building, becoming unbearable, overwhelming, undeniable.

He felt it as well, and grabbing her shoulders, pulled her to him, rolling her underneath him without breaking the rhythm their bodies had found. "Imzadi," he whispered - then called it out again and again, even as she did, their voices, their bodies, their needs merging until they became one - and until they could bear no more, and need and pleasure overwhelmed them both.

"Inspired," she repeated sometime later, he head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles in the hair she found there. "I like that," she said softly. "I think that when you _finally_ get back to the bridge that's what you should tell Data. 'I'm sorry I was late coming back from my break, Commander, but I was inspired at lunch'," she teased.

He grimaced. "Knowing Data, he'll want detailed information on what inspired me. No, I think I'll just tell him the truth."

Deanna raised her head, looking at her lover in horror. "Will, you wouldn't..."

"I can't lie to a fellow officer, Deanna," he countered. So when he asks, I'll just tell him..."

"Will..." she started warningly.

"That my lunch was so delicious that I decided to have seconds."

Deanna stared at her lover for a moment - then shook his head. "Incorrigible. Insatiable and incorrigible."

"But honest," he protested, lifting his head to plant a kiss on the top of her head - then lowering it to meet her lips as she moved toward him. "You are delicious," he added, letting his hands caress every delicious curve and indentation on her body - then gave a soft, disappointed groan and pulled away.

"But I do have to be getting to the bridge," he reminded her, gently easing his way off her body, hearing - and loving - her soft cry of discomfort and disappointment as their bodies separated.

"And you'll ask the captain?" she said, extending her hand to him, letting him help her up to a sit beside her on the bed.

"If he'll be the best man?" Will said. "I'll ask him. But he still might say 'no', you know," he added. "It's one thing to agree to stand next to Beverly on Earth; it's something else to ask him to stand next to her on Betazed - when they'll both be stark staring naked," he reminded her.

"We'll all be naked, Will," she countered. "That's the point - that when you come to a Betazed wedding ceremony, you bring nothing except yourself - your heart, your soul, the very essence of who you are - but none of the pretense, the illusions, the masks we hide behind. I don't want the captain there, will; I want our friend, Jean-Luc Picard - the man himself."

"I understand, imzadi," he agreed softly. "But what we want - who we want - may be beyond his capacity to grant us. You more than almost anyone else know what a private man he is - and more to the point, you know how much that uniform is a part of who he is. To go without it - even for us, for our wedding..." He shook his head. "I don't know, Deanna," he admitted - then smiled. "Of course, we could just have the one ceremony - on Earth. That would eliminate the whole nudity issue..."

"And create another, far larger - and far more dangerous one," she countered. "Mother would never forgive either one of us if she couldn't throw a 'proper' wedding celebration for daughter, her new son-in-law - and several hundred of her closest friends," she reminded him.

"Hmmm..." Will mused. "Starting a marriage with your mother as an enemy doesn't strike me as the smartest tactical maneuver in the book," he agreed.

"It isn't - but it is why I want to get married on Earth first - so we can have a real wedding, one where we can celebrate with our friends and our family - and without the requisite ceremony and posturing that mother will insist upon," Deanna agreed.

"You just said that going naked to the wedding was intended to prevent such posturing," he objected.

"Will, my mother will be wearing airs and carrying on pretenses even after she's dead; she'd never let a little thing like being naked stop her from being a Daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed - and all the other titles she has," she reminded her lover.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way," he replied, smiling. "Lwaxanna is a force of nature - and one with who I prefer not to contend. Not, at least, when your happiness is at stake," he added.

She gaped at him, taken aback by the words. "Will..."

"I love you, imzadi," he whispered, reaching for her, pulling her close. "If making your mother happy makes you happy, then so be it."

"And being married in the traditional Betazoid way _will_ make her happy," she reminded him

"Then we'll get married there - and on Earth - and," he conceded, "I'll do what I can to talk the captain into participating," he continued, turning away from her, reaching for his uniform.

But there was a hesitation in his voice, a reluctance in his words that bothered her.

"Will?" she said softly. "What is it? What's troubling you? You do want to get married - don't you?" she added worriedly.

"Well," he conceded slowly, "I was thinking..." He hesitated, then turned to her, his expression serious. "It's just, well... if you can get the milk for free, why buy the..."

She gaped at him, appalled - then watched as his face split into a grin.

"Will Riker! You... You..." she started - then suddenly slapped him on the chest.

He grinned, kissed the top of her head - then placed a hand under her chin, tilting her head back so he could look at her - but his expression held little of the joy that he had possessed a moment before.

"I love you, Deanna, and I do want to marry you, and I do want to tell everyone, Deanna - but I just think that this isn't the right time," he admitted. "Biji's accident..." His voice trailed off.

"It's been nine weeks since the accident, Will," she replied, her voice quieter, her expression now equally serious. "I love Andile - but life goes on. Or it should - and I think she'd agree that we all need to go ahead with our lives. There's been enough sorrow, enough grief to last us all a lifetime - and yet everyone on board is still walking on eggshells, worrying about her - fixating on her. It's not healthy. I think it's time we remember there's more to life than that sorrow. And a wedding - or at least an engagement - might be the way to resume that joy," she said.

He drew a long breath - then nodded. "You might be right," he agreed. "God knows we've all been moving around like the living dead for the last two months, waiting, wondering... But I would like to discuss it with the captain first, Deanna, get his approval on it - before we make a formal announcement."

"All right," she agreed. "But I'm still going to ask Beverly," she reminded him.

"Just ask her not to go public with it until the captain has a chance to make a decision," he requested.

"Not to worry, Will," she replied. "I'll be the soul of discretion," she said, reaching down to retrieve her own uniform from the floor.

"Great," he countered sarcastically. "Now it'll be all over the ship before I even get back to the bridge."

He ducked - but not before the uniform caught him square in the middle of his chest.

Will drew a deep breath, worry niggling at the back of his mind.

Despite his second dalliance with Deanna - a fact that both surprised and delighted him - he was only a few minutes late returning from his meal break - an event, he insisted, that should, by all rights, pass unnoticed - or at least unnoted.

After all, how many times in his entire career had his breaks exceeded the typical sixty minutes? he insisted to himself. Almost none, he replied wordlessly. For that matter, he added defensively, how many meal breaks had he missed entirely in his tenure as first officer on the ship? More than a few, he argued. Even when the ship had been docked at Utopia Planitia for months, he had been on the bridge throughout his duty shift, with rarely more than a token break at any time in his shift!

And even if he was running a little behind his time, it wasn't as though he had been less than circumspect in remaining available should he be needed; his communicator was still active, still attached to his uniform; the computer could have found him and notified him of there had been any need for him to return to the bridge.

And it was highly unlikely that he would need to hurry back, he added. Despite having a Breen ship less than a hundred kilometers from the Enterprise - and despite the fact that two of the more violent enemies of the Federation had representatives aboard the ship - the last few weeks had been remarkably uneventful.

No, there was no reason he couldn't justify being a few minutes late returning to the bridge.

His defense prepared, he rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension that had been building in them during the brief trip from his quarters to the bridge, then, feeling the lift slow slightly, grabbed the lower edge of his tunic, adjusting it in his variation of the classic "Picard maneuver", drew a deep breath, and strode onto the bridge just as the doors opened, ready to argue his case.

No one noticed.

Or rather, everyone noticed - the bridge crew always noticed when a command officer entered or left the bridge - but no one seemed to note the fact that his absence was fractionally longer than usual.

Chagrined at his own self-absorption, he made a mental note not to pre-judge his fellow crewmembers in the future - and, he added, not to make a habit of abusing the privileges of office - even, he added, for Deanna.

Well, maybe on occasion for her, he amended, smiling.

"Anything happening, Data?" he asked as he made his way to the center seat, the android automatically rising to relinquish the post to Riker.

"Cmdr. LaForge reports that he has supervised the final steps in the re-installation and reintegration of the original warp engines," Data replied. "He has initiated a full diagnostic on the system, and if the results meet performance requirements, he would like to begin start-up protocols. We should, at the conclusion of our discussion with the Breen, be able to return to Earth with full warp capability."

"How long for the diagnostic?" Will asked.

"Geordi estimates eighty-four hours, thirteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds for a level four diagnostic," Data replied.

Will grinned. "Geordi does?" he asked, knowing the announcement of exact time expectations was more characteristic of the android than the Chief Engineer.

Data gave a short nod. "He does," he countered, then managed a false smile. "I believe Geordi's utilization of the exact time expectation, while accurate, was intended as an act of levity, Commander. He was... 'yanking my chain'," he added.

Will smiled, understanding Geordi's attempt to lighten his friends worries - and appreciating Data's attempts to accept that help - even though nothing, short of Andile's recovery, would every fully remove that concern from the android's mind.

There were drawbacks to never being able to forget anything, he thought; no matter how busy the ship could be, there would always be sufficient room in the android's mind to be aware - so terribly aware - of his injured friend.

"How is she today?" he asked gently.

"I believe she is better than yesterday, but not as well as she will be tomorrow," Data answered by rote, then added, "it has been twenty-eight hours since her last seizure," he informed the first officer.

"That's a good sign - isn't it?" Will replied.

Data hesitated. "Possibly. It may signal that the connections within the corpus collosum have completed their reintegration."

"Meaning her brain is regaining function," Will said, his hope unmistakable.

"Indeed," Data agreed. "It could also mean that those same connections have completed their dissolution, Commander; that her brain is in the final stages of failure and that her death is imminent," he added dispassionately.

Horrified, Will began, "Look, Data, if you'd rather go be with her..."

But the android simply shook his head. "No, sir. I would prefer not to... obsess about the possible negative outcomes. Instead, I will continue focus on the more positive potentialities: to perform my duties - as Andile would require, and to attend to her needs during the third shift."

Will nodded. Perhaps Deanna was right; perhaps it was time for them to move on with their lives. Not to abandon Andile of course, he added hastily - but if Data could finally separate himself, even in part, from her side, perhaps it was a sign that the rest of them could move ahead as well.

Smiling, he teased his friend, "And the second shift? What do you do then?" he asked, hoping his light-heartedness might help the android.

It didn't, he knew instantly, seeing the serious expression in the android's eyes.

Serious, yes - but with a hint of something else, something... hopeful.

"I have... faith," he said softly, "that Andile will recover - but for her, mere survival is not enough. For her, the fact of mere physical recovery will be insufficient to compensate for the losses she has experienced. She will not be able to do what she once did - and for her, that is tantamount to a living death," he said grimly.

"Data," Will interjected gently, "people do learn to live with their disabilities..."

"Andile is not 'people'," Data interrupted roughly. "She is... Andile. Her life, her existence is part and parcel of her work; if she cannot do the work she loves, then she will die - not physically, but spiritually. I cannot permit that. I will not permit that."

"You're trying to give her a reason to live?" Will asked.

"No, sir; I am trying to give her back her life, as it was," the android said firmly.

Will sighed, then shook his head slowly. "That may not be possible, Data."

"Yes, sir, it is," Data objected. "That I have not yet found the way to do so does not mean that I will not, only that it may take time. Fortunately, I have time; every day she survives gives me one more day to find a solution."

Will studied the man for a long time.

And I thought I loved Deanna, he finally realized. And I do - but it's nothing compared to what Data feels for Biji.

"You know, Data, I have no doubts you're going to do just that," he said at last, then glanced at the center seat.

And speaking of accomplishing missions, he reminded himself...

"Data, I need to attend to a personal errand; would you mind taking the con for a few more minutes?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Thanks," Will replied. Now, to find the captain, he thought to himself, knowing the man's schedule well enough to know that he would be on a meal break of his own between either negotiations with the Breen or negotiations with the Cardassians and the Romulans - but where he would be spending that break, he had no idea.

Probably buried in the ship's library, ferreting out some obscure article of law or detail of political protocol or cultural standard that would better allow him to argue his position - and win a concession at the negotiations table.

No wonder he had no time to resolve his issues with Beverly, Will decided - or do much of anything else, he added, trying to remember the last time the captain had occupied the center seat.

Weeks, he thought - and realized that once again, he had become the acting captain of the ship - a position, he realized, that he was enjoying.

I want this, he thought, surprised at the realization; I really want this. This ship, yes - but more importantly, this position - and most importantly, in Starfleet.

He drew a breath, a sensation of relief and satisfaction washing over him. This is what I want - and the next time and offer came along - if, he reminded himself firmly, an offer came along, I'm taking it.

"Commander?"

Data's voice interrupted the man's flash of self-realization.

Startled, Will looked at the android, wondering if he looked as at peace with the world as he felt - or if he was merely grinning inanely.

"Yes, Data?" he replied.

"Your errand, sir?" he reminded the first officer.

"Ah, yes," Will countered. "I needed to speak with the captain. You wouldn't know where he is, would you?"

"Yes, sir," Data replied easily. "He is in his ready room. Negotiations with the Tar Zumell and Ambassador Tiron terminated early today, and he returned to the bridge just after you left," he informed Will.

For a moment, the first officer stared at the android, every ounce of elation and self-satisfaction suddenly gone - then gave a rueful grin and shook his head.

"Oh, well," Will muttered to himself. "Some days, you eat the bear; some days, the bear eats you."

Data stared at the human, confused. "You wish to eat a bear?" he asked.

Will grinned. "Just a phrase, Data. It means that sometimes you win, sometimes you lose."

"And you have lost something?"

"Only a little over-confidence. This should only take a few minutes," he added, glancing at the ready room door.

"Of course, sir," Data said, then turned back to the seat at the center of the bridge.

Will watched him for a moment - then strode to the ready room door, tugged down on the front of his tunic in unconscious mimicry of the captain, and touched the annunciator panel.

"Come!"

The double doors slid apart, revealing the office within - and the captain, seated at his desk, clearly absorbed by the work spread across his desk.

For a moment, Will was tempted to beg off, to make his apologies and offer to return later - but while the captain might be slightly put out by the interruption, Deanna would be merciless.

Not angry, not vengeful, not even upset - but she would tease him mercilessly, reminding him, whenever she had the opportunity or the needs, of what he had done - or rather, what he had not.

The former he could survive; the latter... Well, he could survive her teasing; he just wouldn't want to, he knew.

Will drew a deep breath - then stepped into the room.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Captain," he began.

To his surprise, Picard looked up from his work - and smiled. "No need to apologize, Number One. I'm gratefully for a break." He raised his brows the let out a long soft sigh, looking over the padds spread across his desk. "Addressing the negotiations with Tiron and Tar Zumell is challenging enough; add to that trying to initiate a functioning relationship with the Breen..." He gave another sigh.

"I understand," Will replied.

Picard nodded, studying the desk again - then looked up, as if realizing for the first time that his first officer was standing before him.

"I'm sorry, Will; just a little distracted. What was it you wanted?" he added.

"Nothing important..." Will demurred - then hesitated. "Sir, are you certain you're all right?" he asked. "You're looking a little... tired."

"I am," Picard agreed. "To be honest, I haven't been feeling well the last few days," he admitted.

"Then it's a good thing that the negotiations ended early," Will countered cheerfully.

Picard frowned. "Truth be told, Will, I'm the one who called an end to today's talks."

Startled - and worried - Will looked at Picard, concern narrowing his eyes. "If you're not feeling well, Captain, maybe you should go to Sickbay, sir..." he began - only to be stopped by Picard's upraised hand.

"It's just a headache," he insisted - just as he had insisted to himself for the last three days.

A headache - and a touch of nausea, he conceded to himself.

Perhaps more than a touch, he added, feeling his stomach knot - and a strange tightness growing in his chest.

Too many meetings, he insisted; too many padds, too much work. If I'm going to proclaim an early break from today's meeting, I should do just that - take a break.

He drew a deep breath, felt the nausea and headache recede slightly - then smiled up at his frowning first officer.

"You know, sir, the bones in your back and your neck have never been properly set since all this started..." Will began.

"Dr. Ogawa is certain that the reparative surgery can wait until we return to Earth, Will," Picard said firmly.

"Yes, sir," Will replied.

For a moment, an awkward silence fell between the two men - then Picard reminded his first officer, "Was there something you wanted, Number One?"

"Oh!" Will replied, startled. "Yes. Ummm... Actually, sir, I wanted to ask a favor," he said.

Picard's brow rose in surprise. "A favor?" he said, smiling. "After... what? Fifteen years? I think I can accommodate one favor, Will," he said.

"You might want to hear it before you agree, sir," Will demurred.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir," Will replied.

Picard waited for a moment - but when Will failed to press the issue, he did - though the growing nausea was starting to tinge his good mood with a hint of frustration. "In that case, what is the favor?" he said, a little testily.

"Ummm..." He hesitated again.

"Will, just ask," Picard ordered.

"Yes, sir. Umm... I was hoping... That is, _we_ were hoping... Deanna and I, that is... " he clarified uncomfortably - then coughed and cleared his throat. "Ummm... " he started again - then blew out a long sigh, knowing he could delay no longer.

"Sir, Deanna and I would like you to be the best man at our wedding," he said at long last.

Picard stared at the man for a long time, his face a mask of non-responsiveness, of carefully practiced neutrality - then spoke.

"Your wedding."

"Yes, sir."

"Yours and Deanna's," he repeated.

"Yes, sir."

For another long moment, the captain did nothing other than to stare at the tall man - then grinned widely.

"It's about damned time," he said - then rose to his feet, came around his desk, his hand outstretched to the first officer. "Congratulations, Will!" he said in delighted happiness, shaking the man's hand firmly, happily, proudly - then reached out his other hand, thumping him soundly on the shoulder. "I was beginning to wonder when you were going to get around to asking her..."

"Actually, she asked me," Will countered. "Betazoid tradition - the women propose." He gave a shaky laugh, the reality of the engagement suddenly becoming real - and, for the first time, terrifying.

My God, he thought; I'm getting married!

"I assume that means you'll be 'Mr. Troi'?" Picard grinned back.

Will froze - then met Picard's eyes. "I hadn't thought about it - but that _is_ the Betazoid tradition," he replied.

"Fortunately, Deanna isn't tradition bound," Picard reminded him. "I'm sure she won't object if you keep your... maiden name," he teased the man gently.

"Deanna won't object - but her mother might," Will said.

Picard's eyes widened at the sudden realization of just who Will's new mother-in-law was going to be - and let out a long exhalation. "Lwaxanna," he murmured - then gave the first officer an appraising look. "Remember, Will, you don't just marry your bride; you marry her family as well. Are you still sure you want to do this?" he asked.

For moment, Will hesitated - then replied, "I love her. I have for a long time. And I can't imagine spending the rest of my life with her - even if that means spending it with Lwaxanna as well. After all, the vows do say, 'for better, for worse'," he reminded Picard.

"So they do, Will; so they do. And I'd be honored to be there, hearing you say them," he added.

The acceptance caught Will unaware - and it took a moment for the words and their meaning to register.

"Thank you, Captain - but before you accept, you need to know something... two things actually. One, there will be two ceremonies - the first on Earth, then a second on Betazed," he began.

Picard's eyes raised slightly. "On Betazed," he echoed.

"Yes, sir," Will said.

"Indeed," Picard murmured to himself - then looked at Will. "A 'traditional' Betazed wedding?" he pressed. "With no clothes?"

Will nodded. "Yes, sir. No clothes. The wedding party and all the guests will be stark naked," he added, wanting to make sure there was absolutely no confusion on the point. That it would also force Picard to decline was another matter - but he would not have his captain- his friend! - accept the honor without knowing full well what he was agreeing to do.

For a moment, the senior officer was silent, obviously formulating a way to excuse himself from the commitment he had just made - but to his surprise, Will saw the man give a single nod of his head. "I accept," he said quietly. "I'd be honored to stand up for you and Deanna," he said solemnly.

Will grimaced.

"Ummm... about that, Captain..."

Surprised by the returning reluctance, Picard looked at Will - then nodded. "Deanna is asking Beverly to stand up for her - yes?"

"Yes," Will replied quietly - and was startled by the soft smile on the captain's lips.

"A fine choice, Will. Beverly has been a good friend to Deanna - to all of us," he said softly - then met Will's worried gaze. "Don't worry, Will. We're adults; we can behave ourselves, for a day - or two days - or however long it takes for all the ceremonies, rehearsals, parties..." He hesitated, thinking - then grinned. "I believe, Will, that traditionally, the best man is supposed to host the bachelor party..." he began.

"Traditionally, yes - but I thought that perhaps you would prefer to defer that responsibility to Worf..." Will started - only to see a mischievous grin on Picard's face.

"Oh, no, Number One," he insisted. "I've waited fourteen years to repay you for that little episode on Risa - and once you get married, I'm not going to have the opportunity. No, no; I'll handle the arrangements for the bachelor party," he added with a wicked grin.

Will swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

"And speaking of parties - have you two set a date yet?"

Will shook his head. "Not yet; once this mission's over and we're back on Earth, we'll start making plans - but in the meantime, we would like to announce our engagement to the crew," he added.

Picard nodded - then noted the hesitation in the man's demeanor. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No, sir - but I wanted to make sure that you didn't consider the announcement ... well, ill-timed," he said.

"Ill-timed? How so?"

"In light of Andile's injuries..." Will began to explain.

"The lieutenant would be the first to celebrate your happiness, Will," Picard interrupted. "I think she... I think..."

He stopped, looked down for a second in surprise and confusion, then looked up again, his face suddenly grey. "I think," he gasped - then cried out in pain, clutching at his chest - and collapsed to the ground.


	155. Chapter 155

**Chapter 155**

"And how's my favorite doctor today?"

Beverly grinned up at the counselor perching on the entrance to her office - and shook her head.

"Assuming you mean me - and I assume you do - I'm fine," she replied.

"Busy?"

"Not at the moment," Beverly replied.

"So I'm not interrupting you?" the counselor added.

Beverly shook her head. "No, you're not interrupting me," she agreed - then sat back and waited.

Deanna wanted something, she knew, having been subjected to the empath's tangential approach on more than one occasion in the past - and often enough to know that the more digressive the approach, the more unusual the request.

And judging from the woman's behavior at her door, this was going to be a very unusual request indeed.

Which didn't mean, however, that she was going to spare Deanna one moment of discomfort; whatever it was that Deanna wanted, she was going to have to earn it.

Beverly drew a deep breath, relaxed into her chair - and waited.

"Good," Deanna said - then hesitated. "Can I come in?" she added, a little tentatively.

The CMO nodded - but said nothing, enjoying the situation.

Deanna nervously eased her way in, looked around the room - as though she had never been in the space before, rather than the dozens, even hundreds, of times she and Beverly had spent in the area - then faced Beverly again.

"How's Beej doing? Any more convulsions?" she asked.

"Technically, they were seizures - and she hasn't had one for a day and a half," Beverly said.

"That's good, isn't it?"

Beverly drew a long breath. "It could be," she said at last, though there was an obvious reluctance in her tone. "Terrifying as the seizures were to witness, they were a sign that her brain has making connections through her corpus collosum and she's continuing her recovery. The fact that they've stopped so quickly..." She shook her head. "I don't know, Deanna. It may indicate that area of healing is completed - but it could also indicate that it failed. I just don't know."

"Aren't there tests you can perform?" Deanna prompted, her genuine concern temporarily obscuring the real reason for appearance at Beverly's door.

"There are, but not until I've completed weaning her off the anti-seizure medication. I don't want to risk her having another seizure and damage the new vasculature in her arm and shoulder," she added. "Jemat did a brilliant job of surgery, not just in regenerating the epithelium of her hands and feet, but in recreating the destroyed blood vessels so we could reattach her arm. It'll be several weeks, however, before the healing is complete. One severe seizure now, and she could tear everything loose; she'd lose the arm for sure - and possibly hemorrhage to death before we could stop it.

"And to be blunt, if the profile reveals bad news... there's nothing I can do about it," she admitted softly. "And if it's good news - well, there's nothing I can do about that either," she conceded - then looked at her friend frankly. "You know, Deanna, I studied medicine for years - but the hardest lesson to learn is that sometimes there's nothing that education, practice and experience can do. Sometimes you just have to wait. Still, I've stopped the medication, but that's necessitated completely immobilizing her so she won't tear any of the new tissues - and so we can run the scan in a day or two."

"Not to mention putting a full regeneration unit on her arm and chest," Deanna reminded her, having already seen the massive piece of equipment perched over the tiny woman.

"You noticed," Beverly replied with a small smile.

"Noticed? The machine is as big as she is!"

The physician smiled. "Not quite - but it will help speed the development of the blood vessels in the chest and arm. The surgery to rebuild the tissue and reattach the arm was extensive - and the regen will speed her recovery. But... You're right - it's a big piece of equipment - and damned intimidating. For once, I'm glad she's unconscious. How would you like to wake up after nine weeks - and find that on your chest?" she asked the other woman.

Deanna looked back through the doorway, as though she could see into the apartment-like dwelling that was Andile's new home - then turned back. "I wouldn't like it - but I'm not Biji, Bev," she reminded the physician.

"No one is," Beverly agreed.

A shout reverberated from the adjacent room. "Doctor!"

Beverly drew a long breath. "I'll be right there," she called back - then raised a brow as she looked back at Deanna. "Worf," she said quietly.

"I recognized the bellow," Deanna replied with a smile.

"The drawback to tapering off the meds is that Biji's suffering from tremors to the extremities - and Worf, being her ever-vigilant protector," she said with a grin, "reports each and every one to me. Today, however, has been doubly trying; Tiron's in there with him - and between the two of them, they're convinced that every flicker of motion is definitive evidence that she's regaining consciousness."

"And is she?" Deanna asked.

"No," Beverly replied softly, shaking her head. "One day... maybe," she added quietly, then added, "or so I hope - if for no other reason than to get the two of them to give me an hour of peace."

Deanna smiled – but Beverly's levity, she knew, was tempered with reality - and the possibility that it would never come to be. They both turned, staring at the wall that bordered Andile's apartment, each lost in their own thoughts - then, as one, turned to look at each other.

"So... how was the picnic lunch?" Beverly said at last.

"Delicious," Deanna grinned, a lascivious glint in her eye.

Beverly raised a brow. "Hmmm," she murmured, deciding that that was why the Betazoid had come to her office - to share the details of her erotic meal. "I'll assume then that something, in addition to the blanket, got spread."

"Beverly!" Deanna gasped in feigned shock. "I'm surprised at you! A Starfleet officer doesn't kiss and tell!"

'I don't care about the kissing; I want the good stuff! Give, Deanna - and all the lurid details, if you please," Beverly demanded. "I may not have a sex life of my own, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy yours, even if it is only vicariously!"

"I'd like to, but..." Deanna demurred.

"Deanna!" Beverly protested, outraged that her would hold out on her.

"But I have a counseling session in ten minutes," the Betazoid finished. "How about we meet for hot fudge sundaes in Ten Forward after your shift ends? Will's going to visit with Biji for a while, so my evening is my own... even if my nights aren't," she added with a wicked grin.

"Make it tea," Beverly counter-proposed. "I haven't been to the gym in weeks - and it's becoming obvious," she said, glancing down - and sighing. "I might as well just surgically graft the fudge directly on to my hips..."

"Don't be silly! You look gorgeous, Bev. No, it's hot fudge sundaes, definitely," Deanna insisted - then added, "besides, we'll need them as sensory aids."

Beverly's eyes widened. "Fudge?" she murmured, impressed.

Deanna nodded. "And whipped cream. And when you hear about where he put the cherries - and how he got them out again..."

"Stop," Beverly said, raising a hand. "I don't want to hear any more - at least, not until I can enjoy every salacious detail," she added. "I'll meet you in Ten Forward at... eighteen thirty?"

Deanna nodded.

"That's settled. Now, Ms. Counselor, why did you want to see me, if not to share the details of your sex life?" she said.

"Actually, I came down to ask a favor," she said - then stopped suddenly as the smile - and all the color - faded from her face.

Ashen, she raised a hand to her head, reaching out with the other to steady herself against Beverly's desk. "Make that two favors," she amended weakly.

"Deanna? What's wrong?" Beverly said, hurriedly rising from her chair, sliding around her desk to grab her friend's arm and guide her into the chair.

"A headache," the telepath muttered - then gasped, clutching at her head. "Oh!"

Beverly watched her for a moment, then spun around, grabbing the ubiquitous scanner from her desk and began to wave it past Deanna's forehead.

"When did this start?" she asked worriedly.

"Just now," Deanna gasped. "It just came on... Oh, god!" she cried out, her face suddenly blanching, growing colorless as the pain surged through her again. "Beverly... I... I can't breathe!" she said, her voice beginning to rasp as she wheezed, struggling to draw air into her lungs, then clutched at her chest, crying out, "It hurts! It hurts!" - then began to topple forward.

Beverly caught the woman as she fell, easing her to the ground even as she shouted, "John! Aaron! Get in here!" she called to the two technicians on duty - then turned back to her friend, watching as panic began to fill the Betazoid's normally calm, dark eyes.

"Can't... breathe!" she gasped, terrified.

Beverly looked at the two techs. "Let's get her to a bed," she said, grabbing

"Doctor!" Worf bellowed again, his voice deeper and louder this time - and with a hint of his own panic tainting the timbre.

"John," Beverly said, "Go check on Biji; tell Worf I'll be there in a minute..."

"Beverly!" Deanna cried out.

"Aaron, start a scan on Counselor Troi..."

"Riker to Crusher!" her commbadge suddenly chirped. "Medical emergency, captain's ready room..."

The physician slapped at her badge. "Will, I've got an emergency down here..."

"Beverly, it's the captain," he interrupted, his voice tight, ominous. "He's collapsed."

She froze - but only for a nano-second, as her heart fought with her mind, her soul - and lost.

Her place was here, she knew. Whatever her heart said, she knew her place was here.

She slapped her badge again, "Crusher to Ogawa. Alyssa, medical emergency on the bridge. It's the captain," she added quietly.

There was a moment's hesitation as the physician digested the news - and the order - then replied, "On my way."

"Doctor..." the technician stationed beside Deanna called to her.

Pulled back to the present, Beverly turned to the technician. "What is it, Aaron?" she asked, her attention once again fully focused on her other patient.

"It's... nothing," he replied, staring at the monitor in confusion. "I'm serious. There's nothing wrong with her! Oh-two sats are fine, heart rate is slightly elevated - but enzyme levels show no sign cardiac damage... I thought it might be anaphylactic shock..." he continued.

A wash of horror swept over Beverly as she imagined the possibility - and the ramifications of the possibility came to her.

Deanna wasn't allergic to anything, she knew - or rather, to anything she knew of - but there were hundreds of agents that could have triggered such a reaction - and a saboteur, at least one who was capable of manipulating her pharmaceutical replicator, could have introduced such a contaminant into the main food replicators, despite all the precautions they had instituted.

Deanna, she thought, had been poisoned - and for all she knew, they all might have been!

Damn it! And damn me for not having thought of this possibility earlier, she railed at herself.

But if it was poison, she realized a moment later, her mind still racing, why only Deanna? Or rather, why only Deanna and Jean-Luc, she added. After all, most of the crew would have completed their meals breaks within the last two hours; if it was a contaminant, something intended to poison the entire crew, why did only two respond?

And why not Will? she wondered; after all, he had invariably eaten everything that Deanna had at their picnic; if it was a contaminant, why wasn't he calling her - along with a hundred others?

And is it was a contaminant intended to only affect a few, why those two? she thought - then decided that no contaminant could have been introduced so selectively.

As if in confirmation, she touched a control, instantly searching out the woman's histamine levels - and found them normal as well.

Damn it! she thought, staring in confusion and frustration at the woman gasping desperately as she stared at her friend, panic and terror in her eyes as she fought the pain, fought for breath, fought to control the tremors that were beginning to wrack her left arm, her legs...

She gaped at the shaking limbs - then spun to face the technician. "Get me one milligram isophenhexadyne."

The technician nodded, hurrying off, and Beverly tapped her commbadge.

"Alyssa, I want you to administer one milligram of isophenhexadyne, IV, to the captain," she ordered.

"Beverly, I'm not even on the bridge yet - let alone completed the exam," Alyssa began to protest.

"I know - but if it's what I suspect, the exam will be inconclusive," she told the physician.

"But isophenhexadyne is an..." Alyssa countered - then stopped, understanding at once. "Yes, Doctor," she replied, the cut the signal.

Relieved, Beverly nodded to herself, knowing the other physician understood - then leaned close to her friend. "You're going to be all right, Deanna," she reassured the empath - then took the hypospray from Aaron as the tech hurried back to her side.

Pressing it against the woman's carotid artery, she thumbed the control, felt the slight kickback of the cartridge as the drug forced its way under the skin - then watched as Deanna's symptoms faded away almost instantly.

The Betazoid gave a great gasping draw of breath - then stared at Beverly, confused. "Beverly?"

"You're going to be fine, Deanna - but I want you to stay here until I get back. Understood?" she added.

Bewildered - but relieved - Deanna nodded - then watched as Beverly hurried away, chasing after the sound of Worf's third bellowing cry - and cry that was instantly echoed by Tiron's equally deep call - and a third, slightly higher, but equally frantic cry from John, her technician.

She shouldered past the three men, studied the form of the woman on the bed - then looked at Worf.

"I apologize, Worf. It appears you were right," she said quietly.

"The lieutenant is waking up, is she not?" he said with a hint of triumph.

"That she is," Beverly agreed, worriedly.

She pushed past the two men to Andile's side, studying the overbed display intently, even as she let her mind play over the dozens of scenarios of this same event as she began to adjust the machinery.

The times and circumstances had always varied: Biji awkening in the middle of the night, on another physician's shift - even back at Starfleet Medical - but always, always, there had been someone with her - Deanna, Jemat - even Jean-Luc - someone who knew her mind, someone who could reach Andile's fractured mind and ease her way back into the present, back consciousness gently and easily.

What a day for the Breen to opt to stay on his own ship, she thought; he's here every day for weeks, either performing surgery, assisting in Andile's therapies - or simply sharing medical adventures with Beverly and her staff - only to decide to take this day to attend to his own crews needs.

Then again, she thought, it may have been for the best; after all, Andile had manifested her symptoms on Jean-Luc and Deanna - the only two people on the ship who could readily accept her telepathic transmission. If Jemat had been here, he might well be lying on the bed next to Deanna - but without Beverly knowing how – or even if – she could block their mental connection.

At least with Jean-Luc and Deanna she could administer the mild neural suppressant drugs that would block Andile's telepathy from reaching their minds, and prevent them from suffer through her symptoms - but, fortunately, she added, not before letting Beverly know what those symptoms were.

"She's having a respiratory spasm," she said as she adjusted the equipment, understanding Jean-Luc and Deanna's reactions for what they really were, then moved closer to Andile's side. "Lieutenant," she said quietly, uncertain if the woman could hear her, and even less uncertain if she still retained the ability to understand, "Lieutenant, you're in Sickbay. You've been injured – but you're safe now. I'm going to give you something that's going to make it easier for you to breathe and to help you rest," she said, pulling back to adjust one of the medications that was coursing through her veins.

Tiron looked at the physician with a troubled expression. "Doctor, is that wise? She's just beginning to wake up," he said accusingly.

"I want her awake as well, Ambassador – but awake, relaxed and calm," Beverly replied, knowing that the panic in Deanna's eyes had been reflections of Andile's own terror and confusion. "The medication help – but it won't sedate her."

"You're concerned because of the brain damage?" Tiron asked softly.

Beverly nodded soberly. "Yes; we know that her auditory and optic nerves are working – she can hear and see - but the centers responsible for comprehension were damaged. She can hear us, see us – but she may not be able understand what we're saying – or even who we are. Too much input without understanding what's happening could make her panic – and then I will have to sedate her," she explained grimly.

"Then we must make her understand that she is safe," Tiron said firmly, "and that she is loved," he added quietly, stepping close to Andile's left side, clasping her newly rebuilt hand in his own, far more massive one.

"_Baj_" he called to her softly, stroking her hand. "_Baj_, it is your _patchni_. Can you hear me, little one? Yes, I know that you can. Listen to my voice, little one; listen to me. Your _patchni_ knows you are scared; I know that you are in pain - but you must know now that you are safe, that we are here, waiting to welcome you home, to your _patchni_..."

"To your friends," Worf boomed in accompaniment.

Tiron looked up at the Klingon - then glanced at Beverly. "May he hold her other hand?" he asked.

Beverly hesitated - the nodded, deciding that the Klingon's touch could do her no harm - and, she added, seeing the stress hormones in the woman's blood begin to level off, it might well do her some good. "Go ahead," she said softly.

She braced herself for the return of the booming Klingon voice - but to her surprise, his voice was low and soft - so low that she had to strain to hear it.

As Andile must, she realized; whatever consciousness the woman possessed, it would be focused on bringing that low, soft voice and its message into clarity - and not on the pain and the terror that had filled her a moment before.

But Worf and Tiron couldn't stay with her forever, she reminded herself - though both would offer to do just that if the necessity demanded it, she reminded herself. No, she needed to get Andile as stable and pain-free as was possible for someone in her condition.

And, she added, to keep her from inflicting her pain on those around her.

That, at least, was easy enough.

With a touch, she decreased the flow of neurotransmitters into Andile's spinal fluid, reducing the infusion rate from a flood to a trickle, enough to keep her mind supplied with those essential molecules that would give her control over her own body - but not so much that she had near unlimited telepathic power.

Exactly where that level was, she didn't know, but with two humans in close proximity who could detect those emanations - willingly or not - she would be able to make a close approximation.

She made a final adjustment on the controls, beginning a slow feed of long-lasting - or rather, as long-lasting as it could be in view of ability of Andile's liver to breakdown any drug - analgesic to the woman's body.

"We'll keep it there for now," she said, more to herself than the others; keeping Andile's pain under control would be a constant battle as she continued her recovery – but she'd be damned if she let the woman suffer as she had at Starfleet Medical.

Beverly touched the equipment to activate the device, then eased past the men, taking a place near the head of Andile's bed.

Bending over her, she brushed a strand of the luxurious hair away from the pale face of the woman, and whispered, "Hello, Andile. It's Dr. Crusher... It's Beverly, Biji," she amended. "Can you hear me? Beej, we need you to wake up."

For a moment, there was no motion from the figure on the bed - then she saw a slight flicker of motion beneath the closed lids.

"Andile?" she said, hope surging.

"_Baj_," Tiron echoed. "Come back to us, little one. Come back to your _patchni_. I have missed you," he said, the ache in his voice unmistakable.

"And I... have much to say to you," Worf added, his low baritone reverberating through the bed.

There was another tiny flicker of motion beneath the eyelids.

"Yes, Biji," Beverly whispered encouragingly. "That's it! Open your eyes. Come back to us..."

For a moment, there was nothing - no hint of motion, no hint of further activity beneath those pale lids, then they opened slowly, dark brown eyes staring out - but there was no comprehension in them, no understanding of what – or who – she was seeing.

"_Baj_," Tiron said quietly, relievedly. "You are back, my little one."

Startled by the sound, Andile turned her eyes to the giant Romulan, but there was no hint of recognition in her eyes.

"My _baj_," he said softly, tenderly. "I knew you would return to us," he said.

"As did I," Worf agreed.

Andile's eyes turned to the Klingon – but again, there was no recognition or cognizance behind her gaze.

"Lieutenant... Andile," Beverly tried, "you're safe. You're on the Enterprise. You were injured, but you're in Sickbay now. Do you understand?"

Blank eyes looked back.

"You're safe," Beverly repeated, wondering if the woman could comprehend her words. "But you can't move. We're suppressing your motor functions to keep you immobilized. Do you understand?"

The eyes looked back emptily.

Beverly tried again. "Biji, can you understand what we're saying? I need you to try to communicate with us. Can you blink for me? One time for yes, two times for no..."

There was no response – then Andile's eyes slowly closed.

"Doctor?" Tiron said worriedly.

Beverly studied the overbed monitors, then looked at the Romulan.

"Her pain levels are within a tolerable range," she said blandly.

"She did not recognize us," Tiron said worriedly, ignoring her remark.

Beverly studied the man for a moment – then shook her head. "No, she didn't," she sighed. "There's no doubt that she suffered a degree of brain damage, but this may also be a matter of a loss of memory – that she didn't recognize us – or it could be that she has lost all higher neurological functions, or anything in between," she admitted.

"But she will recover," Worf added insistently. "Won't she?"

"I don't know, Worf; I just don't know," Beverly admitted.

"Pah! You abandon hope too easily!" Tiron exclaimed derisively, then looked back at the unconscious figure. "Your _patchni_ will not give up so easily. You will recover, my little one. Perhaps not today – but tomorrow, undoubtedly," he said defiantly – then stared at the tiny figure once more. "Please," he added softly, leaning close to her, his giant hand wrapped around her little one. "Please come back to us. Your _patchni_ is waiting for you."

The three watched her for several minutes longer – then he began to smile.

"Ambassador?" Worf said, curious at the strange reaction.

"Hope," he repeated quietly. "My little one will not leave her _patchni_ yet," he said triumphantly as he looked down at his hand.

The eyes of the other two followed his – and watched as Andile's finger slowly, awkwardly pressed against Tiron's hand before falling back to the bed.

The movement was tiny, laborious and uncoordinated – but it was also clearly intentional, Beverly realized.

As she watched, the finger tried to raise itself once more, struggling with the enormity of the effort before falling back to the surface of the bed.

"You see, Doctor?" he said triumphantly. "She will not leave us yet," he said, then turned back to the woman. "Yes, my little one. We see you; we know you are still with us. Now you must rest, so that you can begin to get better," he insisted.

She watched the huge Romulan and Klingon talk to the tiny woman for a moment longer, then turned away, knowing she had other two other patients who needed Andile's recovery as much as the woman herself. Touching her commbadge, she called out softly, "Crusher to Picard."

"Picard here," he answered.

"Captain, Lieutenant Andile..." she began, only to be cut short.

"I know," he said quietly.

She stopped short, still taken aback by these reminders of the unusual line of communication between her patient and the man.

Correction, she amended; between my patients.

"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer: Alyssa would have brought the captain to Sickbay if she had had any doubts about his condition.

"I'm fine," he said grudgingly, then added, "Dr. Ogawa said the isophenhexadyne would limit any telepathic transference from the lieutenant."

"Limit," she agreed, "but not prevent. You need to let me know if you feel any other untoward symptoms – for your sake and for hers," she added.

"I will," he agreed gruffly.

For a long moment there was silence between the two, then Beverly said, "I'll have a status update report to you before my shift ends."

She heard the slight hesitation in his voice, suspecting he was about to demur in their continuing distancing of themselves from one another – then heard him answer, "I'll be expecting it."

She stiffened for a moment – then reminded herself brusquely, What had I expected? That Biji's recovery would change things between us?

No: I did my job – as he demanded. And I will continue to do so, whether you demand it or not, she added bitterly.

She reached for her badge again, ready to disconnect the link, then stopped as his voice called out to her once again.

"Doctor?" he asked softly.

"Captain?" she answered.

"Good work," he said. "Thank you... Beverly" he added, his tone growing gentler.

"You're welcome... Jean-Luc," she replied, then touched her hand to the badge.

Perhaps, she thought as she turned back to Andile's bed, there was hope for them all.


	156. Chapter 156

**Chapter 156**

Snorkeling, Beverly decided at long last, having finally determined what word most closely described the sound that Jemat was making - and had been making - throughout the last two weeks that he had spent encamped in her Sickbay.

Perhaps 'encamped' was not the right word, she amended quickly; while he had come to the ship each of the sixteen days since Andile's reawakening, he had also left every evening, returning to his ship, refusing to further impose on her time beyond her duty shift - or more likely, added to herself, unwilling to impose on Worf's limited tolerance for the Breen's presence in Andile's makeshift quarters when he was watching over her.

Nor had he imposed himself upon her by making any attempts to treat Andile, Beverly added; oh, certainly he had volunteered opinions and ideas - sometimes tactfully, sometimes with a firmness of resolve that vied with Beverly's own determination - but in the end, when the final decisions had to be made, he had always deferred to her judgment, supporting her decision, even when, Beverly thought, he didn't agree with those choices.

Still, he had been there long enough, reviewing Andile's charts, reviewing the upcoming surgeries, treatments, and therapies that Beverly was growing familiar with the Breen's mannerisms - including the strange sound that he was currently making.

Part gurgle, part snort, part exhalation, it sounded not unlike the wet burbling noise that a she had grown all too familiar with during a shore leave on Pacifica as she tried to master - quite unsuccessfully - the art of breathing through an external air tube, she remembered with a smile. It was a wet, rough sound - and whether it came from a human swimmer or a Breen _outo_, she knew it meant trouble.

Fortunately, in a Breen, that trouble was usually a matter of aggravation, not asphyxiation - and having had the occasion to hear the sound often enough in the last two weeks, Beverly had a good idea what the problem was.

"Jemat, if I had a functioning recorder, I would not spend hours writing patient notes - and since you do - have a recorder that works, that is," she added, "I don't understand why you insist on writing them by hand - and in Federation Standard at that," she sighed. "I have to - but you? Isn't it inconvenient?"

"For me - or for you?" he teased gently in reply. "After all, I seem to end up asking you for half of the words," he pointed out.

Beverly smiled. "I would say 'half' is a bit of an exaggeration," she countered. "You don't ask for more than a third these days," she teased him back.

He gave her one of his toothy grins; odd, Beverly mused, how terrifying that smile had been at first, and how familiar, how comfortable it had become in the intervening weeks.

"I must be learning, then," he answered, then looked down at the small notebook that lay open before him. "I do find that the act of writing is an excellent way of learning your language, Beverly," he continued, "of learning any language. Your Federation Standard draws so heavily on the root languages of your home world that it helps me to understand more about how you evolved - and as your language merged into a cohesive whole, it symbolizes the cohesion of your people, from disparate groups into a unified whole."

"Except we do still have our distinct home languages; Alyssa was raised speaking Japanese, John speaks Urdu, the captain speaks French..."

Beverly's voice trailed off at the mention of Picard, looking away, finding herself taken aback - perhaps even a little shocked - by how easily the details of the man's life and persona still flowed into her conversations - as though he still had a place in her life.

But he didn't, she reminded herself, looking up at Jemat quickly, pasting a smile on her face. "But you're quite right, even though our respective native languages draw upon our commonality that unifies as specific sub-cultures, speaking one language does facilitate communications among ourselves as a whole. And it certainly makes it simpler when we're communicating with other species," she agreed. "After all, we can't all be telepathic, now can we?" she added with a forced lightness.

Jemat studied her for a long moment - then reached up, taking her hand in his, squeezing it gently. "But it would be a great convenience, would it not? So many misunderstandings would be prevented..."

"Perhaps," she agreed softly. "But so many truths that should be left unsaid would be known, shared. Some hurts might be cured, Jemat - but so many more would be caused, I fear. We've learned to guard our tongues, Jemat - but I'm not sure, we as a people, want to learn to guard our thoughts as tightly. It's just not the way humans are," she added. "What happened to Andile - Garave - should have demonstrated that amply. Her people were so repulsed - and probably so terrified - by the notion of telepaths in their society that they did everything they could to eliminate that fear - almost to the point of genocide."

Jemat studied the woman for a long moment. "You do not approve of us, do you?"

"It's not my place to approve - or disapprove - of you or your people, Jemat," she objected. "And in any case, it's not you as a people of whom I disapprove; I disapprove of what your ancestors did. And it was a long time ago..." she added.

"But you think we were wrong," he interjected.

Beverly hesitated - then nodded. "Yes. I think they tampered with things they had no right to change - and they did so without understanding the people - the sentient creatures! - or their cultures well enough to realize the possible outcomes. They treated those peoples like laboratory animals!" she said indignantly. "Not just humans - but all the races you - they - manipulated. They had no right!

"But you are not your ancestors," she added hastily.

"But we are, Doctor," Jemat argued. "In our minds, we hold the same knowledge, the same thoughts, that our antecedents did; we have not changed from the beings they were..."

"But you wouldn't do what they did," she insisted. "Knowing what you've learned, seeing the results of your actions..."

"The result of our actions is the potential evolution of our race, Doctor," he reminded her. "We had not intended it this way - for our fate to rest in the hands - and body - of a single being, but it is what happened. And in Garave, there are the genes of my people - our hope for the future. Knowing what we do now, that we could, through her, evolve toward becoming god, would we not do the same again?" he asked her, his ears tilting forward in curiosity, as if waiting for her.

"Would you? Knowing what this has cost Andile," Beverly echoed, "knowing the pain, the hurt you have caused her to suffer, you would do this again?" curiosity covering her own face; curiosity - and disappointment, suspecting the answer was the one she did not want to hear.

To her surprise, however, the _outo_ hesitated. "How can I answer that, Beverly? What we did, whether right or wrong in your eyes or mine, has become the only chance for my people, their only grasp on true immortality? Could I deny them that? And yet, being here, with her..." The pronoun rolled almost reverentially from the Breen's lips. "Being with her, having touched her mind, knowing her heart, her soul, feeling her pain and her grief in my thoughts, my memories... my soul aches, knowing that we have been responsible for this misery, this eternal pain. Could I do this again - even for so great an outcome?" He let out a long sigh, then shook his head. "I do not know, Beverly. I simply do not know.

"You see," he added a moment later, forcing a weary smile onto his own face, "being a telepath is not always advantageous. All that she was - and is - is part of me now. For ill, for good - but inevitably, forever." He drew another long breath, then released her hand.

"The telepathy does, however, facilitate my work," Jemat said at long last. "It opens the door to your people - but writing, learning your language this way," He nodded at his book, "teaches the culture to me in a deeper manner. It is not easy, however; I know the words I want in Breen - but in your language..." He sighed, starting to jerk his head to the side in frustration, then amended the movement, turning it into a shrug instead.

"What word is it that you want, _outo_?" Beverly said.

"That, my dear Beverly, is the problem: I don't know your word for..." He hesitated. "Not cooperating. Refusal to participate. Being... difficult," he said.

Beverly studied him for a moment, looked at the notebook, then said, "Are we talking about Andile... I mean, Garave?" she asked.

He nodded.

"The medical term you're looking for is 'non-compliant'," she said, watching the Breen pick up the stylus and begin to write. "N-O-N - hyphen - C-O-M-P-L-I-A-N-T," she spelled, watching as he copied the word into the text. "That's the word. It's not the right word, but that's the one you're thinking of."

Jemat looked up. "If it is not the right word, then..."

"It's the right word for what you are describing - but it's not the right word for Beej. Biji. Andile. Garave," she corrected herself, growing frustrated.

Why the hell couldn't she have just one name? Beverly grumbled to herself.

But you live a hundred lifetimes, live on a hundred different worlds, you're going to end up with a hundred different names. I should be happy I'm only dealing with four of them.

"Medically speaking, Garave _is_ compliant. She's not refusing therapy, she's not refusing her medications, she's not refusing treatment..."

"But she is not refusing - but neither is she cooperating," Jemat argued.

"No, she isn't," she agreed. "But not involving herself is not 'non-compliant' - at least in our medical terms. If she were truly non-compliant, she would be fighting us, making it difficult for us to treat her..."

"But is she not doing just that, Doctor?" Jemat countered.

Beverly looked down at the Breen, taken aback by his question - and by the gentleness in his tone.

"I don't understand, Jemat," she replied.

"No?" he said - then reached for her hand once again, drawing her down into her own chair, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb - or at least with the digit that most closely resembled a human thumb.

Whatever it was, the touch was gentle, soothing - and welcome, Beverly admitted with a sigh as she felt the tight muscles in her hand and arm beginning to relax under his gentle ministrations.

"I think I can translate '_outo_' now," Beverly sighed after a few minutes. "It has to mean 'masseuse', she said, feeling the tension beginning to ooze from her over-tired, over-tensed body. Thank god my shift is over in an hour, she thought, making out the chronometer on her desk, the weeks of fatigue and weariness sailing away, replaced with a delicious sense of lassitude

He smiled. "Just a technique, doctor, refined over many years through constant practice on my mate," he explained.

"Hmmm..." she murmured. "I didn't know you were married."

"For many years," he answered.

"It must be hard for her... Him?" she tried again, looking at her benefactor in curiosity.

"Human pronouns don't lend themselves to genderless societies - but if you consider me as a male - as you appear to do so - then for the sake of your mental convenience, you may consider my mate as 'her'," he informed the physician.

"It must be hard for her when you are gone for so long. It was one of the things I liked least about Jack's being in Starfleet. He was gone for so long each time... I suppose it was all for the best - I had medical school to complete, and then I was pregnant with Wesley..."

"Jack? Wesley?"

Beverly looked at the Breen, surprised that he didn't know who she meant - but despite his familiarity with her Sickbay, they had not shared many personal confidences - and despite his being a telepath, he knew almost nothing of her thoughts.

"Jack was my husband - my mate," she explained quietly, surprised by how little the words hurt her now.

Time, I guess, she thought. It's been so long.

Almost twenty years, she realized with a start.

"What happened to him?" Jemat prompted.

"He died - many years ago," she added before falling silent.

"I am sorry," he said gently. "And this Wesley you spoke of?" Jemat prompted after a few minutes.

"My son," she explained.

"I didn't know you had a budling," Jemat said.

"I do... did..." She shook her head.

Jemat's voice softened - and his touch on her hand gentled. "And your Wesley... He, too, is dead?" he asked.

"What?" Beverly said, startled from her reverie - then shook her head. "Oh, no. That is... I think he's alive. He was in Starfleet - but he found his path lay in another direction. He... began to travel. He's been traveling for years now - all through the Dominion War, through all the chaos of the last few years. I want to believe he's safe, somewhere, waiting it out until things quiet down again. I have to believe he's safe; I'd like to think I'd know if he weren't, that if he were dead, if something had happened to him, that I would know.

"But I didn't know when Jack died," she added, her eyes raised to Jemat, staring - but unseeing, seeing instead the memory of a face long gone.

"Funny, isn't it?" she asked, though the question was directed not at the _outo_, but rather at herself. "He was my husband, the love of my life, the father of my child! I thought we had a deep, spiritual connection between us - but he was dead for several days before I found out - and all during that time, I felt nothing different, nothing unusual. I went through my daily routine, studying, preparing to enter Starfleet - and I never knew until Jean-Luc called us..." She hesitated, the memory as fresh, as real, as painful as it had been that day, so long ago.

As painful as the thought that someday she might receive another, similar call regarding Wesley.

Or Jean-Luc himself, a soft voice, deep inside her head, deep inside her soul, reminded her.

No, she told herself firmly. He wasn't a part of her life anymore.

But Wes... He would always be a part of her life, a part of her...

"I thought I would always know if something happened to Jack - but I didn't. And Wes... I thought the same thing, but for all I know, he could be... be..." She stopped, unable to speak as the tears welled in her eyes, and the words stuck in her throat.

"Dead," Jemat concluded for her, watching as she shook her head, accepting the possibility, even as she refused to accept the words.

"For all I know, he could have been dead for years - and I wouldn't know any more than I knew about Jack," she said.

Jemat stopped the tender ministrations he was performing to her hand, settling back to consider for a long time. "It is possible, Beverly; he may, indeed, be dead. But the bond between and parent and a child transcends that between mates. Your mate is your mate by choice, by timing, by hormones, even by fate; but a child is your by genes and spirit. Part of you is in that child, Beverly; if something were to happen to him, I believe you would know. I must believe that your son is still alive - or you would know."

"Are you saying that as a telepath or as a physician?" she asked, sniffing back a tear.

He smiled. "I say that as a parent, Beverly. You must have faith."

"That's more easily said than done," she replied.

"Perhaps. But then we Breen spent hundreds of thousands of years searching for god - only to find her against all odds, against all reason, on an alien ship in the middle of nowhere; we're rather experienced when it comes to matters of faith," he added lightly.

Beverly felt a smile cross her face - and with it an upwelling of real, genuine relief, the first she had felt since...

Since I don't know when, she admitted.

Since before LaBarre, since before the Briar Patch, since before Wesley had left with the traveler.

My God, she thought, how long has it been since I wasn't worried? she asked herself.

Too long, she answered - then looked at Jemat.

"I still don't know what the hell an _outo_ is, Jemat, but whatever it is, you do it very well," she replied.

He shook his head. "I wasn't being an _outo_, Beverly."

"Then...?"

"I was simply trying to be... your friend," he told her.

She studied him for a long time - then nodded. "Thank you. I didn't realize how badly I've needed to have one of those."

"That is one of the drawbacks of serving on a starship. You form friendships, yes - but in your position, as in mine, you cannot permit those friendships to blossom as widely as they might in other circumstances; you must hold a part of your heart, your tongue and your mind to yourself. There becomes no one with whom you can be completely at ease. The wall is always there... it must be there. You never know when your friend might become your patient - or when you might have to order that same friend into a deadly situation. We know the reality - every officer on one of these ships knows the reality, Beverly, and we defend ourselves against that possibility by making those relationships rarer - and sometimes a little shallower. We all do it; we have to," he added, "but we pay the price in doing so; the walls that shelter us from the hurt, imprison us from the help as well."

Jemat fell silent, watching as his words circled round in her mind for a moment.

"But I do not serve with you," he continued at last. "I do not answer to your orders - and you do not answer to mine. I could never treat your injuries well or for long - nor could you be my physician. We have no obligation to one another, Beverly; no possibility to hurt one another, or to cause each other harm. For the first time in a very long time, you can... release your hair?" he said.

It took her a moment to catch the phrase and correct it. "Let your hair down," she countered. "And you are right. And if you ever decide NOT to run back to your ship right after my duty shift, then I would be honored to offer you dinner in Ten Forward," she added.

"And I will accept - when I know that every other thought will not be preoccupied by our mutual patient."

That might be some time, Beverly conceded - then wondered if Jemat remembered they shared not one, but two patients.

Neither of whom, she added, was noted for being compliant.

"You said Beej... Garave... was being non-compliant, that she was making it difficult for us to treat her - and yet she isn't stopping us."

"I agree," he said. "Although if I understand your Starfleet regulations correctly, even if she did protest your course of treatment, it would be to no avail. I believe that her emotional state and the quantity and level of brain damage incurred was sufficient for you to claim a lack of mental competence in her situation, and force treatment upon her, over her objections, if you chose to do so."

"Until such time as a medical board could be convened, and a proper evaluation of Andile's mental condition, and her fitness to determine her own treatment, made, Starfleet regs - and medical ethics - would not permit me to discontinue her treatment. If, after a proper examination, she was determined to be of sound mind, and then chose to discontinue her treatment, I would be equally bound to honor that request," she explained.

"But as such a hearing requires the presence of certain medical officers - who are not on board at this time - this hearing would have to wait until you have returned to Earth - by which point Garave's life would no longer be at risk. And as Garave's culture denied andile the right to commit suicide, she could not, at that time, deliberately harm herself," he reminded her.

"Your point being...?"

"My point being that whether she cooperates or not, you will treat her," Jemat countered. "She knows she cannot protest it with words or actions. And so, knowing her protests would be in vain, she does nothing to stop you - but nothing to help you either. She forces you to treat her body - but she decline to allow you to treat her.

"This... distancing," He looked at Beverly, confirming his choice of words, and received a nod in reply, "This distancing of Garave from you, from your people, from your actions, it takes its toll on you. Every day, your doubt grows, your uncertainty of whether your actions are right increases - as does that of your people. Every day, you face her - and ask: Am I doing the right thing? Every day she removes herself further from your care, from your lives - and every day you begin to wonder if, perhaps, she is right.

"And one day, perhaps you will believe she is," he concluded.

"That won't happen," Beverly insisted firmly.

"No?"

No, she began to insist - then stopped herself.

It would, she knew; it was happening already.

"She's healing, Jemat - but she's not getting better," Beverly said softly. "And she's not going to, is she?"

She knew the answer - and her team knew it as well, she thought. Even now, their enthusiasm for assisting Andile in her daily therapies was declining; they still cared for her, still attended to her physical needs - but she could see their enthusiasm flagging, see their dedication slipping away. As long as they were on the ship, they would care for her, as duty required - but as soon as they returned to Earth, they would allow Starfleet Medical to take over her care - and they would slide from her life, as would all her caregivers, until, once day, someone made a mistake, someone made an error in her meds or her dosage... and the death she could not grant herself would be granted by another.

He shook his head in silent agreement. "If you mean will she recover, then no, I do not believe so. Not as things stand. She is utilizing every calorie of energy, every atom of oxygen you provide simply to remain alive - more, in fact. She is already losing weight, is she not? And even the least effort taxes the oxygenation levels of her blood. She will never be able to leave her bed, Doctor, not as things stand," he added softly. "Her life - that part of her life which held meaning for her - is over. It is simply a matter of time..."

"... until her body dies as well," Beverly concluded slowly.

For a moment the two looked at each, silently grieving, when a third voice interrupted their silent suffering.

"That," Data said, a stricken expression plastered on his face as he stood in the open doorway of her office, "is not acceptable."

Horrified, embarrassed - and angry - at having her private conversation overheard - especially by someone so close to her patient - Beverly rose to her feet, turning to the android. "Data," she began to explain.

"I cannot permit that to happen," the android continued.

"Data," she began - then stopped, knowing there was a time for comforting the friends and family of a patient - and a time for the truth.

And that time, she knew, had come.

"Data, there's nothing I can do about what is happening to Andile. The damage to her body - and her unusual physical make-up - transcend my medical knowledge. I can't replace what she's lost - and as a result, I can't give her anything close to the life she once had. The ECMO is functioning at maximum capacity now - but it isn't as efficient as her lungs were. It simply isn't capable of oxygenating her blood at the levels she's used to. She's not going to be able to resume a life like she had before, Data," she admitted softly. "Even if she regains the use of her legs, she's never going to be able to walk, or learn to reuse her right arm; I don't think she's even going to be able to sit up," she added, remembering the disastrous results of the morning's attempt to do that very thing.

The had raised her head and torso only a few degrees, trying to coach her through the breathing exercises that should have increased her respiration and heart rates enough to compensate - but she had done nothing to help them, only crying out as dizziness and nauseas overcame her, then collapsed against the pillows that supported her, her head falling forward, her muscles too weak to stop it, the weight of her skull compressing her windpipe, choking her, cutting off the trace amount of air that her lungs provided...

It was only a small amount, Beverly knew - but it was essential to her survival - and without it... Without it, her artificial heart had begun to race, straining itself beyond its design parameters to feed the failing body with blood and air - and finding itself less and less able - until it simply stopped.

Even artificial hearts could fail, Beverly had reminded herself as they fought to straighten the crushed windpipe, to force oxygen into the starving body, forced the heart to start again; even artificial hearts could fail - and while they could restart it - this time - there was no guarantee they could do it again.

And they would not try, she knew; they would not risk another disaster.

And so they would begin to step away from Andile's treatments, and the slow decline would begin, she thought.

"That is not a life she would wish," Data agreed softly.

"Which is why we're here," a fourth voice opined.

Geordi stepped into view, having been shielded from Beverly and Jemat's sight by the android and the intervening wall.

In his hands he carried what appeared to be a rather bulky shirt of shimmering silver fabric. He handed it to Beverly, a sober expression on his face - but hope lighting his eyes. "We... that is, Data, thinks he has the answer. To Beej's problems - and maybe a lot of other people's problems as well," he explained.

"It's... very interesting, Geordi, Data," Beverly said, looking over the oversized shirt. "What is it?"

"It's a lung," the Chief Engineer replied.

Beverly stared at the silvery jacket, then raised her eyes to Jemat, who stared at the item before meeting her gaze.

"A lung," he said quietly.

Geordi nodded, brushing past Data to enter the room. "Yes, sir - or rather, it will be, just as soon as we can complete a few final steps."

"A lung," Beverly repeated, still taken aback by the presence of the device in her hands - and by the implication of what it meant - what it could mean - for Andile.

And for thousands of others.

"How does it work?" she asked.

Data spoke. "The exterior material is a hyper-permeable membrane, allowing rapid transport of gases through the surface into the interior, which is a network of interconnected, one-way vessels, made of a similar material. The interior channels will carry blood part the hyper-permeable membrane, allowing for the transfer of oxygen into the blood stream, and carbon dioxide out."

Which was, Beverly admitted, what a lung did. However, as medical science had learned over the centuries, the human body did it far more efficiently than any machine could - and even the most efficient machine required far more space to create the surface area necessary to do what the human lung did. Even now, four hundred years since the first artificial lung had been created, it took a machine the size of a small table to breathe for a human. It was that fact that doomed Andile to spend the rest of her life on that bed, she added unhappily; despite his best effort, the device Data had created, a device that was the size and shape of a jacket for the diminutive woman, would never be able to replace the massive device that barely supplied her with air now - let alone allowed her the range of freedom she needed and wanted.

It was a tremendous, effort, she thought - and it was going to crush the android when she told him that it wouldn't work.

"Data..."

"I know what you're going to say, Doc," Geordi interrupted with a grin. "That there isn't enough surface area to allow the proper exchange of air. You're right, there isn't. Try as we might, we couldn't find anything that's as efficient as the human alveoli - and their intricate arrangement in the lungs - for that purpose. Which is why we're not going to try and replace them."

Jemat studied the two, then managed a human shake of his head. "I don't understand."

"It is our intention to have you harvest three functional alveoli from what's left of Biji's lung, fill the device with bio-mimetic gel, seed the gel with one of the clusters, and within forty-eight hours, the lung will be filled with alveoli."

"Bio-mimetic gel?" Jemat asked, curious.

"A biologic product that has the ability to mimic biological forms and functions," Beverly explained. "Unfortunately, it has a short functional life, so it's not useable for something long term - like replicating cells or organs."

"I see," Jemat replied. "And the remaining two clusters?"

"As Dr. Crusher indicated, the functional life of the artificial lung would be limited. We calculate a useable lifespan of approximately thirty-two hours," Data said. "After that the cells will begin to die, and the efficiency will diminish rapidly from that point forward. Hence, there is a need to always have two lungs at different levels of preparation; one for the next day, one for the day subsequent to that. "

"We should be able to harvest a few cells from each lung to seed the next - but every now and then, we're going to need to capture a new one directly from Beej herself," Geordi added, "at least until we can accurately clone them for her. Developing that technology may take some time," he went on, grinning, "but I think we've bought her that time now. Hell, knowing Biji, she'll probably be the one to figure out how to overcome the problem of replicative failure!"

"There are, however," Data interjected, "two medical issues that you will need to address. First, a permanent - or at least semi-permanent - indwelling catheter will have to be placed to allow the influx of de-oxygenated blood into the lung and the subsequent flow of oxygenated blood back to the heart. These will need to be in the same positions as the former pulmonary arteries in order to most closely replicate the function of the lungs. In addition, the catheters will have to be of sufficient size to withstand the pressure of the blood flow - but secure enough to allow Andile to resume her normal activities - or the functionality of the device will be negated," he pointed out.

"That's not an issue, Data," Beverly said. "We can place a line easily enough. But you said there were two medical issues; what's the other one?"

"The bio-mimetic gel itself. Where the interior lining of the lung touches Andile's skin, the gel will, over time, attempt to replicate the skin tissues it touches. In essence, it will draw her skin into the lung. This will not affect its functionality over the brief lifespan of the lung, but it will necessitate the excision of a layer of skin upon removal of the jacket."

"In other words, you're going to be peeling off a layer of Beej's skin every time you take off the jacket," Geordi summed up. "It's going to hurt like hell."

"Unfortunately, we have yet to find another material for the interior of the jacket that does not, over that same time frame, damage the gel - and hence the function of the lungs," Data said. "We will, of course, continue to seek out other materials that might be usable..."

"But we've got time," Geordi repeated, the glee in his voice and in his eyes unmistakable.

Beverly stared at the jacket for several more minutes, then rose to her feet, turning to face the two. "Gentlemen, I am impressed," she said at long last. "In a matter of weeks, you appear to have solved a problem that's been vexing medical science for centuries."

"More than 'appears', Doc," Geordi offered. "We've run hundred of computer simulations on the lung - and if it's half as good on Biji as it is on paper, she's going to get her life back."

"Computer simulations are one thing, Geordi; real life is something else - and whether this works or not, there is a very real issue that we have to face."

"Availability of bio-mimetic gel," Data opined.

Beverly nodded. "It's impossible to replicate, and extremely expensive to purchase. I've got enough on board to fill this... lung," she said, for lack of a better word, "for a few days - but enough for the duration of our mission?" she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I simply don't have enough - and even if I did, I couldn't, in all conscience, use it solely for Andile. It's simply too critical of a material. Maybe when we get back, Starfleet can allocate enough to supply Andile... for a time. But not indefinitely," she added soberly.

And to give Andile the freedom this lung would grant her - only to have to take it back? She shook her head, unable to imagine the emotion devastation that Andile would feel at the loss, once again, for the third time, of her physical freedom.

No, she thought unhappily; as much as she wished that this was the solution for Andile, for thousands of others in similar straits, she couldn't, in all good conscience, allow it to be implemented. Not when she knew it would have to be taken away again in just a few days.

She sighed, setting the jacket back down on her desk, lowering herself into the chair, "It's a brilliant idea, gentlemen - but until we can resolve the issue of the bio-mimetic gel, I can't permit you to use it, on Biji, or anyone. I'm sorry; truly sorry," she added.

"But it's the only way," Geordi began to protest.

Data added, "Andile's recovery is contingent on the restoration of her mental health - and that mental health and emotional stability are dependent on the knowledge that she will be able to resume her usual habits..."

"And in time, with some breakthrough in technology, she may be able to!" Beverly protested. "Data, Geordi, in a few weeks, you have solved one of the greatest problems facing medical science! Now all we have to do is find a way to produce large quantities of gel at a reasonable cost! And we will - in time," she said. "And we'll find a way to keep Biji with us until then," she added insistently. If I have to sedate her, put her in stasis - whatever it takes, I'll find a way, she told herself defiantly.

She turned, looking back at the strangely silent Jemat, and saw him fingering the slippery silver fabric - then looked up at the three. "Tell me more about this bio-mimetic gel, Beverly," he said.

"It's a medical miracle, Jemat," Beverly answered, reaching for the computer terminal, her hands racing over the keyboard. After a moment, she stopped, stared at the screen to confirm the picture before her, then turned the screen to face Jemat. "It's a molecular material that has the ability to duplicate the cellular structure of any material that touches it. Unfortunately, it's a biologic by-product, very difficult to create, impossible to replicate - and highly reactive. In order to prevent it from duplicating any and every organic molecule it touches, it has to be kept within a stasis chamber until it's needed - meaning it takes energy to maintain the matrix in a useable condition. Add to that the fact that once the matrix is mobilized, it can't be stopped. It will recreate the structure with which it makes contact and keep recreating it until all the gel has been utilized. Then it loses all functionality," she added.

Jemat nodded, studying the diagram. "If I am reading this correctly, it appears not unlike your own cytoplasm," he pointed out.

"It is very similar," Data agreed. "There are, however, several side chains with significant variations - and these variations are what give the gel its bio-mimetic properties, while preventing replication by mechanical sources."

"But it could be replicated by organic means?' Jemat pressed.

Geordi nodded. "Actually, that's how it's produced. There are a few labs in the Federation that possess the geneered cells that exude the gel - but the process is time-consuming and expensive - and the cells themselves are resistant to replication."

"But if a sufficient quantity of the cells were available, then you could produce the gel in quantity," Jemat surmised.

"Yes," Data agreed.

"Then all you really need is a substantial quantity of the right cell," the _outo_ concluded

"That's _all_," Beverly countered drolly.

Jemat gave a very human nod. "Yes. That would be all you require - then given a proper nutrient solution and collection methodology, you could produce as much bio-mimetic gel as you require - for Garave..."

"Garave?" Geordi interrupted, confused.

"Andile," Beverly explained.

"...and all your patients as you desire," Jemat concluded.

Beverly gave a tolerant smile. "Unfortunately, Jemat, as simple as you make it sound, we cannot obtain those cells; they are held as proprietary by their discoverer. Bio-mimetic gel - and the cells that produce it - is a precious commodity, Jemat, one that the owner is holding secret so he can keep the price at a premium. I don't like it, but it's not illegal; the courts have supported his right to control his discovery."

Jemat frowned. "But ethically..."

"The discoverer is not a physician or a member of Starfleet; what ethics he follows - if any," she added bitterly, "are his own."

The Breen's frown deepened. "He discovered the cells," he murmured. "He did not invent them? They are not his creation?"

Geordi shook his head. "No. He stumbled onto the cellular organism - he won't say where - and discovered the property of the gel sometime later.."

"Then... if someone were to create cells of their own, they could produce the gel without fear of legal complications?" he asked.

Data gave a single nod of his head. "The courts have ruled in other cases that such action would be legally acceptable - providing that the cells were indeed created independently of the original genetic material."

"Meaning you couldn't steal the cells, then try to reverse geneer them to create more of your own," Geordi said. "But if you created them from scratch..."

"You'd be wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice," Beverly said. "Except that's what the Federation's been trying for almost two decades - without luck. We simply don't have the genetic engineering knowledge needed to determine how - genetically speaking - the gel is produced."

Jemat looked at the three. "We do," he said simply.

There was a moment of silence, then, confused, Beverly echoed, "You do... what?"

"Have the knowledge needed to reverse engineer this organism. With this structural knowledge of the bio-mimetic gel molecule, my people can create a microbe that will secrete this substance," he said simply.

Beverly and Geordi gaped at the man, while Data maintained a more neutral, but equally disbelieving expression.

"_Outo_," Geordi and the android began at last, while Beverly protested gently, "Jemat..."

As one, the three stopped, looked at one another, then Geordi and Data nodded to Beverly, allowing her to act as the spokesman for their simultaneous thought.

"Jemat," she started again, "I appreciate your thought - but Federation scientists have been trying to do just that for more than twenty years. I can't go to Biji - Garave - and tell her about this idea, only to add that it might be another twenty years before it's practical."

"I understand, Doctor - but it will not take my people twenty years to determine the nature of the organism - or replicate its function. We have, after all, been responsible for genetic manipulation for thousands of races across the galaxy for the last three hundred thousand years. Recreating a micro-organism should not be nearly as taxing."

Hope flared in the physician's heart - but as she had done so often of late, she damped it down, refusing to allow herself hope where there was none.

"Thank you, Jemat, but..."

"Indeed, it might take the better part of the day to derive the structural configuration," Jemat continued. "Realistically, I do not think we would be able to produce a complete organism in less than twenty-four hours - and it will take a minimum of a week for the cells to reproduce to a level where they could create sufficient gel to fill that device. After that point however, we would be able to produce more than enough gel for Garave's needs."

Beverly stared at the Breen, frozen into place. "A week," she said softly.

"I believe so," he said. "Perhaps a day more or less," he added.

She continued to stare at him. "Jemat, I appreciate your offer - but we could not afford to pay you for such a quantity of gel, and I doubt we have anything of value to trade for it..."

"We would not ask for payment, Beverly. Indeed, perhaps providing the Federation with as many of the organisms as they desire would serve as an... acceptable offering to initiate peaceful negotiations - indeed, perhaps even opening talks for a future alliance," he added. "As a symbol of our good intentions? Yes?"

Beverly gaped at him, unable to fully comprehend what a virtually unlimited - and virtually free! - supply of bio-mimetic gel would mean: not just to Andile, but to thousands of sick and injured people across the Federation.

"Yes, Jemat," she said softly, the hope swelling in her heart once again, refusing to allow itself to be pushed away or damped down, "Oh, yes!"


	157. Chapter 157

**Chapter 157**

"One more step, little one; just one more step," Tiron said, his voice quiet but firm, unready and unwilling to accept anything except complete compliance from the woman walking beside him - or rather, trying to walk, his massive arms supporting her almost completely as she forced her uncooperative foot forward, carefully placing it a few inches ahead of the one that was already on the ground, gasping at the effort.

He tightened his grasp, ignoring the increasing dampness that was seeping through her loose-fitting shirt, holding her securely as she shifted her weight to her right leg, then began to pull the left one forward again, the toe of her shoe scraping the carpeted hallway as the muscles of her leg refused to let her pick the leg up completely.

"Tighten your thigh muscles," Tiron coached her. "Tighter... tighter..." he insisted, his tone sliding from pleading to insistent. "Tighten the muscles, _baj_," he ordered. "Make them lift your foot up!"

"I'm... trying!" Andile gasped, half panting, half growling as she tried to make the uncooperative muscles respond to her mental command - but the muscles, fatigued and taxed beyond their limit, refused to cooperate, and with a short cry of surprise and frustration, she felt the exhausted leg give way beneath her. Her balance gone, she fell against the giant Romulan.

He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms, hugging her tiny frame to his massive one.

"I have you, my _baj_," he assured her softly, placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "Three more steps today!" he said proudly. "And you needed my help only at the end. A few more days, and you'll be walking all over the ship. A week - and you'll be running! A month - and your old _patchni_ won't be able to keep up with you!" he told her.

She gave a laugh, bitter and weak as the sound, little as it was, overdrew the limited amount of air in her lungs.

"I wouldn't... worry, grandfather," she assured him. "I don't... think... I'll be trying... out... for the Academy... marathon... for some time," she wheezed.

"But one day," he promised her. "One day soon."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I never was... much of... a runner," she admitted between gasps of air - then lay her head against the Romulan's chest once again, half from exhaustion - and half from need.

Need, she thought to herself; a year ago, I never would have admitted I needed anyone. Now... Now I crave those moments that _patchni_ - Tiron - and Tar Zumell spend with me; undemanding moments, spent visiting, talking, discussing any and every thing they knew - always treating her like an equal - or at least as much of an equal as they would have treated any of their grandchildren, she conceded - but always, always without pity, without a trace of condescension.

Perhaps it was their cultures, Andile had thought one evening after Zumell had left her, perhaps it was a function of age - theirs and hers - or what they perceived to be her age - but they had seen her through the worst of my injuries and healing - now it was time to recover; it was time for her to work. There was gentleness and friendship - and love - but there was no inappropriate sympathy or pity - and always, always, there was the insistence that she work.

She had come to cherish their daily visits to Sickbay; Tar Zumell and her board games that challenged her finer motor skills, Tiron and his great strength, forcing her up from her bed, onto the exercise bars, encouraging her - haranguing her, she amended - to exercise the newly regenerated neural connections of her legs, her back, her restored right arm.

And now, she thought, to walk.

At first it had only been around Sickbay - but as her control developed, and as she learned to allow her artificial lungs to work for her, they had begun to explore the corridors surrounding the infirmary.

She knew each corridor - or rather, she knew she knew it - and yet each journey had been one of discovery, each passage viewed as if for the first time - until the shapes and colors and smells triggered the regeneration of an old neural pathway - and the memory of each corridor, each passage, each bolt, each rivet, flashed through her mind.

And now, a full month after Beverly had first presented her with silvery jacket that allowed her to live away from that damned machine that had breathed for her for so long, six weeks after she had awakened, almost four months since the accident, she was going to leave the deck that had become her de facto prison.

But she would never truly be free again, she thought, pulling the damp, clinging shirt away from the silvered jacket where it now clung.

Tiron watched as she picked at the sodden fabric. "That is not good, my _baj_," he said worriedly. "You should not perspire so much. It facilitates the movement of the gel into your skin, and will make it more difficult to remove the device later," he reminded her.

"Tell me.. something... I don't... know," she wheezed back, feeling the tingling of her flesh beneath the jacket.

Even with her recuperative abilities, the constant tearing away of the upper layers of her skin was taking its toll. Her arms and legs were red and raw, oozing, constantly sending electric stings of fire up across her upper body as the tortured nerves tried to heal themselves over and over, draining her energy, draining her ability to control her own pain, until she thought she could bear no more...

Andile! the voice hissed in her mind. Filth! Garbage! Pain is what you deserve! You are filth! You are vile! You are... andile.

She gasped, sucking in a sharp inhalation of air, drawing Tiron's attention to her once again.

"Little one? he asked worriedly.

She shook her head. "It's... nothing."

Despite her protest, Tiron frowned. "Perhaps this was not a good idea, little one. Perhaps it is too much, too soon..."

"No... _patchni_," she objected. "I… want to... get out."

"At least let us return to Sickbay," he countered. "Let Dr. Crusher give you something for the pain..."

"No!" she objected sharply - then looked up at him apologetically. "I am... sorry, grandfather," she apologized. "But... I'll be... fine. Just... let... me... catch... my breath," she added.

Tiron studied her for a moment, disapproval still visible in his expression. "You are not adhering to your therapy, little one," he reminded her.

"We have practiced this before. Let the device breath for your body; you need your lungs only to provide air to speak. Now try again," he ordered.

Andile gave a groan of frustration, exaggerating it slightly for Tiron's benefit, then closed her eyes, concentrating.

She knew - intellectually at least - that he was correct; all the oxygen her body needed would be provided through the silvery jacket she wore, that without any conscious assistance on her part, her new heart would pump her body's blood through the gas-permeable material, that the carbon dioxide would be diffused into the air around her, that fresh oxygen would be transferred in, that her tissues would be perfused, that her cells would be refreshed - that her body would go on, without her help.

And yet, despite her intellectual knowledge, she reflexively tried to assist the system, gasping for air that her body didn't truly need, unable to overcome in four weeks what had been a habit of fifteen thousand years.

But Tiron would have no part of that protest, she knew; he would tolerate no excuses for her failures. As far as he was concerned she was, in all but fact, his grandchild - and he would accept nothing less than her best efforts, as he would have expected nothing less from his own children.

And she was not about to disappoint the man - or to denigrate the honor he had placed upon her.

She looked down, then reached for the hem of her loose-fitting, though presently tightly clinging, blouse. Pulling it away from her body, she fanned it, drying the fabric slightly even as the bellowing fabric pulled fresh air over the artificial lung's surface, then let the fabric fall still once again.

Feeling a slight rush of renewed energy, she drew in a long breath, then focused her attention on the muscles of her diaphragm, knowing she needed them only to control the air she needed to speak.

"I'm sorry, _patchni_," Andile managed, the words coming out smoothly, evenly, perfectly controlled - then, her abilities taxed to their limit, she let the last of her breath out in a rush.

Tiron beamed proudly at her then kissed the top of her head. "No need to apologize, my little _baj_; this has been very hard for you - and you are doing so well. You should be proud of what you have achieved - as I am," he added quietly. "And," he added," his voice dropping slightly, "I believe I may have a solution."

"Solution?" she echoed. "What is it?"

He smiled mysteriously at her, then shook his head. "Patience, little one," he said, then readjusted her position in his massive arms before heading down the corridor.

A moment later, the double doors of Ten Forward separated at the Romulan's approach, revealing the large, yet warm and intimate room.

Surprised, she felt the rush of memory return to her mind - yet the thoughts were vague, undefined. "I've been... here... before," she said.

"I believe so," Tiron agreed. "The captain has told me that Ten Forward is a common meeting place for most of the crew. I must assume you have been here - though I have no details about those times," he admitted.

"That's... all right... grandfather," she said softly, her breathing discipline forgotten as memories touched at the edges of her mind. "I'll... remember. In... time."

"In time," he agreed.

She stared at the room for a moment, her eyes darting about the space, as if searching for something... no: someone.

Him, she realized.

They had been here, together, in a happier time...

But andile do not deserve happiness, she reminded herself harshly; andile deserve nothing.

Data had realized it, she knew; realized the truth - that she was filth, that she was nothing more than the repulsive sewage of human existence - and had freed himself of her presence in his life. He had deserved better, she knew.

And she deserved nothing.

Tiron watched her for a moment, seeing the flash of hope, of joy - of love - in her eyes, and felt the same emotions swell in his own soul.

But that joy faded as quickly as it rose, fading into a empty hollow gaze, touched by nothing - not even self-pity - nothing but the flat stare of someone who was present, even aware - yet not truly part of the world around her.

"_Baj_," he began softly, but she cut him off, speaking before he could utter a word of sympathy.

"It's empty," she said, looking around the room, seeing only a few scattered people in the area, each seeming to focus on the food before them, then looked up at Tiron. "I don't... remember... it being... so quiet," she wheezed.

"Remember your technique, little one," he chided her instantly - then relented. "But you are right; it is empty," he agreed. "It is between the standard meal break times; most of the crew are either at their duty stations or off duty entirely. I thought," he added gently, understandingly, "that it might be more comfortable for you if we did not encounter too many people this first time."

Andile took a breath, then carefully spoke. "Thank you, _patchni_," she said.

"And I had reasons of my own for wishing to speak with you privately," he added mysteriously.

She gave him a puzzled look. "We could have talked..." she started, then drew another long inhalation before finishing the sentence, "in Sickbay."

"Not about this," he said, then fell silent, carrying the tiny woman across the room to one of the tables.

Settling her in to one of the chairs, he took a few moments to make sure she was balanced on it, then helped her position her arms on the table, providing her with a touch more stability.

It was over-protective, he knew - but had he been as carefully with his own children's lives...

No, he cautioned himself; one cannot live in a world of retrospection and regret; one learns, one moves forward.

And that future, he thought as he took his own seat, lay before him.

He hoped.

Tiron folded his hands, studying the tiny woman for a few minutes - then reached out, carefully picking up a fold of the fabric from Andile's arm.

Soaked with sweat from her efforts, it clung to her skin, pulling away slowly, reluctantly. "This is not good," he reminded her. "It is damaging you," he reminded her.

Andile shook her head. "Dr. Crusher... and Geordi... are trying..." she began.

Tiron raised a warning finger. "Technique, _baj_," he reminded her.

Andile glared at him, then gave a nod, drew a breath, and tried again. "Dr. Crusher and Geordi... are trying to create a lining... an undergarment... that will either wick... the perspiration away... or prevent the gel from reaching... my skin," she said, ending her longest sentence of the day with a relieved exhalation.

"I know they are trying," he agreed, opting for the moment not to mention Data's part in that project, knowing even the mention of that being's name would have pained her terribly; to have her know he was responsible for bringing her to this point in her recovery was something she would not be able to accept yet.

Not until she had recovered; not until she had somehow learned to overcome whatever secret burden it was that weighed so heavily on her soul.

_Baj_, he thought to himself, my little _baj_, how can you, so young, so innocent, carry so heavy a burden? What could you possibly have done - or think you have done - in your short life that weighs so heavily upon you that you will deny yourself every chance at happiness - when you deserve it so much? he asked her silently.

But if you cannot - will not! - allow yourself the chance to live, to thrive, to enjoy the many years that lay before you, perhaps I can so that for you.

"Even so, my _baj_," Tiron continued, "it may be some time - weeks, perhaps even months or years - before they do so. You cannot wait that long."

"I can go... back on the... ECMO, if I have to..." she replied.

Tiron frowned at her, knowing she would never be able to tolerate the enforced immobility that returning to that machine would require.

"There are other options, little one," he countered. "If you were in an environment with lower humidity, while you would perspire more, it would evaporate faster as well. I have discussed this with Dr. Crusher, and she agrees that this is an option we should consider."

Andile gave a shake of her head. "You can't reduce... ambient humidity of the... ship. It's set at... the optimum... level for... ship's functions... crew comfort..." she wheezed, her fatigue taking its toll on her attempts to measure her speech.

"I am aware of that - and I was not about to suggest that the ship be altered just for your comfort." Tiron reached for her hand, taking the tiny appendage between his huge ones. "I love you, my little one - but even for you, I would not ask the crew to endure such a change."

Once again, Andile shook her head. "Not my quarters..." she gasped.

"No," Tiron agreed. "That would isolate you almost as much as keeping you on that damned machine. No, my _baj_, I had a different thought. I thought..."

He hesitated. "I thought that, when these negotiations are completed, that you should return to Romulus with me," he said quietly.

Andile looked up at the massive alien, her eyes wide in astonishment.

"_Patchni_?" she whispered.

"I have a large estate in the central western continent. It is situated in a very dry region - quite idyllic, by our standards - with very low ambient humidity. I have already discussed it with Dr. Crusher, and she believes that the humidity - and the temperature - would facilitate your recovery. I would, of course, hire physical therapists to continue your daily regimens - human therapists, of course, ones who are familiar with the intricacies of your physiology," he added hastily.

Andile gaped - then shook her head. "But human, Grandfather," she repeated. "On Romulus. They... would not... be safe..."

"As temporary employees, I would be able to secure guarantees of safety from the Senate for their stay. Such things are routinely done when specialized help is necessary; this would be no different. They would be safe during their stay, while they are attending you," he assured her.

She studied the man, then shook her head again. "But where... would I go... when my guarantee... expires?" she asked him.

"Your guarantee?" Tiron began - then smiled, shaking his head. "No, my little one; you would not need such a thing. Citizens of the Empire do not require guarantees."

"I... am not... a Romulan," she reminded him.

"You would be - as my granddaughter," he said slowly.

Andile stared at him, then looked down at the massive hands that held hers - then back at him, her confusion evident on her face.

"I would adopt you, my little one," he explained. "You would be my granddaughter - Andile Tironbyaj: Andile, granddaughter of the house Tiron - and a full Romulan by law, with all the rights and obligations therein. You would be safe with me, loved and honored as the exceptional young woman you are - and on my world, you would heal and grow well."

She gaped at him, still astounded. "Your... granddaughter," she managed.

"Romulan law permits such things," he assured her quickly. "Indeed, it happens rather often, to protect a child against the political indiscretions of the parents. It would require the consent of your parents, of course - but that would be a formality..."

"My parents... are dead..." she began.

Tiron stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. "I am sorry, my _baj_," he said, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Died... when I was... eight..." she said. "Long ago... so long ago..." she added softly, her eyes looking down at the table.

He watched her, watched as she looked down, her hurt, her pain, still so terribly fresh, even after so many years. Heart-broken, he freed her hand, reaching across the table, taking her head in both of his hands, and kissing it gently.

"I am sorry, my _baj_," he said softly, thinking he understood, at least in part, some of the woman's grief, of the pain she so obviously - and so silently - carried with her. "I, too, lost my parents at an early age - but I must tell, you, it does grow easier with time. I am sorry - but I will try to be a good grandfather to you, my little one," he added.

"Tiron..." she began to protest.

"Do you have any relatives who could give permission?" he pressed.

She gaped at him - then shook her head, too astounded by his single-mindedness to be able think clearly. "No..."

"Then I will speak with the captain. As your senior officer, he would stand in the position of a parent to the remainder of the crew; he could give permission..."

"Tiron," Andile interrupted, stopping the Romulan in mid-rumination.

"Yes, my little one?"

"Tiron... thank you," she managed. "But..."

She stopped suddenly.

But... what? she asked herself - then looked around the room.

It was a beautiful place, she thought; lovely, functional, comfortable, nurturing, welcoming - it was everything that a tired crewmember would need after a stressful day - or that a energetic or bored crewman might need to re-energize themselves. This room was everything she had intended it to be - and judging from the expressions of the few who occupied it at this hour of the day, it was fulfilling its function.

As was the rest of the ship, she reminded herself.

This was a beautiful ship, inside and out, performing exactly as she wanted it to do, helping Starfleet and the Federation fulfill the goals it sought to achieve by providing her crew - and those it bore on its missions - with everything they needed.

This ship, she thought to herself, was everything she had wanted it to be.

Then leave it here, she told herself. Leave it - and go on.

"_Patchni_..." she began.

He raised a hand, stilling her in mid-sentence. "I know, little one. There is so much for you to consider before you accept my offer. But do consider what I am offering; know that with me, you would be safe - and in time, you would be healthy once more. I would see to it. Healthy - and more," he added quietly.

"I am not a poor man, little one. My estate is not a small one - nor is it the only one I possess. My holdings are vast - and I have secured quite a fortune over the years. With no children left to survive me, it would fall, in time, to the state - a waste, I think, for they would squander it in their petty arguments, and divide my land among so many courtiers that, in the end, there would be nothing left but a few handsful of dust.

"No," he said firmly, "in a few years - not too few, I hope - when my time is over, I would like to know that the lands and my wealth would remain with my... family," he said, reaching out to her once again.

"Patchni..." she tried again.

"No, little one," he said firmly. "No decisions made in haste. Think - and we shall talk again in the next few days. Now," he said, releasing her hands, "for truly important matters. You have been subsiding on Sickbay food for too long. It is time for you to eating something that is not only nutritious, but tastes good as well!" he teased her lightly. "Have you thought what you're going to order? Zumell says that Ten Forward makes something called a 'hot fudge sundae' that is quite delicious."

Andile smiled. "No, Patchni. I'm... not hungry," she said.

"Not hungry? After all your work?" he asked skeptically.

She shook her head. "Just... thirsty," she insisted.

He looked at her, doubt in his eyes. "Little one, you must eat," he said plaintively. "Your body is still healing..."

"Not hungry," she repeated.

If it wasn't the complete truth, it was, at least, close enough. After months of being fed intravenously, her stomach had shrunk so extensively that it took only a few mouthfuls for her to become painfully uncomfortable - and while making a habit of eating - even a few mouthfuls at each meal - would have cured that problem, Andile had come to find the thought of food to repellant.

It was grief, Deanna had told her in their first - and only - counseling session.

Andile had nodded blandly at the woman's words that day, thanked her for her presence - then firmly excused the woman from her room.

Deanna had had no choice but to leave; the Sickbay apartment was, in essence, Andile's quarters - and, uninvited, Deanna had violated both professional protocols and Starfleet regs when she had entered the small space uninvited. Andile had been well within her rights to request that the Betazoid leave the space - just as she had been within her right s few minutes later when she had barred Deanna from returning.

Just as she had barred everyone except Geordi, Tiron and Zumell.

Had she been able, she would have barred the medical staff as well - but there were some things, Andile knew, that went beyond the realms of possibility and into that of fantasy.

She wouldn't have to bar any of them from Romulus, she reminded herself.

There, they would be aliens - and the government would bar them for her.

As though they would want to see her, she added sharply.

As though she had any right to think they would want to visit her.

_Andile!_ the voice in her mind whispered.

No! she cried silently, Please, no! - then felt Tiron's hand on her shoulder.

"Little one?" he asked worriedly, seeing the expression of misery on her face. "Are you all right?"

"Just thirsty," she insisted.

"Of course, my little one," he said. "All this work - and all this talk - makes you thirsty, yes?" Tiron said.

Andile nodded.

"But not hungry?"

She shook her head.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Something little, perhaps? The arboretum has several trees with ripening Earth peaches..."

_Andile do not deserve peaches_, the voice told her harshly. _Peaches are for humans! You are not human! You are filth! Andile! ANDILE!_

Stricken by the grief in her soul, she looked down, shaking her head.

"Just... thirsty," she repeated.

"Then a drink," he agreed. "A _bash-tri_, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "Green tea... cold... with passion... fruit... juice. Sweet," she added. "Cold."

"Hmm... Perhaps then I, too, will try this green tea cold," he said, musing over the idea with seeming enthusiasm - and enthusiasm she knew was forced; after the last month, she knew his opinion of human teas, green or black, hot or cold.

She looked up at him. "I know... how you... could make yours... taste better," she said. "Have them... flavor yours... with rum..." she told him.

"Rum," he said nodding - then stopped, looking down at her with a skeptical expression. "That is an alcoholic beverage, isn't it, baj?" he asked her.

She smiled.

"I see," he grumbled at her. "You know I have another negotiating session with your captain this evening - and you want your old _patchni_ to be incompetent, so your Federation will win this round of talks," he accused her lightly.

"Have to... do my part... for... the Federation," she answered.

"You have done enough, my little one," he told her gently. "Now it is my turn to do - for you," he said softly, rising from the table, towering over her. "I shall return in a few minutes. Will you be all right?" he asked, the worry on his face unmistakable.

"You're only... going... a few feet away," she reminded him.

"That was not the question, child; will you be all right?" he repeated.

She smiled at his concern, then nodded. "I'll... be fine," she said.

"And I will be right back," he told her - yet before he left he scanned her position once more, took a pillow from a nearby chair, braced it against her hip to secure her position, gave her a final inspection - then hurried away, as though he dared leave her for only a few seconds.

You don't have to worry, _patchni_, she told him silently. I'm alone every night - and even if I weren't, Dr. Crusher has me wired with every imaginable monitor and sensor she can dream up. One wrong step - one cough too many, one gasp too deep - one sneeze! - and every alarm in Sickbay is going to go off and a dozen med techs will be all over me. By the gods, if I did fall, they'd probably call a red alert.

But agreeing to wear the monitors had been the cost of leaving with Tiron, she knew; Dr. Crusher was taking no chances with her condition.

But, she added, staring at the familiar yet unfamiliar room, it was well worth it.

The windows were beautiful reaching from floor to ceiling, separated by what she knew, at least at some levels of her mind, was enough tritanium and duranium to ensure structural stability, while giving the inhabitants of the room a stunning view of the stars outside.

They were lovely, she thought, a pang of something running through her mind - and through her heart.

For a moment, she looked away, startled by the unexpected and unfamiliar sensation, unable to recognize it - then looked up again, staring at the stars once more.

Homesickness, she realized slowly; they remind me of home.

Home had been a horrible place, she knew, full of pain and loneliness and misery - and yet...

It had been home.

And it had been beautiful.

Far closer to the galactic center than her subsequent worlds had been, the night skies had shone with a radiance that she had never seen since. Stars of every shade and size, of every temperature and luminosity were hers for the viewing in the night skies of Parahs, an exquisite display that could be denied to no one - not even the wretched, the andile.

The stars had been hers - hers to dream upon, hers to wish upon, hers to pray to as they had been the gods themselves - and perhaps, in their way they had been, for they had, in the end, saved her.

After all, she mused, the memories returning to her unbidden, if the stars had not shone so brilliantly, the priests would have never forced the science ministries to develop space travel - and she would never have found her way off the accursed world.

That she had moved from the misery of her world to the loneliness of a hundred more didn't matter; she had always known there was refuge in the stars - refuge, freedom... peace.

She stared at the stars a moment longer, studying their beauty - but as marvelous as they were, they weren't her stars; here, on the border of the Breen and Federation territories, was a no-man's-land, a tacitly agreed upon zone where neither would tread - because neither wanted it. The few stars were, indeed, lovely - but they were few, and far between, and the planets, what few there were in this deserted region, weren't worth the effort from either side to claim and colonize.

And they most certainly weren't worth fighting over, she added.

Here was the peace of neutrality, but also the peace of the desert - and for the second time she felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her.

Strange, she mused; I haven't missed home in centuries - and now, twice in two minutes?

She shook her head - slowly, carefully, as they had made her practice, reminding her that the tissue of her neck and spinal cord were still fragile and her muscles still terribly weak - and need came over her again.

_Andile!_ the voice screamed at her. Filth! Sewage! You dare need?! You dare _want_? You are andile!

No, no... she began to protest.

_Protests? Justifications? You are andile! You have no right to protest - and no right to excuse yourself! You are filth!_

No!

_I know what you did! I know what you tried to do - you tried to kill yourself, to have that human shoot you, kill you, so you could be free..._

I was trying to save the captain! she cried back.

_Justifications! Excuses! Lies!_ the voice hissed. _You tried to kill yourself! You tried to deny yourself, your duty, your responsibility! But you can never escape! You are andile!_

_And you know what you must do!_

Horrified, she tried to pull away from the voice - but it was part of her; it had always been a part of her - would always be a part of her - and it would always be right.

I know, she whispered back; I know.

She tried to lift her hand - but the muscles were too fatigued, too weak to cooperate.

_Andile! the voice dried. Andile! Do it!_

I can't! she cried back, I can't.

_DO IT!_ the voice screamed.

No! she gasped - but there could be no avoiding this fate, she knew; sooner or later Tiron would have to know... as they all would have to know.

But not now, she protested, bracing her hands against the table, pushing herself up, desperate to leave the table, to leave Tiron, to hide herself away, to tear herself away from even these few comforts - comforts she didn't deserve, comforts that andile were forbidden.

Andile! she screamed again, pushing herself to her feet...

A hand on her shoulder pushed her back.

"No need to stand, Lieutenant," Will Riker said. "After all, you're on leave, and I'm off duty - for another five minutes," he added with a grin. "You mind?" he added, gesturing at the chair across the table from her.

Stunned, shocked at the unexpected intrusion, she started, "Tiron..."

"Oh, I won't interrupt your lunch," he countered instantly, settling in across from her. "I can't stay long. I was just finishing up a late lunch," he held up the napkin he had been using as evidence, "and I do have to get back to the bridge before the captain leaves for the evening's negotiations. But when I saw you, I decided the bridge could wait." He stared at her studying her intently for a minute. "So," he said at last, "how are you doing?"

Andile hesitated for a moment, then gave a slow nod of her head. "I'm... fine," she managed.

"Really?" Will countered dubiously. "'Cause you look like hell."

She stared at him for a moment - then grinned and gave a weak laugh. "Thank... you," she wheezed.

Will smiled at her, reached out and clapped his hand over hers, patting it reassuringly. "Everyone's been telling you that you look great, haven't they," he said.

She nodded.

"They're lying," he continued. "Oh, they mean well enough," he went on, "but..." He shook his head. "I've been there, Beej. Sick, injured a couple of times," he admitted. "I'd get over the worst of it - physically, but I still felt like... garbage. But everyone insisted I was 'looking good', 'looking better' - whatever. It didn't make me feel better; hell, it made me feel worse, because I found myself trying to meet that expectation of 'looking better'. And trying to meet that expectation was exhausting - as exhausting as the recovery itself. I would have given a lot for a 'private room' in Sickbay," he added, grinning at her.

"It's yours... for... the asking," she answered.

Will affixed her with an astounded look. "Beverly's discharging you from Sickbay?" he gaped, unable to believe the idea.

Andile shook her head. "Not yet. But... when we get back... to Earth... I'll be... remanded... to Starfleet Medical... until... my discharge," she said.

"Then you've decided to leave Starfleet?" he countered, clearly disappointed.

"No... choice. Can't stay. Not... like this," she added. "What... would I do?"

"You could still teach," he pointed out. "You're a hell of a teacher, Beej. And engine design doesn't require the ability to run a four minute mile. You know, we never did finish the installation on those engines," he reminded her.

"I'll... finish... the notes... for Geordi," Andile said.

"Notes aren't enough, Biji; we need you."

She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes - but shook her head. "Can't. Please... Commander... don't make this... harder... It's hard enough... now..."

"Just think about it, Biji. If nothing else, remember... you owe me that list of jokes," he said, his voice perfectly serious, utterly sober.

"What?"

"The jokes," her repeated, a grin splitting across his face. "Remember? Way back when - in Engineering? You said that when you had some 'down time' you were going to write out that list of all the jokes you knew. Well, Beej, you've got down time - in spades. If you're serious about leaving Starfleet - and personally, I think it's a damned stupid idea," he added, his voice tinged with anger, "but if you're hell bent on leaving, then I want the damned jokes. Or I'll make damned sure that Beverly loses whatever notes she's been making on your condition. Your discharge could take, oh... months? A year?... to finish processing," he told her, his voice growing tight.

"You... wouldn't..."

He smiled - but there was no humor in his expression. "I can - and I will. You can quit on yourself, you can quit on Starfleet, on the people who care for you and love you, Lieutenant - but you are going to honor your obligations to me. Am I understood?" he said grimly.

She gaped at him - then allowed the gape to turn to a glare. "I don't... need... this... shit... from you... Commander! You can... take... your... fucking... jokes... and your... gods' cursed... fucking... motivational... speeches... and your... fucking... sympathy... and go... fuck... yourself!" she gasped, then planted her hands on the table, pushed herself up, and started for the door.

"Baj!"

Tiron hastily set down the two glasses he was carrying and hurried after her.

"Baj, you mustn't..." he began pleadingly.

"Go... away... Tiron..." she wheezed, gasping desperately after only a few steps. "I... don't... need... you... Don't... need... anyone... "

She managed two more steps before her legs refused to cooperate, then stumbled and fell to the floor.

Instantly, Tiron knelt beside her, reaching for her, trying to pick her up - only to have his hands pushed away.

"Leave... me... alone!" she insisted.

"Baj, please, let me help you..."

"NO!" she insisted, then slowly pushed herself to her hands and knees.

"Little one, you cannot crawl back to Sickbay..."

"Yes... I... can... Don't... need... you... Don't... want... you! I'm... andile... I'm... andile!" she cried out. "Leave... me... alone!"


	158. Chapter 158

**Chapter 158**

"What the devil were you thinking, Will?" Deanna seethed several hours later, the two of them, along with Beverly and Picard, sitting in the captain's ready room.

"I wasn't thinking..." Will began.

"I'll say you weren't!" she snapped.

Will drew a deep breath, then gave a long exhalation, shaking his head slowly. "That wasn't what I was going to say. I was going to say," he continued, giving her a look of carefully calculated patience - patience that could easily wear thin, "that I wasn't thinking of getting into a fight with her! I was finishing lunch, saw Biji and Tiron appear - and thought I'd go visit for a moment. See how she was feeling, give her a little grief - you know, the Will Riker approach to rehabilitation: no pity, no sympathy - but let her know that I'm there for her - if she wants me to be.

"That's what I intended," he continued, "and it was going fine - I was teasing her about the list of jokes she had promised to write down for me - and then, all of a sudden, I couldn't control myself! I was just... furious! She was just giving up! On herself, on us, on Starfleet - throwing away everything she had worked for - everything we had all worked for! All I could see was red rage, all I felt was pure disgust!" He shook his head again, appalled - but this time by his behavior, not hers. "God, how could I have done that?" he muttered to himself. "She's so... sick - and there I was shouting at her... "

He buried his head in his hand, ashamed, then felt a hand - Beverly's - on his shoulder, guiding him to the couch. "Don't be too hard on yourself. Will. Andile's always been able to affect those around her - it's just that usually it's for the better, not for the worse. I should have anticipated this might happen," she added. "The strain of going out, in 'public' for the first time in months... I should have eased her into it..."

"I don't think you could have made it any easier than it was, Beverly," Deanna countered sympathetically. "Ten Forward was virtually deserted, she was with one of the few people with whom she feels utterly safe... No, you did what you could to soften the blow of making that first trip, Beverly. That Andile responded as she did..." Deanna hesitated, biting her lip as she thought through what she knew she had to say. "I believe Andile's response is a clear indicator that her mental condition is as precarious as her physical condition. And while it may be a consequence of her injuries - perhaps related to the brain damage - we have to accept that emotionally, Andile was already very unstable, very fragile, even before her injury. Captain," she said, turning to Picard, "it is my recommendation that Andile be offered Counseling again - but, if she declines the opportunity, that we consider the need for long-term sedation - and possibly stasis - until we can return to Earth and get her the medical and psychological care she needs."

Picard drew in a long breath, nodding at the suggestion - but the nod was one of accepting the information, not necessarily the recommendation. For a long moment, he mulled the idea over in his head - then looked at Beverly.

"Doctor?" he asked.

Beverly hesitated as well, contemplating Deanna's suggestion - then sighed. "Andile is, unquestionably, emotionally unstable. And she has been so since before her arrival on this ship - but until now she had been able to control, at least to a degree, that instability. Her ability to control that instability, however, has been seriously impaired by her injuries, and as a result, she is acting out those instabilities more openly than she did before.

"The question before us now is not, 'Is Biji mentally ill?' That, I think, is a given. Rather, the question is, 'Is she a danger, to herself, the ship, or the crew?' If we answer that question yes, then I agree with Deanna: we must, for her sake and ours, confine her, sedate her, even place her in stasis - if," she added firmly, "we decided she is a danger.

"But _is_ she a danger?" Beverly continued. "To herself? No; absolutely not. Her cultural indoctrination - her religious orientation - is absolute in this matter: andile may not suicide - by act or inaction," she said, anticipating Will and Deanna's objection before they could voice it.

"She stepped in front of Tillerman's phaser," Will reminded her.

Beverly smiled. "Self-sacrifice isn't suicide, Will; laying down your life for a friend, for a cause - that is honorable, it's noble - in our culture and hers. We build memorials to people who do what she did, Will; we call them heroes, not suicides.

"You can't tell me that crawling back to Sickbay was good for her health!" the first officer protested.

"I can - and I will. First, her artificial lung will not allow her to overtax its own capabilities; she is fully aware that it cannot permit her to do anything excessive. If the work had required more air than the lung could provide, then she would have collapsed, her respiration rate would have dropped as a result - and her oxygenation rate would have returned to normal. She knows that - because it happened in the first few days she was wearing it.

"Second, her sheer determination in completing that task - even if her reasons were of the worst type - was admirable. She refused to let anyone, even Tiron help her - and, while it took her over two hours to do so, she did, indeed crawl back. You don't think that takes determination? Then you try it," she added. "It might have been taxing, exhausting - ruinous to her knees - but she set herself a goal - and she succeeded. If she had simply given up, if she had let Tiron carry her back, then I would be more concerned than I am. But she didn't; she did what she's notorious for - and respected for: she fought.

"All this brings me to the second question: is Andile a danger to our ship or the crew? In light of what she did on the Breen ship, I have to say, 'no'. Yes, it was the captain whose life she saved directly - but indirectly, she was acting to preserve the ship - and the Federation. If he had been injured or killed, there is every chance that we would have retaliated; certainly the Federation would have been placed in a very tenuous position. While we are not in a political or economic situation to initiate a war against the Breen, we could also not afford to _not_ act. To fail to do so would be an open display of our internal disarray - and a clear sign to the Romulans, Cardassians - even the Klingons! - that the Federation was ripe for the picking - and either unable or unwilling to defend itself.

"No, Andile's actions on the Breen ship are a clear indicator to me that she would not permit the ship or her crew to come to harm," Beverly insisted.

"I agree with you, Beverly," Deanna replied. "What Andile did before the accident is a clear marker of her mental state... then. But since the accident?" she pressed.

"Since the accident, nothing has changed," Beverly countered.

"Beverly!" Deanna gaped, "How can you say that? Biji's actions..."

"Have been aggressive, yes. Vulgar and outlandish, yes - but dangerous? Captain, Deanna, Will, think about what she's done. She's gotten angry - yes. But did she physically lash out at anyone? No.

"There is something else I would like you to consider," she added. "Andile has the right to refuse treatment; she has the right to refuse medication, food - everything related to her care. She has not done so - probably because she is fully aware that I could override that decision, claiming she was non compos mentos. That argument might or might not be valid - but, in the eyes of Starfleet and the Federation, I would have been legally within my rights to challenge her on the point.

"But she didn't," Beverly continued. "She didn't fight us, not because it was a pointless fight - because fighting those fights she believed in, pointless or not, has always been one of her finest traits - but, I believe, because she knew, at one level of another, the hurt that would have caused us - those of us who were responsible for her daily care. Refusing care - and making us watch her as she slowly died - or refusing care, and being forced to suffer through our ministrations against her will - both of these would have injured us, the people around her.

"She wouldn't do that; she would not deliberately hurt those who cared for her," Beverly said empathically.

"But she didn't do anything to help you," Deanna pointed out. "You, yourself, pointed out that she was not cooperating."

Will laughed, then shook his head. "Deanna, when has Beej ever made anything easy for anyone? Oh, I have no doubts she didn't make it easy for you and your people, Beverly - but I think you're right: if she had wanted to do you harm, she could have found a way."

He looked at Picard - then at Deanna. "If it comes to a vote, then I've got to support Beverly on this. But..."

"But something has to be done about the lieutenant," Picard agreed.

"Suggestions?"

Deanna spoke up. "Offer her Counseling once again, sir - but make it clear that if she chooses not to participate, that her future in Starfleet will be in jeopardy."

Picard shook his head. "I doubt that would work, Counselor. From what Cmdr. Riker has said, she's already decided that her career is over."

"_If_ she's sincere about it," Deanna said doubtfully. "Starfleet has been her life for almost a hundred years," she reminded them all. "I doubt she'd give it up just because she's reluctant to go in to Counseling."

"I don't think it's just a matter of being reluctant to go into Counseling, Deanna," Beverly countered. "It's more than that - much more. For the first time in her life, Andile is facing the fact that she has truly been injured."

"She's been injured before," Will countered, "on Sipantha - or wherever it was that she was when she was hurt," he added. "The point is: she's been through this before. She recovered. What's different this time?" he asked. "Why's she giving up? She didn't give up before!"

"She might have, Will - if she had been given a choice," Beverly replied. "But she wasn't given the choice; the doctors at Starfleet Medical did everything necessary to force her body to heal without her ability to consent or object - and with Andile's recuperative powers, she did heal.

"But that won't happen this time. This time, the wounds are beyond the ability of medical technology to repair, beyond her body's ability to regenerate; this time, the damage is permanent; this time, she is not going to get better. This has never happened to her before," Beverly said with a quiet firmness. "For the first time - the first time, in a long, long life, she's confronting her own mortality. Worse, she confronting the fact that her life will never be the same again.

"Andile has been injured beyond her ability to recover, beyond our ability to help her recover," she continued. "Yes, she will continue to gain strength, to regain her coordination, to learn to use her arm - but her breathing will always be impaired; we cannot replace the lungs she lost, we cannot give her back so much of what she lost. She's beginning to realize that this is how the rest of her life will be - and she cannot cope with that fact," she concluded quietly.

"So she's running away?" Will objected angrily.

"What else can she do, Will?" Deanna countered.

"What do you mean, what can she do? She could come to us for help! Damn it, we're her friends!" he protested.

"She doesn't know that, Will," the empath said softly. "She's never had friends. She's lived her life - all of it - alone."

"She's not alone now!" he snapped.

"In her mind, she is," Deanna replied, "and until we can change that perception, she will be."

For a long time, silence reigned in the small room, then Will spoke. "So what do we do?"

"I'd like to get her into Counseling, to help her to understand that she isn't alone, that she does have others she can turn to," Deanna said.

"Unfortunately, she's made her opinions about Counseling perfectly clear," she added.

"And if we can't change her mind, if we can't help her before the negotiations with the Cardassians and the Romulans is completed," Beverly added, "we may never be able to help her. Once we reach Earth, if she still is determined to leave Starfleet, there will be nothing we can do to stop her - and nothing we can do to help her."

Will sighed, then looked at Picard. "How much time does that give us, Captain?" he asked.

Picard shook his head. "I can't give you a finite date, Will. The negotiations are progressing more slowly than I would have anticipated, due in part to the Breen's desire to initiate talks of their own." He gave a soft sigh of frustration - and exhaustion.

Will smiled sympathetically at his commanding officer's fatigue; conducting negotiations with two potential enemies while simultaneously initiating first contact talks with another species was obviously taking a toll on Picard - but, Will added to himself, it was a toll that could work to their advantage.

"You know, sir, if those talks were to slow down - perhaps drag on for another few weeks," he said hopefully, "it would give us a chance to help Biji..."

"Will," Picard interrupted, "I will not jeopardize the talks - either set of talks - just to facilitate the recovery of one of my crew."

The three officers stared at the man, disappointed in his answer - but understanding.

Peace - and the survival of the Federation - were the reasons for this mission - and, Will reminded himself, the reason Biji had sacrificed so much. To forsake that, to ignore that sacrifice in an attempt to help her, would be an insult, an invalidation of everything Andile - and thousands of others like her - had given up for that greater goal.

No, Will agreed, Beej wouldn't want that.

"On the other hand," Picard continued, "I do believe that Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell would regret a too speedy conclusion to these talks; any decisions made in haste might well be rejected by our respective governments. Cmdr. LaForge has informed me that he has restored our long range subspace communications; I believe that it would be in the best interests of all parties if we were to communicate with Starfleet and the Federation, to advise them that we are safe - and request that they inform both Cardassia and Romulus of our status and the safety of their representatives, and that the discussions are progressing. If the Cardassians or the Romulans care to advise their ambassadors, they will be free to do so - just as the Federation may wish to send a replacement representative to replace me in these talks."

"Sir," Will interjected, "even at subspace transmission speeds, it will take more than two weeks for our messages to reach Starfleet - and two weeks for their response to reach us," Will reminded him.

"Indeed?" Picard replied. "How unfortunate."

It took Will a moment to understand the captain's meaning - but when he spoke again, a moment later, there was a glint of mischievousness in the man's eye. "What's worse is that it will probably take the Federation - and the Romulans and the Cardassians - a few more weeks to decide what they want to do."

"And until we do know their intentions," Deanna offered, "it would be inadvisable for the talks to continue - wouldn't it, Captain?" she said.

"It would have the potential of being counterproductive," Picard agreed - then looked at the three soberly and seriously. "You have four weeks, six at the most. Beyond that..." He hesitated. "Beyond that, I can make no assurances. If Starfleet orders us back to Earth - and in light of the situation with Tillerman no longer being the Federation representative, they will most likely do just that - if they order us back to Earth, then we will have to return. And once we are there, there is nothing you can do to prevent the lieutenant from doing as she wishes - including leaving Starfleet, if she so chooses.

"Six weeks - at the most. That's all the time I can give you," he repeated. "Make the most of it - and good luck," he added.

Grinning, Will turned to Deanna, proffered a crooked arm, then headed for the door.

Reaching it, however, they stopped, then turned back and looked at Beverly. "Coming, Doctor?" Will asked jovially.

"We do need to make some plans, Beverly," Deanna said. "The captain bought us time - but it's going to take more than time to get Biji to accept our help. We're going to need a plan."

Beverly nodded. "I need to discuss a few details with the captain first. I'll meet you in a few minutes," she said.

"We'll be in Ten Forward," Deanna said.

"Make it your quarters," Beverly replied hastily, a frown crossing her face - then forced a smile. "Andile may be secluding herself, but she has an uncanny way of knowing everything that's going on on this ship; what isn't overheard can't be accidentally shared with her," she advised them.

The two looked at each other, brows raised in question - then looked back and nodded.

"My quarters," Deanna said.

"I'll be there," Beverly assured her, then turned away, studying her hands until she heard the door close behind her - then turned to face Picard.

He met her gaze. "Why the secrecy?" he asked, glancing at the door that Will and Deanna had just exited. "If the lieutenant has isolated herself a completely as Deanna says she has, she won't overhear any ship's gossip."

Beverly's brow arched in skepticism. "The most adept telepath this ship has ever encountered - and you think she won't 'hear' what we're planning?" She shook her head. "Naiveté doesn't become you, Captain."

"I'm not being naïve, Doctor," he objected. "Aside from what happened when she first awoke, we have had no subsequent evidence that her telepathy has returned; indeed, your reports indicate that that may be one of the areas of her brain that has suffered damage."

"On the contrary, Captain; we now have evidence that even if there was damage, her abilities are returning," she replied. "Unless, of course, you believe your first officer has suddenly become prone to bursts of unreasoning anger," she added, looking at him questioningly.

Picard pursed his lips in contemplation, then nodded, accepting her analysis that Will's sudden fury was far more likely to have been a projection of the telepath's inner rage than Will's disappointment in the woman. "I'll accept that," he demurred. "But what makes you believe Deanna's quarters will be sacrosanct?" he asked.

"Biji can hear anything, in any place, that she wants - but she also understands and respects the privacy of those around her. She might eavesdrop on Ten Forward, but never in crew quarters. No, what we talk about there is safe."

"And here?" he asked her, gesturing at the room around them.

"I suspect Andile sees your ready room as being a part of your private world," Beverly explained. God knows you spend more time here than in your quarters, she added silently. "I doubt she would violate your privacy here anymore than she would violate it within your quarters."

He nodded again, accepting the decision - then raised his eyes to hers. "So what was it you wanted to discuss with me, Doctor?" he asked.

Beverly looked at the man for some time, then said in a voice tinged with badly concealed anger, "Four weeks. you gave us - and Andile - four weeks."

"Possibly six," he corrected her.

"Six weeks then," she conceded, none of the anger fading. "Six weeks to undo the damage that ten thousand - fifteen thousand - years of loneliness and isolation have wrought."

"That's all the time I can arrange, Doctor," he countered, his voice growing equally cold.

"Then why bother?" she retorted. "Jean-Luc, you know as well as I do that six weeks isn't enough time for Deanna to even make a dent in Andile's defenses - let alone convince her to initiate counseling!" she argued.

"The lieutenant is a member of my crew, Beverly," he replied. "I have to make an attempt to help her. It's the least I can do."

"Yes," she replied. "It _is_ the least you can do. Anything less would be deemed indifference or outright abuse of your crew; this way, doing the 'least' you can, the forms are met, the requirements observed; you did what was necessary - and if it fails, well, you did your part, didn't you?" she said caustically. "And after all, that's all that matters, isn't it? You did your part."

He glared at her, stunned - then felt the fury return, unabated - and uncheckable.

"What the hell do you want me to do, Beverly?"

She glared back, equally furious. "What I want you to do, Jean-Luc, is to _do_ something! Not sit back and let your crew take on the responsibility while you sit up here, secluded and distant!"

"I am not sitting back, Beverly; I'm genuinely concerned about the lieutenant..."

"Concerned? She was in Sickbay for months - and aside from that one day in the operating room, you didn't come down to visit her once!"

"She was unconscious..."

"That didn't stop anyone else from visiting!" she snapped back. "Damn it, almost every crewman aboard made the effort to see her, to talk to her, to try to help her recover! Everyone - except her captain!"

"I had work, Beverly - not only my own duties, but negotiations with Ambassador Tiron and Tar Zumell - and initiating talks with the Breen," he reminded her. "I didn't have the luxury of socializing."

"Socializing?" she sneered. "You didn't have to have an animated conversation with her! She was unconscious! All you had to do was talk to her - talk _at_ her, for God's sake! Say 'Hello'! Say, 'How are you?' Say 'Thank you for saving my life'! But I guess that's a luxury a busy Starfleet captain can't afford; I guess having someone almost die trying to save your life is de rigueur for a busy man like you - not even worth the effort of saying thanks!" she goaded him.

"That's quite enough, Doctor!"

"It's not half enough, Captain!" she snapped back. "I've spent the last fifteen years watching you separate yourself from the people around you - and I accepted it. I accepted that line of yours that a captain can't have a close relationship with his crew, because a commander needs to remain objective; I accepted it, went along with it - hell, I think I even began to believe it!

"But the truth is that it has nothing to do with objectivity; you're keeping your distance because you don't want the crew to get close enough to you to learn the truth!"

"And that truth would be...?" he snapped back.

"That you're a coward, Jean-Luc," she replied. "Oh, you'll face any enemy, any disaster, any crisis willingly enough - but when your crew needs _you_ - when they need _you_ - your heart, your soul, to comfort them, to reassure them - you're not there. You've run away, and left Deanna - and Will, and me - and everyone else on board, to clean up the emotional messes that a crew creates. That's not professional objectivity, Captain; that's cowardice - and cowardice at its worst."

He stared at her, beyond anger now, stone-faced and rigid with rage. "It is not cowardice, Doctor, to attempt to provide a crewman with the help he or she needs - and right now, the lieutenant needs professional counseling..."

"Wrong!" Beverly interrupted. "What she needs is a friend."

"She has Data..."

"Data?! As far as Andile's knows, he dumped her!" Beverly cried out. "The last person she wants to see is Data; the last person she can believe or trust is Data! She wants someone she can trust - and right now, despite everything he's done for her, he is the last person she can trust! No! She needs a friend - a real friend!"

He met her eyes, seeing the challenge there - then looked away. "I'm certain Counselor Troi can act adequately in that capacity..."

"But Deanna wasn't the one on the Breen ship with her," Beverly replied, her voice suddenly growing soft, gentle. "Deanna wasn't the one who shared her memories, her took on her pain when the Breen tried to repair her hands and feet, who carried her so you could both escape; Deanna wasn't the one who held her heart to keep her from bleeding to death..." She looked at him, her eyes soft with tenderness, with understand - with compassion... and more. "I know what happened over there, Jean-Luc; Jemat told me everything...

"Not everything," he countered.

"No? Then you tell me, Jean-Luc," she pressed gently.

He didn't answer, preferring, instead, to stare at the stars.

"Jean-Luc?" she tried again. "What didn't Jemat tell me?"

For a long time he was silent, then...

"I should have let her die."

The words were spoken so softly that Beverly almost missed them.

"Jean-Luc?"

He stood before her, staring into nothingness for several moments - then looked at her, the glare and the ice gone from his eyes - but the rage, the fury, still there.

But it the rage, the anger was not directed at her; instead, it was directed at a target far closer.

"I should have let her die, then and there," he repeated. "Instead... Instead, I kept her alive. I made Data and Worf keep her alive. I made you keep her alive. But you were all right; I should have let her die. She saved my life... and I condemned her to... this," he whispered emptily.

"Jean-Luc..."

"I thought I was doing the right thing..." He suddenly stopped himself, shaking his head. "No. I keep thinking that, keep rationalizing what I did. But it wasn't the right thing. I know it now - and I think I knew it then."

"Then why?"

He didn't answer her immediately, turning instead to the windows, staring at the unmoving stars as though searching for something.

"Then why?" Beverly repeated after a few minutes. "If you thought it was wrong, then why?"

He studied the stars a moment longer, then turned to her once again. "I don't know," he answered. "I've asked myself that question every day since we returned, Beverly - and I still don't have an answer."

"Maybe there is no answer," Beverly said sympathetically. "Sometimes, we don't act, we just... react."

"Starfleet captains are taught not to 'just react'," he replied curtly.

"Starfleet captains are also taught that sometimes they make mistakes; after all, even Starfleet captains are still human," she reminded him gently.

For a moment the two were still silent, then Beverly spoke. "Whatever your reasons for what you did, Jean-Luc, you did it - and she is alive. As much as you might like to change what happened - as much as Andile might rather she had died - she's here. And she's in pain. And what she needs right now, more than anything else, is a friend. Someone who understands what's she's suffering. Someone who was there," she added.

Picard looked at her, the anger flaring once again. "Damn it, Beverly, how can I go to her after what I did?!" he railed furiously. "What am I supposed to say? 'I'm sorry'?!"

Beverly met his eyes - then nodded. "For a start, yes. And then, you go on to, 'And I'm not sorry. I'm glad you survived - now let me help you get well'."

He drew a deep breath, then shook his head. "I condemned her to this life she didn't want, Beverly; she's not going to be able to forgive me."

"Perhaps not," she said quietly. "But you need to try, for her sake - and for yours. And then, Jean-Luc, you need to do something that's even harder."

He looked at her, his eyes filled with question.

"You need to forgive yourself."

She stepped toward him, raised herself slightly, and placed a kiss on his cheek - then turned and left, leaving the man to his thoughts.

For a long time, he watched the door she had passed through - then turned to the windows, and watched the stars.


	159. Chapter 159

**Chapter 159**

She sat near the top of the hill, looking down on the vast field that led from the _c'nera_ forest to the open harbor. Before her, people had already begun to gather in small groups, mostly in traditional family clusters, the two parents and their precious single child huddled between them, quietly talking, listening to the soft music that carried up from the water's edge where the musicians played.

Here and there, a larger family of four dotted the landscape, made more noticeable by their inordinate size - and by the envious stares of the smaller families around them.

None were larger, she knew; she could have programmed the holodeck to have created families of five or more - but that would not have been true to her memory - or to the facts. No, this program was as accurate as she could make it, from the slightly foul scent of the _c'nera_ forest to the sweet melody of the distant orchestra - to the sad reality of the culture dying before her.

Dying in more way than one, she had reminded herself in the days she had spent in Sickbay, creating the program that would give her back her home world once more; dying not just from the sun that would, in the not too distant future, go nova, destroying all that had been Parash, killing her people, her culture - and her horrors. In one instant, all that had been would disappear forever, as if they had never existed - except in the minds of those who had been aboard the lone ship. There, the world would live on - for a few months longer.

But how much longer would they have survived if the sun hadn't destroyed them? she wondered, studying the small groups before her. Not long; one child for every two adults was not enough for a society or a people to survive - let alone to thrive - and so often there were no children born to a couple. Those unusual families that managed to bring more lives to the world were few and far between - and with every generation she watched, they became rarer and rarer.

A part of her knew she could make the calculation, that she could determine just how long her world would have survived from this point on - but she had not spent the last week working on this program so that she could waste her holodeck privileges on pointless computations; they had died, long ago - and nothing she could do now - or could have done - would have changed a damned thing.

She gave a short harsh laugh, hating the way her lungs forced the air from her throat, hating the hoarse, uneven sound that her voice had become.

Oh, the therapists had insisted that with time, with practice, it would change, that it would become 'natural', that she would speak as easily as she once had done... but it would never be the same, she knew. Speaking would always be an effort, a foreign activity - something that separated her from those around her, that reminded her that she was different.

That she was alone.

That she was andile.

I should have stayed, she thought, staring emptily at those below her; I should have stayed and died with them.

But regret was an emotion that andile didn't merit, she reminded herself as well; andile took what they were given and accepted it as their lot.

The wind shifted, sending faint aromas of cooking food up to where she sat beneath the trees, and sending a faint wave of nausea washing over Andile.

The first time she had sat here - and the last time, she reminded herself, so many millennia ago, the nausea had been because she had been starving. The _c'nera_ forests afforded protection for her kind - but nothing more. The trees poisoned the soil, keep all but the most basic of lichens and mosses from growing on the ground, providing no sustenance for even the insects and scurrying rodents that had for so many years - decades? centuries? she wondered - been her source of food.

But the changes in the sun that presaged the final end the world faced had changed the world's climates. The annual floods that granted the limited fertility to the river banks to which the andile were exiled had failed for three years - and with each year, what little food they could provide had decreased until none was left.

Starving, she had made her way from the river banks that had been her home to the mountains - and began the arduous climb.

Time and again she had fallen, tearing her flesh, breaking her bones, rupturing organs - and each time, as she lay broken on the rocks, she had wondered when death would take her.

It never did.

And after a day or two - or a week or a month - she would find the broken bones healed, the flesh renewed, the damaged organs functioning - and she would rouse herself, and begin to climb again.

How, she did not understand - but after a time, she ceased to wonder or even to care. All that she knew was hunger and thirst - and that beyond the mountains lay a world that had once given her life.

And death.

It wouldn't matter if they found her here among the trees, starving, or within the boundaries of the village, rifling through the middens searching for scraps of food; no matter that none of the people would willingly live among the foul-scented _c'nera_, no matter that there was nothing here that they could want or use; the mere fact that an andile dared live so close to humans was enough to spell her death.

But she could not die, she reminded herself as she looked down at the others, pulling her cloak closer to her body. If she could die, this would be suicide - and andile could not suicide.

Even if we could, Andile reminded herself, the holodeck would not permit it - or rather, Andile conceded, Beverly Crusher would not permit it.

Andile hadn't expected her to do so; she knew full well she had thrown down the gauntlet when she had barred everyone - Tiron and Zumell included - from her quarters after the debacle in Ten Forward, submitting only to the presence of medical technicians when Beverly could prove the procedure was essential to her survival - and then refusing all peripheral medications related to those procedures.

It had left the technicians to peel the flesh from her body each time they changed her artificial lung, ripping great strips from her body, leaving bloody and oozing wounds in lieu of soft pink flesh; it had left them to watch as spasms tore through her over-worked legs and arms during each therapy session; it had left them to suffer the rasping gasps of an over-stressed, overworked throat as she pushed through each session, allowing herself no respite from the hell that she faced - but allowing them no relief either.

Beverly had begged and pleaded with the woman - but to no avail. The same regulations that required Andile to submit to treatments required Beverly to grant her those freedoms - regardless of the consequences.

Left on her own for increasingly long periods of time - and in response to that strange upwelling of homesickness that had plagued her since that day with Tiron, she had begun work on the holodeck program - a holodeck program she had completed two days before.

She had requested the use of the deck at that time - but Beverly, citing a diagnosis of clinical depression and Andile's increasing isolation, she had required Andile to submit the program she had written for the Parashian homeworld to Geordi for a thorough review, screening it intently for any bypass that would allow her to turn off the safety protocols.

He would find none, Andile had known as she turned over the disc; there were none. No overrides, no bypasses, no potential opportunities for suicide or even accidental death. It was nothing more than a pastoral recreation of the world she had once inhabited, focusing on one spectacular evening that she had experienced one evening - along with a thousand other Parashians.

She grinned coldly. No, try as they might, they would find nothing dangerous - only the gentle hillside, sloping up from the harbor, to the large plain and its soft grasses, to the rocky ground of the _c'nera_ forest, to the stunning night sky.

That's all they would find - because that's all there was.

That's all that was necessary.

After all, everything she needed was safely locked in the mindset of the other participants - and even the most circumspect investigation Geordi could perform would not know to consider the possibility of mass hysteria - a fragment of rage and hatred that, on its own, meant nothing - but combined with that of a thousand others?

Even the holodecks safety protocols wouldn't know to search out that one small bit of data.

But it was enough, Andile knew, looking down at the hundreds of rocks and stones strewn about the ground.

One inadvertent sound - and the people would realize they were not alone; one searcher - and they would find her; one look - and they would know what she was.

The outcome was inevitable, she knew; there would be rocks and stones enough for each of them to vent their anger upon her.

She wouldn't die, of course; she couldn't permit herself to suicide, even through another's actions - and the monitors and alarms she wore would alert Sickbay within moments of the event to what had happened.

They would retrieve her - but no matter how quickly they reacted, the damage would be done - and the consequences inescapable.

She knew; she had lived through it before - as she would live through it this time.

Or rather, as someone would live through it, she reminded herself coldly.

The villagers would throw stones first, aiming for the chest and the head first, she knew; that was critical to their technique - and to her plan. They would knock her down with that critical blow first, stunning her into immobility - then, drawing close, they would pummel her with rocks, stones, hands and feet until the rage was gone and they left her.

But it was that first blow that was critical, she reminded herself; a blow to the chest would tear open the fragile surface of the artificial lung, and while - even with the anti-coagulated blood that was necessary for the artificial lung to function flowing through her veins - she would not bleed to death in the little time between when the blow landed and Sickbay received the automated alert and retrieved her, the flow of oxygen to her brain would have stopped for long enough for the damage to be, if not permanent, at least sufficient.

Sufficient to end the memories, to stop the voices - to make the pain end, for once and for all.

And if the hit her head...

She smiled.

A skull of tri-tanium lattice does not break as a skull of bone does - but the brain within bounces just the same.

A hard enough blow - and part of the brain would turn to paste. Harder - and the blood vessels would break, filling the surrounding area with anticoagulated blood, blood that would not stop flowing, compressing the tissues, killing them - and blocking the memories forever.

And there was nothing Beverly Crusher could do to stop the damage in time to save those parts of her brain; she knew from too many years of experience that it would take over an hour for even the toughest surgical drill to penetrate the duranium and bone casing. An hour - and those cells would be dead, dead, dead! she gloated, and there was nothing anyone could do to bring them back.

It wouldn't kill her - nothing could - but what remained wouldn't be... me, she knew.

It would be someone else, someone who could start her life anew; someone who could find the joys that life was supposed.

Maybe she would even find love, Andile added solemnly.

Maybe even with... him.

He deserved someone good, someone kind, and gentle, and loving - and worthy of his love.

Maybe it would be me - the me that will be left, she added, then raised her head to study the scene below.

The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the field. Here and there, cooking fires were being lit as the families began the preparations for the evening meal, wanting themselves and the children fed before the stars came out, wanting the fires banked to nothing more than embers, glowing enough to warm them against the summer evening's chill, but not enough for their light to interfere with the heaven's presentation.

They wouldn't, of course; she had programmed it that way - but even then, they had all respected the display with the respect it merited; no light from the ground had ever marred the night's presentation, nor would it tonight.

And when it ended... then it would end, she knew.

She huddled deeper into the cloak, wishing she dared light a fire - but that would have given her position away far too early, ending the program ahead of schedule.

Not that it really mattered, of course, whether it ended now or at the end of the three hour span she had been given on the holodeck - in the grand scheme of the universe, the remaining two hours meant nothing.

And yet she remained still, silent, knowing that though this would be her last night on her planet - or anywhere else, she did not want to go... yet.

Soon.

After she had seen the gods' gift one last time.

She pulled the robe around her closer and watched the sun drop below lowest cloud on the horizon...

For a moment, nothing happened - then, as the last vestige of the sun's sphere dropped below the edge, the light, diffused by the clouds on the horizon, exploded in a thousand rays of purest gold, casting their light on every surface, every person, every creature perched upon the hill and field.

In that moment, they were all golden - every man, every woman, every child, every animal... Even the buildings of the towns shone golden, as if made of the purest and cleanest metal, then burnished to a high sheen.

The boats on the water glimmered in metallic majesty - and in the sky...

Andile drew in a long breath, staring at the ships that had been her home and refuge for the first eight years of her life, and felt a tear well in her eye.

Home, she thought, the nostalgia threatening to overcome her control; home.

She drew in a sharp breath, trying to choke back the tear that threatened... and heard a second, unexpected inhalation.

No! she cried silently, dropping the rock. It's too early! They're not to find me for another hour yet! Not until after! she insisted. Terrified, she hastily struggled to her feet - but her feet and legs had forgotten how to respond to sudden changes. Caught off balance, tangled in the folds of the unfamiliar robe, she began to topple...

Two hands caught her from behind, steadied her - then turned her around.

"I'm sorry," Jean-Luc Picard said quietly as he released the tiny woman. "I didn't mean to startle you - or to interrupt your program," he said - then gestured at the display presenting itself in the sky surrounding them. "I was taken aback by your sunset... This is your homeworld, isn't it?" he added.

Too stunned to do anything but respond, Andile nodded, then added,

"Parash. It was... Parash," she clarified.

"Lovely," he murmured.

"Yes... wanted... to... see home.. again."

One last time, she added wordlessly. I wanted this to be the last thing I saw, before it was all over, she thought - but alone! I need to see it - alone!

"What... are... you... doing... here?" she gasped.

The question seemed to elude the captain's mind for a moment; he studied the golden sunset - now fading into more common tones of red and yellow - then turned to Andile, and gave a slight inhalation as he came back to the present.

"Oh. Yes. I'm sorry; I was engrossed in the sunset. It's been some time since I bothered to pay attention to the things around me," he added, "and I hadn't realized how much I missed them. You were saying?"

"Why... are... you... here?" she repeated, the gaps between the words lengthening as her lungs fought to supply her with air.

"Oh! Yes. Of course," he said, suddenly recalling the reason for his visit - then raised his right hand.

In it lay a small rectangular wooden case, roughly a foot in length, a few inches wide, an inch or two in height. Two hinges were mounted on one side; on the other a small clasp. He handed it to her.

"I had heard you were having some difficulty with your respiratory therapy; I thought you might find this helpful," he said, thrusting the case toward her.

She gave him a puzzled look, then reached for the case with her right hand.

But the muscles and nerves of that arm were still too unfamiliar with movement to be able to function well on such a fine task; the fingers spasmed, and the case fell from her hand.

Picard caught it before it reached the ground, then took her right hand, opened the fingers, and placed the case back in it, closing the fingers around the wooden box.

For a moment, she stared at it - then looked up at him.

"Go ahead; open it," he insisted.

She watched him for a moment - then looked down, and opened the case.

"It's... a... flute?"

He gave an embarrassed nod. "A Ressikan flute," he explained. "I thought it might help you."

"Help... me?"

He nodded. "Yes. With your breath control exercises," he elaborated. "I thought this," he nodded at the flute, "could help."

She looked at the flute again.

Picard smiled at the bewilderment on her face. "When I was first learning how to play it, I discovered that the most difficult part was learning to maintain the breath control. Knowing how monotonous therapy can be, I thought that this might be a more effective - and more enjoyable - way of practicing your exercises," he explained.

She looked at the case again, then nodded. "Yes. Thank... you," she said - then closed the case and handed it back to him. "But... no," she said with unarguable finality.

He blanched, surprised by the unexpected and abrupt refusal - the forced a tolerant smile to his face as he proffered the case once again, pushing it into her hands once more. "If you're concerned about the openings for the right hand, I assure you, there are numerous pieces that require only minimal fingering for the right hand - and," he coaxed, "it would help strengthen those muscles..."

"No!" she snapped, cutting him off, then using her right hand, pushed the case away.

But her control of the limb was wildly inaccurate; unintentionally, she caught the case by the corner, sending it flying out of the man's hands and clattering to the floor.

To her surprise, his reaction was neither one of anger or disapproval - but rather of shock... and fear - as if she had thrown away something precious.

Something cherished.

I should know, she chided herself harshly; I should know what this is, I should know why it's important to him, she insisted - but the memory - the memory of a memory? she wondered, remained distant, hiding...

A wave of pain ran through her head, eliciting a sharp gasp; she raised her hand - her good hand, her functioning hand - to her head, rubbing at the tearing pain behind her eyes.

"Lieutenant?" Picard said worriedly.

Without looking up, she shook her head. "I'm... sorry..."

"Do you want to go back to Sickbay?" he asked worriedly.

Instantly horrified, she looked up at him. "No!" she barked - then gave her head a slight shake. "Sorry... Just... meant... my first... night... away... alone... Don't... want... to... go... yet..."

"Yes," the captain agreed. "Of course. I quite understand. I've spent more than a few days in Sickbay myself, and I can appreciate the desire to get away. However, one can overdo it the first time..." he suggested.

"I'm... fine..." she insisted. "Just... headache. It'll... go away... in a... minute."

"Yes, of course," Picard agreed. "But perhaps it might be advisable if I were to stay... Just until you're certain you're feeling better," he said.

"No! I'm... fine!" she insisted - but even as she protested, the pain in her head intensified, sending a wave of near-overwhelming nausea rushing at her.

Gasping, gagging, she grabbed at her head, but off balance, her robe, long, heavy - and unfamiliar after so many years of disuse - managed to tangle itself around her legs. Caught in its folds, she stumbled, tripping on the rocky ground - and began to fall.

But the expected impact of fragile body against the rocky hillside never came; after a moment, she opened her eyes - and was surprised to find herself seated on the ground.

There was something warm on her arm - something large, warm, secure... reassuring. Numbly curious, she looked down, and was surprised to see a man's hand holding her arm. Following it back to its source, she was surprised - yet not surprised in the least - to find herself staring into a pair of hazel eyes, their normal depth now clouded with worry.

"What... happened?" she asked, a little dazedly.

"You tripped," he replied quietly - then forced a smile. "I would suggest that your next holodeck program try a more even terrain - at least until you finish your physical therapy," he added.

"Yes... sir," she agreed tiredly. "I'm... all... right now," she added.

He watched her for a moment, then seeing her eyes growing clear once again, released her arm - then to her horror, eased himself down to the ground beside her.

"I'm... really... all right," she repeated, a little insistently.

Picard nodded - but he made no effort to raise himself up, let alone to leave.

Instead, he looked at the rocks and dirt that made up the hill, seeming to study them in the growing shadows of the evening, then picked up a tiny stone, hefting it in his hand, and tossing it down the side of the hill.

It made a soft clattering noise at it hit another rock, then the sound faded as it rolled to a stop in the powdery dust of the hill's dirt-covered flank.

He watched the place where it landed - then followed it a few minutes later with another stone.

Andile studied him as he tossed another few stones down the hill, then tried again. "Really... I'm... fine... You... don't... have... to stay..."

He nodded, then found and tossed another stone - then looked down the hill.

"A harbor," he said quietly. "I remember you saying you were born on a ship. Was this your home?"

The question had been unexpected. Taken aback, she nodded - then realized he wasn't looking at her. "Yes," she said aloud. "It's... Oh'l'k'yuk."

"Oh'l'k'yuk," Picard tried.

Despite herself, Andile smiled at the mangled pronunciation. "Close... enough," she said. "My people... used... to... say... that... if you weren't... born... here... couldn't... pronounce... it right," she managed.

Despite himself, Picard smiled. "There are those in France who claim the same thing," he replied.

The two fell silent again, studying the darkening horizon.

Looking down, Picard found another tiny stone, then picked it up, studying it intently.

So intently that it took Andile a moment to realize he had spoken.

"Pardon?" she said.

"I asked, Lieutenant, how you intended to do it," he repeated, still studying the stone. "How you intended to kill yourself," he clarified. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To see your home one last time - before you commit suicide?"

She opened her mouth to protest - then stopped herself.

The protests were pointless, she thought; he already knew - just as she had known - at least known something - about the flute he had brought her. Just what, she wasn't sure - anymore than he was sure about what she had intended, she knew; and while the specifics were missing, the generalities were not.

He knew.

They both knew.

"Not... suicide," she clarified. "Andile... can't... kill themselves..." She stopped, the words catching unexpectedly in her throat – then shook her head. "Damn it! I say the words... Captain... but I don't... know where they come from... I can't remember... memories... bits and pieces... Faces I don't know... Voices I can't remember... I don't understand..."

"You suffered brain damage from the accident," he began to explain.

"I... know!" she interrupted frustratedly. "But knowing doesn't... make it better! Gods!"

"I'm sorry," he replied.

"That doesn't make... it better... either!" she snapped.

"But I am sorry," he repeated, "because... it is my fault."

She shook her head. "No. I know... that much. Doc said... I jumped in... front of you... and Breen... jumped in front of me... Not your fault. My decision... his, too. Not yours," she said adamantly.

"That decision was yours – but this..." He hesitated for a long moment, then looked at Andile. "What has happened to you is my fault. I made the decision... no," he amended, "more than that: I _ordered_ Dr. Crusher to do everything possible to keep you alive," he said.

Andile gaped at the man, then, as he watched, her face began to blaze with crimson anger. "You... You did... this to me?!" she raged. "Why? What did I do to you... to deserve this?!" she shouted.

"You saved my life," he countered quietly.

"And this..." she said, raising her left hand, gesturing at herself, "this is how... you thank me? By making this... my life? You bastard! You bastard! No! You... don't get... to decide! I do! My life! I decide!" she seethed.

Before he could stop her, she pushed herself to her feet, pulling away from his out-stretched hand, out of the range of his grasp before he could stop her - and before he had made his own way to his feet, she was racing down the hillside, stumbling awkwardly over the uneven rocky terrain, blinded by tear-filled eyes, twisting from one side to the other as she misstepped, nearly falling - but always catching herself at the last moment, racing...

Toward what? Picard wondered, watching. There was nothing here that could harm her; no cliff, no rocky outcropping that she could throw herself from; at worst, her still weak muscles might give way, allowing her to fall, letting her hit herself against the rocks - but even now, even as he watched her race away, down toward the harbor's heart, the terrain had begun to level out, the rocks and stones giving way to the grassy knolls where her people sat.

Her people, he repeated - then horror, true horror, rushed through him.

"Stop!" he cried out, racing after her.

But he would be too late, he realized; she was too far ahead, filled with too much heart-sickness to heed his words; she would race into the heart of the gathering, and her people, seeing her robes, recognizing her for what she was would do what she had wanted all along, would grant her the very release that they, in their cruelty, would not allow her to grant herself.

They would beat her, he thought; beat her - or stone her, he realized, understanding at last the reason for the exquisite attention to detail that she had afforded the program, the reason she had cloistered herself among the rocky terrain of the hill far above the town; it had nothing to do with a being the optimum advantage point for watching the sunset - but rather instead, had provided a way for her to give the program the weapons she needed - without triggering Beverly's suspicions or the holodeck safety protocols.

But even so, the program wouldn't allow the people to kill her; the safeties would interfere, would stop the program before she was killed...

But not before she was injured, he realized, understanding at last. Not before her brain was damaged so badly that everything she had been, every painful memory, every agonizing trace of what - of who - she had been was gone, irretrievably gone.

Not suicide, he told himself, understanding all too well. Andile were forbidden suicide. She would live - or at least her body would live - but the person who inhabited it would be gone forever, freed from the prison of her own mind.

Sophistry, he screamed silently at her; as far as they were concerned she would be dead - but rationalization had always been her forté, he reminded himself; she could dance her way around regulations and orders better than any officer - any person - he had ever met.

But he damned if he let her dance her away out of her own life.

"Computer, pause program!" he shouted as he raced after her.

To his horror - but, he realized, not to his surprise - nothing happened.

"Computer, end program!" he tried again - though he knew, even as the words left his mouth, that the command would be equally ineffectual.

Damn you, he thought, realizing at once what she had done. In creating the program, she had installed an time-dependant terminator; once initiated, the program would run from beginning to end, and nothing short of terminating the power to the holodeck would alter that fact.

It wasn't an uncommon program addition, he knew; many of his crew had installed such self-terminating programs in their own favorites, using the devices as alarm clocks, allowing themselves to enjoy a program from beginning to end in a given time span without concern about overstaying their allotted time slots on the entertainment deck.

Her use of the device, however, had another, more sinister intention, he thought as he continued down the hill, racing after her; she had utilized it, knowing that it would make her rescue all the more difficult, ensuring the outcome she wanted - the one, he thought, that she needed so desperately.

It was simple enough: once the attack had started, there would be no order that could terminate it; her would-be rescuers would be confronted with the reality of having to wade through dozens, possibly even hundreds of enraged citizens to reach her side - and while those attackers were holographic in nature, as long as the program was running they would act - and feel - very, very real. It would be no simpler a task than wading through the same number of real people - and perhaps even harder, for he had no doubts that she had imbued them with a level of determination unparalleled in normal humans.

Of course, her rescuers could just beam her out - but in the midst of those same holographic images, her bio signs would be masked, subtly altered.

Admittedly, all the transporter officer would have to do was pick up the group, en masse, with the transporter, and redeposit them in Sickbay; the holographic people, once away from the emitters, would simply cease to exist, and the lieutenant would be left, alone and available for treatment.

But it would a take a moment - if not far longer - for the mind to remember that fact; invariably, the night duty crew in Sickbay would try to isolate her bio-signs first, to transport her alone, before they realized the futility - and the lack of necessity - for that finesse. And in the interim, the punishment would continue, and the damage would be done.

It was brilliant he thought, praising the woman with one breath; brilliant - and deadly, he added, cursing her with the next.

And not a damned thing he could do about it.

Or could he? he wondered.

"Computer, alter program time ratio; slow down hologram program time rate by a factor of ten thousand!" he shouted.

For a moment, it appeared as though nothing had happened, Picard thought as he raced down the hill, wondering if the lieutenant had thought to circumvent even that aspect of the program - then he realized it was working.

The flames of the small cookfires he was passing had changed, no longer flickering in the evening light. Instead, the now moved in slow, graceful waves, shimmering upward from the kindling and twigs that fed them, long liquid strands of gold and red that flowed, ever diminishing, into ragged points of golden fluid, bending this was and that, as though a piece of fine silk fluttered - slowly - in the midst of each small gathering.

The effect was exquisite, even mesmerizing - but he refused to allow himself to study it, knowing that the woman who was the focus of his concern ran somewhere ahead of him, lost among the gathering.

Lost - but not for long, he reminded himself; caught as she was in the miasma of her grief, she would not instantly realize what he had done. Not until she announced herself to those gathered - and failed to elicit a reaction from them, would she realized something was not right; not until she saw the flames or the oily thickness of the water that no longer lapped, but rather gently flowed in gracefully undulating ripples at the harbor's edge would she know that something had changed.

And until then, he added, she would be the only one moving, the only one running... though, he added, considering her physical condition, he doubted she could continue the pace for more than a few minutes longer.

Of course, that would make the situation worse, he added; if she stopped, he would have a far harder time finding her amidst the hundreds gathered by the water's edge.

He doubled his pace - and was rewarded by a small flicker of movement near the edge of the stilled crowd - and by the faint echo of a voice calling plaintively, "Andile! I am... andile!"

A moment later, as he drew closer, the voice grew louder more desperate. "The gods... curse you... I'm andile! Andile!"

Pushing through the gathering - the bodies standing before him stiff and unresponsive - he came upon the tiny woman, slapping ineffectually with her left hand at a man who stood before her, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

Not oblivious, he knew; he was simply not accessible on the same time reference. To him, the cry would be nothing more than the buzzing of an insect, the blows little more than an unexpected gust of breeze; the cause, moving a ten thousand times his rate of speed, was utterly imperceptible.

"Damn... you! Can't you... hear... me? Don't... you care? I'm andile! I'm filth! Strike... me down! Cleanse... your... village! Kill me! Rid... yourself... of my... vileness. Kill... me... before... I poison... your children!" she wailed desperately, her voice growing emptier weaker, her blows rapidly decreasing in strength. "Kill... me!" she cried again, slower this time. "Please... kill me... Please... spare me," she finished wearily, allowing her hand to drop to her side as she finally gave up in frustration, defeat and exhaustion.

"They can't hear you," Picard informed her after a moment, watching as she slowly caught her breath.

"I don't... understand... The program... was perfect..." she gasped.

He nodded. "It was," he agreed.

"Then... how...?"

"I changed the time reference by a factor of ten thousand," he told her. "One minute to us is roughly seven days..."

He didn't see the blow coming - only felt it as it caught him unprepared, knocking him to the ground.

"Bastard!"

Stunned, he looked up, only to see the tiny woman, enraged, preparing to deliver a second blow - this time with her foot.

But her leg muscles, still uncoordinated despite her recent physical therapy, exhausted from her run down the hillside, weren't up to the task. As she raised her right leg, her left one gave way, sending her tumbling to the ground, landing her in a heap beside him.

He heard the air knocked from her lung in a gush; worried, he reached for her, concerned that she had been hurt - but rather than finding a breathless, panic stricken woman, he found himself confronting a demon.

Furious, livid with rage, she pushed herself to her knees, scrambling toward him, the anger on her face flushing her skin with a ruddy glow - and her eyes with a crimson fire.

"You... you... bastard!" she cried, flailing at him, scrambling toward him on her knees, scrambling, then falling - then pushing herself upright once again, trying to reach for him, to beat him, to punish him for preventing her from doing what she had been trying, for denying her the peaceful surcease that death would have granted her...

...again.

I was wrong that time, he thought to himself, but not this time.

As she reached forward, trying to hit him again, he grabbed her wrists; off-balance, she fell forward, tumbling into his arms.

He turned her around as she fell, pinning her arms against her chest, pulling her against him, securing her so she couldn't strike out at him again.

The fact that she was now completely immobilized did absolutely nothing to stop her in her attempts to hit him again; swearing, gasping profanities, she struggled furiously against him - but there was no breaking his hold. Each blow grew lighter, each profanity weaker, less vitriolic - until finally she gave up, falling back against him in resignation.

He held her arms a few minutes longer, unsure how much of the collapse was sincere, how much was pretense - then, sensing nothing duplicitous in her manner, slowly, cautiously, loosened his grip.

To his relief, she made no attempt to move, no attempt to pull away of to lash out at him again. Instead, she simply lay against him, her breath easing, slowing as he felt the panic, the dread and frustration leached from her soul.

Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet in the acquiescence to her utter defeat. "Why?" she asked softly. "Why won't you... let me... go? What sin... did I commit... against you?" she said in weary resignation.

For a time he didn't answer - then, giving a soft sigh, eased his grasp of her, releasing her from his protective embrace, and leaned back, bracing himself against the side of the hill, staring at the slowly emerging stars for a time - just as he watched the stars from the safe cocoon of his ready room, watching them - but not seeing them.

Finally, he sat up, picked at a blade of the grassy plants that covered the hillside, played with it for a moment, then let it flutter to the ground. He watched it fall, watched it land - then, without looking at her, his attention still on the fallen blade of grass, spoke.

"I've spent much of the last few months trying to understand what I did. I had thought, for a time, that it was out of indebtedness: you had saved my life, and therefore I owed you the same in return, but the truth is... I'm not sure why I did it. I only know that I had to try to keep you alive."

She considered his words for a few minutes then spoke. "I know why," she wheezed.

Surprised, he looked at her. "Oh?"

"Not thankfulness... not... indebtedness... It was... revenge," she said.

He raised a brow at the unexpected remark. "Revenge?"

"For not... accepting... you into... my warp physics class," she explained seriously.

He stared at her, horrified that she would even consider the possibility the he would be so vengeful, so vituperative - then saw the glint in her eye.

"You're joking," he said - though there was enough of an uncertain tone in his voice to belie his doubt.

Andile nodded, then smiled. "Yes, I'm joking," she agreed - then reached out, patting his leg. "You... wouldn't do... that. You're - basically - a good... person," she told him. "Except... for a... misplaced... sense of honor," she added.

He looked at her for a long moment, then turned his attention to the grass, plucking another stem, peeling it down to its thready fibers, then letting the soft breeze catch the filaments and blow them away on the soft currents that moved up from the water's edge.

"There was no honor involved here," he said at long last. "If anything, what I did was utterly dishonorable." He hesitated - then looked at her once again, resolution marking his striking face with a painful hardness. "What happened wasn't because I wanted you to live - not," he amended hastily, "that I wished you to die, either! But..." Picard shook his head, "Perhaps I did what I did because I couldn't bear the thought of having your death on my conscience. I didn't want to spend the rest of my career, the rest of my life, knowing you had died just to save me," he added. "I'd like to think that I'm not quite this shallow of a human being - but I knew, at some level at least, that if I lived, while you died - died just so that I would live! - I would spend every day of the rest of my life wondering if the effort was worth the outcome. Every success would be colored by the thought that it came at the cost of your life - and every failure would remind me that the exchange hadn't been a good one; you were gone - and I had wasted your gift," he admitted.

He gave a final shake of his head. "In the past, I've had the temerity to accuse other of moral cowardice - but of late, I've been the one at the heart of that same accusation; the charge that I, too, am nothing more than a coward.

"And I've come to realize... they're right."

Andile studied the man for a long time, then patted his leg again. "Quite... an ego... you have on... you there," she said quietly. "Did... it ever... occur to you... that maybe... you're just... human? Flawed... and imperfect... and glorious... and brave... just like... everyone... else?"

"Including you?"

She looked at him, her face a mask of perfect, impartial neutrality - then inclined her head a fraction of an inch.

"Touché," she answered - then to his surprise, she leaned back, letting him take up the weight of her body against his own - and realized, again, how frail her once strong body had become, how terribly fragile and fatigued it was now.

And cold, he added, feeling her shiver as the set sun and the freshening breeze coming from the harbor pushed through the folds of her robe.

He lay his hands over her arms, rubbing the robe over them, chafing them lightly - but even so, her shivers continued.

"You're cold," he said.

"Andile... aren't permitted... warm robes... only... enough to cover... ourselves," she explained.

He chafed her arms a little harder. "There is such a thing as being a little too true to the facts," he reminded her.

"I was... planning... on dying..." she countered. "A little cold... wasn't... going to be... a problem," she added.

"And now?" he pressed, hoping that her earlier response had meant what he thought it had - but knowing that she could - and would, and, indeed, had - turned her words around to mean only what she wanted them to mean.

"And now... it's a problem," she replied, her answer as oblique now as it had been then.

He sighed in frustration - but it was the only answer he was going to get.

For now.

"In that case..." He eased her forward, rising to his feet, then offering her his hand. Helping her up, he waited for a moment, making sure she wasn't going to fall - then stepped to one of the nearby camp fires, lifting small flaming branch from the mass.

"It should be warmer up the hill a little further," he told her. "Your program has a little over two hours left to run; we can start a fire of our own up there and watch it in comfort," he said.

"Yes... but andile... aren't allowed... fire..." she protested.

He looked at her, sober and solemn - and tired of the verbal dance they were performing.

"No, they're not," he said firmly. "Fire - like tears, and joy, and laughter - are for humans." He fell silent, thinking for a moment.

"And you are human," he said quietly. "As much as you've denied that, as much as you've clung to the protection of being 'andile' so that you could hold yourself apart from those around you..."

"Is that... what you think... I've done?" she seethed.

"It is what you've done," he replied. "You've clung to being 'andile' so that you could punish yourself for every error, every mistake – every unfortunate turn of fate..."

"You think... I'm some sort... of masochist? That I _like_... this?"

"No," he answered, "but I think it's been easier than trying to be human. So the question is," he continued bluntly, "are you ready to give up being andile, and do the truly hard work of becoming a human? Do we take this stick up the hill and start a proper fire, or do we stay here, cold and miserable?"

"No one's... making you... stay," she reminded him.

He shook his head. "No. This time I'm staying - for my own reasons. I'm not running away any more. So do we stay here - or do we go up there?" he repeated.

She looked at him for a few minutes, then turned her attention to the liquid waves of orange and yellow that streamed up from the branch.

"I... was always... fascinated... by the flames... I wanted... to sit... near the fire... but..." she added, looking from the fire to the man, uncertainty crossing her face; uncertainty - and fear.

"I'm scared."

He studied her for a time - then answered with a nod. "As am I - but I've let cowardice shape too many actions - too many of the truly important actions - throughout my life. I don't want to go on like that - and I'm hoping you don't either."

She didn't answer him quickly - and for a moment, he felt himself disappointed by her reticence, by her reluctance to forsake the behaviors, the self-enforced culture that was destroying her slowly.

But one doesn't relinquish ten thousand years of history in a moment, he reminded himself a moment later - anymore than he could relinquish his own, far briefer, past in such a short time. No, she would need time to come to her decision - just as he had needed his.

"Don't answer me now," he told her a moment later. "Just... just tell me you won't do anything... foolish... tonight. Give me a chance to help you understand what was – and what your life could be..."

"And if... I decide... it's not... what I want?"

Picard drew in a long breath, knowing this question would be coming, dreading it, hoping against hope that she wouldn't ask - and hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to answer.

"If we do this, it will be... as friends," he informed her. "Please understand: I do not hold friendship lightly. Unlike others, I do not use the term interchangeably with acquaintanceship, but rather as a separate - indeed, sacred - relationship between two people, that transcends almost every other bond. I believe that friendship - true friendship - requires mutual trust and respect of what and who the other person is," he answered.

"How far... does that... trust and respect... go?" she asked suspiciously.

He inhaled again, steeling himself, then answered. "If, in the end, you decide this life is not what you want... I'll help you do whatever it is you feel you need to do," he said.

Andile shook her head; he had said what she wanted to hear - but with such obvious reluctance that she hesitated to believe him.

"You'd help... me kill myself?" she pressed.

He hesitated for a long time - then nodded reluctantly. "Yes. If, after everything, you still feel your life is intolerable - then, as your friend, I will do what you require of me," he repeated.

She stared at him, glaring at him and his pretense, searching out the lie, the duplicity that he knew lay beneath his words -

And found his distaste of her intentions, disappointment in her plans and disapproval of her actions...

And reluctant, but sincere honesty.

He meant it, she realized.

By the gods, he meant it! And he would do it! she realized in horror - and joy. Over his own objections, over his own moral imperatives, over everything he believed and held dear, he would do what friendship asked of him.

Still she hesitated; if they were to be friends - true friends - she owed him the truth. "I don't know..."

"All I ask is that you try," he said. "As I will," he added.

She hesitated a moment longer - then gave a single, solitary nod of her head. "All right. What... do I..."

"We," he corrected her.

She nodded again, a small smile on her lips. "What do... _we_ do?" she asked.

Picard tightened his grasp on her hand and began to guide her through the crowd. "We," he informed her as they slowly wended their way through the motionless throng, "climb up this hill, start a fire of our own, and watch the meteor shower. It's been a long time since I've seen a meteor shower - and a longer time since I've allowed myself to just enjoy one," he said - then fell silent for a time before turning to face her. "Maybe... maybe being a Starfleet captain isn't that different from being andile," he said. "You were denied the joys of being human because society forbade them to you, told you that you weren't worthy of them."

"No one... denied you... those... pleasures," she pointed out.

"Not true," he countered. "I did."

"Because you were... unworthy?" she gasped.

He hesitated, looking away as he nodded.

She gave a soft grunt of disapproval. "I was right... all those years ago..." she wheezed. "You are... an idiot."

He stopped, turned, glared at her - and then, to both their surprise, broke out laughing, the laugh building slowly from a chortle to a hearty laugh - then fading away, leaving nothing but a smile on the man's face.

"You may well be right," he admitted. "But I don't have to continue being an idiot - any more than you have to continue being something you aren't. Come," he said gently pulling at her hand, "we've both got a lot of lost time to make up for."


	160. Chapter 160

**Chapter 161**

"Let's start again," Picard ordered his pupil.

"Proper posture," he said, setting the example, straightening his own back as he sat on the edge of the couch, carefully placing one foot slightly ahead of the other, pulling back his shoulders.

"Check your finger position: make sure all the holes are completely covered." He glanced down, making sure that his owns hands were in the proper position, then raised the instrument to his mouth, watching as his student did exactly the same.

"Proper air support," he continued. "Breathe in from the diaphragm," he continued, drawing in a deep breath of his own, "and release the air in a smooth, continuous stream. One, two, three..." he said, then raised and lowered the flute to indicate the beginning.

The sound was weak, wavering, moving from flat to sharp and back again, nothing like the pure tones that emanated from his own instrument - but not, he admitted, entirely unlike the sounds he had produced in those first weeks and months - years? he asked himself, wondering how long he had abused the ears of those around him before he had gained a degree of proficiency.

Hopefully not too long, he decided, feeling his teeth grate as the tone suddenly wavered from horrendously flat to bitterly sharp and shrill.

He pulled his flute away from his lips, then reached out, motioning Andile to do the same thing.

"Sorry," Andile whispered, gasping. "I don't think... I'm cut out... to be a musician," she informed him.

"You're doing fine," Picard replied. "You just need to watch your finger position; you weren't covering the holes completely," he advised her.

Andile looked down at the errant fingers of her right hand, then slowly opened and closed the offending limb, then repositioned her fingers over the holes, nodding her readiness to continue.

A readiness she didn't truly possess, he thought silently, noting the trembling of her fingers and hands, the increasing tremor in each tone she produced, the decreasing gaps between each hastily drawn breath needed to maintain the sound - but understanding the woman well enough to know it would take far more than a faltering body to make her concede defeat.

To do so would have meant her death a dozen times - a hundred times! - over, he knew; to give up on something as basic as learning to play a flute, simply because her hands hurt, her arms were spasming, her lungs were heaving - or that she was growing weary - simply was not within her being.

That she was feeling all those things, however, was another matter entirely.

"Let's take a break," he said, setting his flute back in the case, rising from the couch. "Can I get you a drink?"

For a moment, Andile hesitated, as though give in to the fatigue she was so obviously feeling, yet anxious to take advantage of the hiatus.

In the end, however, propriety and etiquette won; after all, Picard thought with a smile, one did not easily counter a captain's order, even when veiled as a suggestion.

Andile slowly lowered the flute to her lap.

"I'd love a scotch," she said, "but the doc would have a fit."

He nodded, knowing full well of the practitioners of the medical arts and their over-protectiveness toward their patients, even when that protectiveness was unnecessary.

"How would she feel about a glass of wine?" he offered.

"Probably the same," Andile admitted.

"Ah," Picard said disappointedly.

"I, however, would, like it," she continued a moment later.

"But..." he began to protest.

"Captain," Andile interrupted, "if you want me to consider relinquishing being andile, then you have to allow me to make human errors of judgment - including making the occasional questionable decision about my health," she informed him. "But," she added, "if it will make you feel better, I've seen my test results; a glass of wine - or even two - aren't going to harm me. The worst that can happen is that I'll get a little tipsy. In that event, I trust that you will get me back to Sickbay safely?" she teased gently.

"My intentions, mademoiselle, are strictly honorable," he replied, giving her a haughty half bow, then disappeared behind the room partition.

The '49, he decided as he crouched before the temperature-controlled cabinet that housed the bottles of wine he had brought up from the cellar at the house in LaBarre, trying not to look at the single bottle of '47 vintage that lay beside it, not wanting to think about Robert's admonition to share it with a friend.

He had intended to do just that, he thought; he had intended to share it with Beverly, first planning to drink it to celebrate their friendship, then, later, hoping to drink it to celebrate something more - and then, much later, to open it in honor their fallen friends and family after the war had finally ended.

But the opportunity had never come to pass, he added - and now it never would, he reminded himself.

Perhaps I should open it, he thought - then shook his head, practicality winning out, not wanting to open the only bottle when they would each have but a single glass. Soon, he added - then smiled; perhaps Robert's words would fulfill themselves after all - and he would share the wine with a friend.

For now, however, the '49 would do.

He removed the bottle from the miniature cellar, straightening and beginning the ritual procedures of serving the liquid - and recalling the events of the last few hours as he did so.

Coming back to his quarters had been unplanned, an automatic response to the stunned silence that had filled them both at the conclusion of the meteor shower.

It had been spectacular, far beyond anything experience or imagination could have prepared him for; so close to the galactic center, the night sky glimmered with hundreds of thousands of stars of every color and size, shimmering with the pastel wash of interstellar dust radiating out from the exploding remains of the stars which had once contained them. Alone, even without the meteor storm, it was a sight that had left him - left them both - breathless, stunned, awestruck.

And when the storm hit, it took them beyond words, beyond reaction; silenced, made utterly insignificant by the magnificence of the events above them, they had watched, made wordless by the wonders above them.

The silence had lingered long after, after the last of the meteors had passed, after the souls gathered on the hill below them had wandered back to their homes, after the last vestiges of the magnificent program had been completed - and they found themselves sitting on the floor of the black and yellow gridded room.

Still silent, he had risen, helped the woman to her feet, slowly and wordlessly led him back to his quarters - and she had gone with him, neither questioning the appropriateness, the rightness, of their destination.

Finally, he had asked, "Was it really like that?"

Andile nodded, her voice reverent. "Yes - and more so every year. So beautiful... we thought it was a gift from the gods, proof that they loved us, even though they had left us. And every year, the display was bigger, more intense... We didn't know..." Her voice trailed off as she looked away, staring out the windows that lined the living area of his quarters. "How could we know?" she replied.

He nodded. How could they know? He asked himself. How could so primitive a people have even imagined that the growing intensity of the storms indicated a massive shift in the status of the sun; that the 'gift' their gods had bestowed upon them was actually a harbinger of the end that was coming to their world?

And yet, it was that gift, that nearness of the night sky to their daily life that had motivated Andile's people to develop interplanetary travel in only a few, brief millennia - and had, Picard reminded himself, ultimately responsible for her being off world in that final, horrific moment, when all that she had been, all that her people had been and had known... ended.

He looked at her, studying the woman that world had borne, seeing before him evidence of both the best and the worst of that planet.

She must have sensed his thoughts, for she shook her head, refusing to accept his wordless pronouncement. "Don't think that," she admonished him. "Don't blame them. They were... good people..."

"Good people?! Dee, they abused you!" he protested. "You were only a child - and they beat you, tortured you - condemned you to a life as a virtual slave..."

"It was the way... our world was," she countered softly. "It's how... they were raised, how I was raised... You can't blame people... for acting... in compliance with the way... they were taught, Captain," she reminded him.

"Abusing children - torturing an entire class of people, sanctioning their murders! - transcends cultural boundaries!" he argued. "Dee, what's wrong is wrong!"

"No," she protested softly. "What's wrong in your society... isn't in another," she countered. "What my people... did to me, to my kind... they had their reasons," she said. "You don't have to like those reasons... I don't have to like them... but it's not our place to say they are wrong... or right. They simply are... what they are."

Picard drew a deep breath, then faced her. "So you don't blame the Cardassians for what they did to you?" he asked, barely able to hide his anger at her unreasonable tolerance.

"They were defending their home world," she reminded him.

"Defending..." he gaped. "Dee, I can understand you defending your own people - but the Cardassians! By the gods, how can you defend them? They beat you, tortured you... they raped you..."

"I know what they did... to me!" she snapped back, her anger suddenly flaring as hot and high as his own. "I was there, damn it!" she shouted. "I was there! I was there... and that is the point. I was there, on their world... trying to subvert their government... trying to defeat their military! What did you expect... them to do? Let me run in, destroy their way of life... and not try to defend themselves?! Damn it, Picard... it was their world! I had no right to be there... no right to be doing what I was doing! When I was... caught, I was subject... to their laws, their rules, their culture - just as I was on Parash... Just as I was on Earth.

"Just as I am... here," she added coldly. "Your rules, your regs, your cultural norms... condemned me to life, when... the very decency you protest... that my people didn't have... would have spared me that!" she reminded him furiously. "How dare you... condemn them - any of them! - when you're no better?!" she cried angrily.

He stared at her, astounded by the vitriol of her tone - and the acid truth of her words.

"Dee..." he began weakly.

"I'm sorry," she begged, instantly contrite. "I don't... blame you! I really don't! You did what... you had to do - by your upbringing, your tradition... your culture! But for those same reasons, I don't blame them either!" she continued. "How can I?" she added. "You were trying to save me; they were... trying to save... their worlds, their way of life. How can one be right... and the others wrong?" she asked him.

He wanted to argue the point, to tell her that what they had done to her was somehow wrong, done out of anger, out of retribution - while what he had done was right, done with the best of intentions - but the words stuck in his mouth, glued there by shame - and his own self-blame.

Instead, he looked at her with open, appraising eyes, and asked, "Is this tolerance something all andile are taught?" he asked quietly.

Surprised, she raised a brow - then shook her head. "No. Blame - and the anger... related to it - are emotions, feelings - and andile aren't... entitled to feelings. How we responded... to our positions... was never considered; does one care if the garbage can... likes or dislikes how it is used?" she asked. "And that's what... we were: psychic garbage... cans for the dying to use, to void... their souls... of the sins of their lives - and free themselves... for the Ascension."

And in the process, condemning the andile to an eternal death, he thought to himself.

Andile smiled. "You don't... believe in the Ascension," she said quietly.

"No," he agreed, "but you do. Your people did. How could they justify their actions, knowing that you would be spiritually doomed?"

"They could - just as people... can abandon a sinking ship, leaving behind... the captain or the crew. There's no difference, Captain," she said.

"Except the captain and the crew stay behind by choice," he pointed out.

She nodded, sobering. "Perhaps... in our own way, we too... volunteered to stay behind." She thought for a moment, then looked up at him. "There was a time, Captain... when andile were considered something more than filth, when we... were honored and cherished... our role venerated by those we served."

"When you were _hahn-deel-a_," he echoed.

She stared at him, confused. "How...?" she began, then froze, her jaw dropping. "Oh, dear gods... that's why you're... calling me 'Dee'!"

"As a short form of the name by which I first met you - Hahn-deel-a," he agreed. "Professor Hahn-deel-a, to be exact," he added. "After leaving the Academy, I lost track of you - and when I finally heard your name again, I attributed the difference in pronunciation to time and a faulty memory. Now, I realize..."

"That I had taken... undeserved honors... upon myself," she said coldly.

"That you had realized the hahn-deel-a, as well as the andile, were both aspects of the human culture that spawned your world - and you took pride - well-deserved pride - in what you had done for those people of your world - and other worlds, I expect," he countered sternly. "There was nothing wrong in what you did," he reminded her.

"No - but it's not... unlike you... renaming yourself... William Shakespeare," she replied.

He considered, then inclined his head. "Point taken," he conceded. "May I ask why you allowed it to change back?"

"Errors, mistakes - a realization that I... was not hahn-deel-a," she said quietly. "I am andile... Captain," she reminded him. "As much as you wish I weren't, I am."

"Dee..."

"And since we're both... uncomfortable... with that topic, perhaps we should change... to something else," she said, then gestured at the instrument case on the table. "You were... going to try... to teach me the flute," she reminded him. "Maybe this... would be the opportune... moment... to start."

"Maybe it would," he agreed.

For a half hour they discussed the instrument, its working, the design of the mouthpiece and how the sounds were produced - and then spent another thirty minutes replicating flute after flute until they made one that both fit her smaller hands yet played in tune with his.

Posture, breathing technique, posture, music theory - and the first feeble attempts at making a decent sound with the instruments, had taken the better part of the next hour - and, Picard realized as he carefully poured the wine into the glasses, the better part of her Andile's reserves.

Picking up the glasses, he brought them into the main room. Handing one to her, he touched the rim of his glass to hers, the raised the glass to his lips.

"Oh, my."

Startled, he looked at her, surprised by the reaction.

"Not to your liking?" he asked concerned.

"Oh, no," she countered, taking another sip, a larger one this time sighing contentedly. "It's lovely. It's just... been so many years... since I've had wine - I'd forgotten... how lovely it is. From your family's vineyards?" she added.

He looked at her in startled amazement - then frowned.

The frowned earned a soft laugh in response. "I'm not snooping... through your thoughts, Captain..."

"Jean-Luc," he corrected her. "If I'm to call you 'Dee', then you must call me Jean-Luc," he informed her. "That, or I'll be forced to resume calling you Professor," he added.

"Oh, gods!" she laughed. "Not that! It's been - what? Fifty years? - since my teaching days? No; I thought it a... presumptuous title then - but the powers that be... demanded I have... a teaching title. Probably they were right," she conceded, taking a third sip of the wine, feeling the warmth of the liquid spreading through her body. "It's hard... to take someone seriously... when they don't look any older than you do - let alone to accept them as an... authority on a topic," she added taking yet another swallow from her glass. "No, the title... definitely helped - even if it was ostentatious."

"Maybe it helped at first," Picard agreed, "but once you started to talk, there was no doubt about your qualifications," he said. "And once your reputation was started, there was no stopping it. By the time I reached your class, it never occurred to me that you were anything but the revered Professor Hahn-deel-a..." He stopped in mid-sentence as her face contorted in an expression of grief. "Dee? What's wrong?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered tearily.

"Sorry? For what?" he asked.

"For not accepting you in my class," she said half sobbing. "For turning you down... and never explaining! For everything... Oh, gods, I'm so sorry..."

He gaped at her, stunned, first by her over-reaction - then by his sudden understanding of the cause.

By God, he thought: she's drunk!

It wasn't possible, of course, he knew; people simply did not get drunk on four sips of wine - and certainly not within minutes of having those few sips!

Then again, he admitted, there were people with very low tolerances for alcohol - but hadn't Will told him how she had served him - and herself - a magnificent scotch on their first encounter - and how, despite Will's own reaction to the wood-scented amber liquid, Andile had remained stone-cold sober throughout?

But that had been almost half a year ago, he added soberly, before her earlier injuries had manifested themselves to the degree they had, before Tillerman had almost killed her - before he had forced her to undergo countless therapies and dozens of surgeries in an attempt to keep her alive, despite a body that had been pushed beyond all reasonable limits.

Or, he added, with a half smile, it could have been something far simpler.

"Maybe the wine wasn't the best idea either of us have had, Dee - at least not on an empty stomach," he said - silently adding, not to mention after such a trying and traumatic evening. Taking the glass from her, he set it on the table, and asked, "When was the last time you ate?"

She sniffed back her tears, then shook her head. "Don't know. Before all this," she added.

Before all this? he wondered – then realized what she meant. "Dee," he said soberly, "are you telling me the last time you ate a meal was over four months ago?"

Andile nodded tearily. "After Cardassia... eating... made me sick... After the doc started... treating me... it was still... disgusting... Breakfast in your ready room... was the first time... then the fire... then the Breen, and the accident... Now the doc wants me to eat, but I can't," she said miserably.

"Well, you're going to have to try tonight," he said firmly, taking her by the hand and leading her to the dining table, then gently - but firmly - pushing her into one of the chairs.

A moment later, a plate was placed before her, steam wafting up from the array of poultry and vegetables, teasing her fragile stomach with its subtle scent.

"Poached chicken with vegetables," he informed her. "One of my mother's specialties," he added. "She made it for us after we'd been ill. It's very nutritious - but easy on a delicate stomach," he said, placing a second plate before the opposite chair, then taking his place behind it. "Eat," he ordered.

"I can't..." she whispered, then added, "I'm not hungry."

"Consider it an order," he countered firmly, explaining, "If you think I'm going to take you back to Sickbay drunk, you're sadly mistaken. I have had sufficient encounters with the medical professionals aboard this ship to know better than to incur their wrath any more than is strictly necessary.

"And you," he added quickly, realizing his peril might not be cause enough for the mildly inebriated woman to appreciate, "If you go back in the condition you're in right now, they are going to think long and hard about letting you out again.

"So it will behoove us both," he said resolutely, "for you to eat something."

She gaped at him as if uncertain if he were being serious or simply teasing her - but meeting his gaze, seeing the lack of humor behind them, she knew better than to argue.

She lifted her fork, and pulled away the tiniest of strands of chicken, chewed it dutifully, then swallowed it awkwardly, uncomfortably, and forced a nod. "It's very good," she insisted, setting down the fork.

"Yes, it is," he replied. "And you'll enjoy the next bite even more," he added.

She looked up, about to protest her lack of appetite - but seeing his expression, realized there was no point in arguing; if she lost the argument here, he _would_ take her back to Sickbay, as she was - and damned be the consequences to them both.

Cowering slightly under his stern gaze, she picked up the fork again, cut a small - but slightly larger - piece from the chicken, raised it to her lips - and began to chew.

It _was_ good, she admitted; the chicken was perfectly cooked, tender and moist, its flavor mild, but subtly enhanced by the intense broth that had been spooned over the meat to keep it moist - but the combination of the mildness and the rich broth were both gentle on her too-long empty stomach while tempting her taste buds, encouraging her to take yet another mouthful of the savory food.

"Try the potatoes," Picard suggested, using his fork to point at one of the tiny, red-skinned tubers.

Hesitantly, Andile stabbed the thumb-sized tuber with her fork, then lifted it, considering the tiny red sphere for a moment before tentatively moving it to her mouth and nibbling a tiny bite - then gave a soft sigh.

"They're very good," she murmured.

Picard smiled, triumph and pride tightening the corners of his eyes into fine lines. "Yes, they are, aren't they?" he agreed.

Andile nodded, then took a second bite of the tiny tuber. "I had forgotten how good food could be."

"After four months of abstinence," he replied, "I'm not surprised."

"In truth, it's probably closer... to two years," she corrected him, her enthusiasm quickly fading - though, he noted, she didn't put down the fork she was holding. Instead she continued to stare at the tiny morsel it held, her eyes locked on the red-skinned vegetable impaled on its tines. "What happened on Cardassia - and after - made it impossible to eat. When I finally... was able to start again... there was so much damage to my liver that eating... became excruciating," she admitted. "Proteins, carbohydrates - every bite would... mean agony; every meal left me sick, vomiting, in such terrible pain... it was as though he was hitting me with that axe all over again," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It never stopped; as the damage progressed, the pain grew worse and worse..."

"Dee," he whispered, stricken, "you should have said something, told someone..."

"What? That at last... my body was dying? That at last, I would... find peace?" she asked him. "If I told them, they... would have stopped it, they would... have healed me, they would... have made me better."

"Dee..." he started.

"I didn't want that, Captain," she interrupted him, continuing as though he hadn't spoken. "I wanted peace... I wanted death."

He looked at her, stunned, hurt - and shamed. "But you let Beverly treat you," he reminded her.

"Because the ship... needed me," she replied softly. "You needed me - and... because I owed you," she added.

"Owed me?"

She nodded, giving a half smile as she did so. "I didn't accept you... into my class," she reminded him. "All those years ago, I turned you down. Not this time," she added with a shake of her head. "I decided... that that would be my... way of apologizing," she explained. "To you - and the universe at large," she added mysteriously.

Mysteriously enough, Picard realized, to draw him in. "The universe?" he responded.

She nodded. "You've never asked... but weren't you curious... why I didn't accept you... into my physics class?"

"I assumed I wasn't good enough," he replied chastely, earning a short laugh in response.

"Oh, by... the gods! Does that work... with the women?" she laughed.

He raised a brow. "Does what work?"

"That, innocent, slightly... hurt, slightly humble act? 'I'm not good enough'," she repeated, aping him. "Oh, it... must suck them in, cooing... 'Oh, you poor, put-upon man; how... modest and unassuming... you are - and yet a Starfleet captain! How charming! How delightful! How delicious!' " she said mockingly, laughing as she spoke, then grew sober. "How often did you get... horizontal because... of that line?" she asked seriously.

He raised an indignant brow in apparent offence - then gave a large sigh and conceded a small smile. "I'll deign not to discuss my sex life, historical or current, but..." He sighed again. "It has been known to have an advantageous effect on some women - especially in my younger days," he conceded. "Obviously, it does not have that effect on you, however."

"I've been around... the galaxy... long enough to know... a calculated line when I hear... one - though, if you'd tried.. that when you... were enrolling for... my class, it might... well have worked then."

"It would have been sincere then," he countered.

"Which is why... it might have worked," she answered - then grew serious. "But I would have... turned you down... any way."

He studied her for a long moment, then set down his fork, folded his hands beneath his chin, and looked at her. "Why - or rather, why not? I had a sincere interest in warp physics - and after sitting through you class lecture, I believe I had the inspiration as well as the ability to have been a good engineer."

"No," she replied.

"No?"

"No," she repeated. "You would not have been... a _good_ engineer; you would have... been an _excellent_ engineer_ - one of the finest... Starfleet could have had."

"Then... why?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, don't think... I wasn't tempted," she sighed. "A young man with the... energy, the desire and... the capability that echoed my own? What I wouldn't have given... to have had you as my protégé!" she sighed, shaking her head - then stopped and met his gaze again.

"But long ago, I swore... I would not take on any... student who was obviously destined... for better things than I could grant. You would have been... an excellent engineer - but I knew... you had the potential for more - so much more. And though it... was hard to do, and... though I hurt you - and myself - in doing so, I turned... you down... for my class.

"And I made... damned sure... you were turned down... for the other specialty classes... you requested as well," she added. "And don't you... think for a minute... that I didn't have a fight... on my hands... trying to convince... the others that... they had to let you discover.. that your true potential, that... your ultimate path... lay not in one scientific specialty - but in that field... that was the hardest of all - leading men.

"Fortunately, most... of your instructors agreed with me - except Galen," she said angrily. "He only saw the... potential you could... bring to his field... to archaeology, never what... you could do for the universe... as a whole. That ass," she sneered angrily. "He would have kept... your abilities for himself. Selfish bastard," she added under her breath.

She fell silent, looking down at the plate of food before her, her thoughts drifting back to those events of a half-century before, remembering as thought they had been yesterday.

Picard remembered as well, though time had allowed the memories to fade, the fond ones lingering more prominently in his thoughts, while the other faded into obscurity - but all now tempered by curiosity, doubt - and resentment.

I was manipulated, he thought angrily; manipulated, shaped... and used.

"Not used," she whispered back, countering his anger with her soft words. "Never used. And if you had... objected strongly, if you... had fought... to continue in a certain field, to continue your studies in any area... no one would... have stopped you; if any field... had struck you so... intensely that you would... have fought to stay, we would have... pulled back. You were a student; we had... the obligation to stretch your mind... and your knowledge... to the extremes that we could - but we also had the... obligation to respect... your ultimate decision.

"If you had chosen... to finish your studies... with Galen, we would have... done nothing to stop you; it was, in the end... your life, your decision. But when you chose to continue... with Starfleet, we rejoiced."

He stared at her for a long time, anger and resentment simmer deep behind his eyes. "I don't think," he said at long last, "that I appreciate being manipulated - even for my own good."

Andile looked back, her expression blunt - and her tone doubly so. "I understand; it's like having someone... decide that you should live - even when you were... dying, even when... you ached for death, even when the last thing you wanted... was to keep on living," she told him, looking at him with an all-too-knowing gaze.

He met the gaze - then gave a sigh. "Touché," he said.

She set her fork down. "We both have wronged... the other, Captain - with the best of intentions, with the... purest of motivations - but nonetheless, we have each... had a significant effect... on the other. So... what do we do now?" she asked.

For a long time, Picard watched her as he thought - then he reached out, took her fork, and handed it to her.

"Now... we finish dinner," he informed.

"And, apparently, we change... the topic as well," she said.

He considered for a moment, then nodded. "I need some time to come to terms with what you've said - and what you did," he said.

"As do I," she reminded him - then reached out, took the fork, and stabbed at another one of the tiny potatoes.

"These are good," she said.

He smiled, appreciating her consent to the subject change.

"So... what shall we discuss?" he asked.

"You could tell me.. about the negotiations," she suggested, cutting into another morsel of chicken with the side of her fork,

He raised a brow in surprise. "You mean you don't know?" he responded, surprised. "I thought you... I mean," he corrected himself, "I thought Sickbay was the hotbed of gossip..."

"You mean," she countered, "that everyone talks to me - and therefore, if... anyone knew what was going... on, it would be me, yes?" she said in a syrupy sweet tone.

He hesitated, suspecting he was about to walk into a trap - then sighed, and plunged in.

"Yes," he conceded.

To his relief, she smiled. "You're right; usually everyone... talks to me. But..." she let the words trail off.

"I understand," he said.

And he did understand.

He understood her need for solitude, the aching desire to be alone with the rage and the pain that had filled her for far too much time, the need to be alone, away from others who would distract her from her anguish, who would remind her of the joys of life, and the needs of those around her.

He understood, he had been there, been in her place, been so hurt, so devastated, that isolation was all he could bear - and no one had dared to risk penetrating that hardened shell of self-pity and self-imposed loneliness.

Except, of course, Beverly, he added - then instantly silenced the thought.

That part of his life was over.

But this part, he reminded himself, was just beginning.

"That being the case..." he began with a smile,

He launched into a detailed description of the situation, outlining the salient points of the Cardassians, Federation and Romulan arguments - and the inevitable, and occasionally insurmountable, conflicts that were delaying the progress of the talks, interrupting his speech with the occasional sallies into the plate of food before him, or to tear a piece of bread from the warm baguette he replicated a few minutes after starting his explanation of the negotiating table politics, offering it to Andile, watching as she savored its crisp crust, and slightly sour flavor, enjoying her pleasure in regaining the long-forgotten habit.

It was a pleasure to have her at his table, he thought, remembering how, in their few past encounters, it had been so easy to talk with this marvelously complex person, to listen to her take on the topics at hand, to argue a detail - and beginning to understand why his crew had fallen in love with her, why she had become the focal point of so many lives on his ship.

I apologize for having saved your life, he thought silently, because I know it hurt you - but for my crew, my ship - for myself, I will never ask your forgiveness. We are all richer for your being a part of our life - and for your life continuing on with us.

And I will make it up to you, he swore.

"Still," he concluded quite some time later, "we push on, all of us knowing that, in the end, we have two real choices: peace - or eventual, mutual destruction of our societies. Of course, now that the Breen have entered the picture - I did tell you that the Breen are interested in an alliance with the Federation, didn't I?" he asked.

She nodded slowly, her eyes slightly glassy, her fork still poised over the plate - a plate which now held only the remnants of the small salads that had come after the meal, traces of dark green and red leaves glinting with the finest sheen of a perfect vinaigrette.

He smiled, enjoying the look of satisfaction on her face, relishing the fact that he had managed to get her to eat - a feat that no one else had yet achieved, and rose to his feet.

Of course, he told himself as he touched the control pad, securing two glasses of water, it was only right that he would have something to boast about - since he would have to confess to Beverly - or her crew, he added, noting the early hour of the morning - that he had also managed to get her intoxicated as well.

Not that four sips of wine was really intoxicating, he added defensively, silently preparing his - and Dee's - defense; she had simply responded badly.

"The biggest stumbling block had been, as you probably suspect, Jay Tillerman. As a former Starfleet officer, he is liable for the damage he caused to the ship, not to mention the murders. And," he added softly, regretfully, "what he did to you."

He stopped, staring down at his plate, his appetite fading as the regret and shame over his failure to realize that it had been his former acquaintance was responsible for everything that had happened on his ship in the last few months - and he had not realized that fact.

Jay had sabotaged his ship, suborned one of his crew, drugged another, killed four, killed the Breen captain - and had nearly killed the woman who sat across the table from him, his newest friend, as well.

Friend, he thought, letting the word roll over his tongue, realizing that, despite his earlier protestations, she was, indeed turning into a friend. He smiled, contented - then allowed the smile to fade as he realized he would have to tell Dee the truth.

"The Breen," he said at last, "are not going to allow us to extradite Jay. They say they don't agree with his actions - but that under their law, what he did aboard our ship was not criminal - and what happened on their ship was an accident. In their way, Dee, they aren't unlike you; they do not believe in holding a grudge. What happened was an accident - a horrific accident, but still an accident. They won't charge him; he'll be free to do as he wishes - so long as he remains in Breen space. However, as we don't have a treaty with the Breen, his position as Ambassador carries no import. If he returns to Federation space - or that of an allied people - he can be arrested and tried. But..." He shook his head. "Jay's a coward a heart. He won't return to Federation space - not if there's even a hint of danger. I'm sorry, Dee," he added, raising his eyes to look at her, to face the anger and rage that he knew would be there.

But there was nothing there; nothing at all.

Instead, she sat before him, frozen in place, her eyes shut, one hand still holding on to the fork, one piece of salad still perfectly poised on the tines.

He smiled - then felt the smile fade as he studied her still form.

Her too-still form.

"Dee?" he said softly, worry putting a strained edge on his tone.

She didn't move.

"Dee!" he repeated, more loudly this time, almost shouting her name as he hurried around the table - then stopped as he realized the truth.

Andile wasn't breathing.


	161. Chapter 161

**Chapter 161**

Picard slapped the commbadge on his chest, shouting, "Picard to Sickbay! Medical emergency!"

Instantly, Alyssa Ogawa's voice came back to him, clear and alert despite the early hour of the morning. "Ogawa here, sir. What's the nature of the emergency?"

"It's D... It's Lt. Andile! She's not breathing!" he snapped back.

Silence followed his announcement - a silence that seemed to stretch on forever as a thousand horrific possibilities filled his mind.

Was it the food? The wine? The stress of the confrontation - and the catharsis - on the holodeck? The physical strain of trying to play the flute? What happened? He asked himself in grief and horror - then added the thought that lay behind the rest: Was it me? Did I do something to cause this?

Did _I_ kill her?

"Doctor!" he snapped aloud as the silence became uncomfortably long.

"One moment, Captain," Alyssa replied patiently.

"Damn it! She's not breathing!"

There was another silence - though shorter this time. "Captain," Alyssa replied with practiced tolerance, "Andile doesn't have to breathe; her artificial lung works continuously, without inhalation or exhalation," she reminded him gently.

"But..." he protested instantly.

"Sir, this has happened before. There's no need for concern," she said patiently.

"No need for concern?!" he gaped.

"No, sir. Captain, the lieutenant is wearing a medical monitor; if her vitals range outside of a set of pre-determined standards for more than a few seconds, we would be instantly alerted. And right now, her monitors are showing all vitals - including her oxygenation levels - are well within acceptable ranges. However," she added, knowing that mere scientific facts were not always enough to convince a person of a situation, "you can verify that she's not in danger. Look at her lips. What color are they?" the physician instructed him.

"Umm... Sort of a pale rose color - pink, maybe?" he guessed, trying to think of which shade of peach the flesh most closely resembled.

"But not blue," Alyssa confirmed.

"No," Picard agreed.

"Good. Blue would indicate a lack of oxygen. Now, please look at her hands - at her fingernails."

Picard stared at the frozen woman, then carefully prized loose the rigidly held fork from her fingers, splaying them apart and staring at the tips.

"Pale pink - but there seems to be small half circles of white at the base," he added worriedly.

He could almost hear the doctor smiling as she replied. "That's normal - and healthy. "

"But she's not breathing!" he protested. "Surely that's not 'normal and healthy' - not even for the lieutenant!" he argued.

"No, it isn't," Alyssa agreed. "However, it is not unusual either. Andile's diaphragm was damaged during her surgery; she's undergoing therapy to regain full control of the muscle - but just as with any other muscle training regimen, the muscle can be over-taxed, and go into spasm. A cramp, if you will. We do have medication to reverse the condition, however. Where is she?" she asked.

Picard stopped, suddenly realizing how awkward the current situation was. "Err... The lieutenant is, uh..." He hesitated, then continued, "She's in my quarters," he said - quietly.

There was an equally awkward pause on the doctor's part. "I beg your pardon?" Alyssa answered. "Did you say..."

"Yes," he interrupted, more forcefully this time. "She's in my quarters. Now, if you would hurry, Doctor?" he added sternly.

"I'm on my way," Alyssa said.

He tapped his badge again, waited a moment to ensure that the connection ahd been broken - then stared at the unconscious woman.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked her, knowing there would be no reply - yet somehow suspecting she was laughing at him, even so. "You delight in seeing me embarrassed in front of others," he continued - then sighed.

"What is it about you women that you relish our humiliation, our public mortification - and yet we tolerate it?" he mused aloud. "Do we need you so desperately that we will endure anything you inflict upon us, just to have you in our lives?" he asked her - then softened his voice, his eyes locked on her - but his thoughts elsewhere, decks away, focused on someone else, someone who also enjoyed the torment she inflicted on him, someone from who he would tolerate anything...

Someone who he had foolishly – oh, so foolishly - chased out of his life.

He gave another sigh, studying her yet again, considering - then strode from the dining area.

A moment later, he returned to Andile's side, lifting her into his arms with a easy movement, then carried her out of the room, gently depositing her on the bed he had turned down just moments before.

"It's bad enough that I have to explain to Dr. Ogawa about the food and the wine," he explained to her. "I'll not add to that having to explain why I allowed you to fall from a chair and fracture your skull."

He was startled by the sound of a soft exhalation following the pronouncement, and, as he watched, he thought he saw the faintest rise and fall of her chest.

Uncertain, he placed his hand just over her slightly parted lips, waiting for another of the tiny breaths - and, after a few moments, felt a damp, warm touch on his hand.

He pulled his hand back, relieved at the return of the autonomic function - and instantly chagrined by what he deemed his own over-reaction.

I should have just waited, he thought to himself; I should have re-evaluated the situation, reminded myself of the facts - including the fact that Andile's lungs are artificial and that she has neither to inhale or exhale in order to breathe - before I panicked and called for help, he chided himself. Such behavior would have been intolerable from the rankest of cadets - let alone from a starship captain!

But starship captains aren't medical professionals, he reminded himself a moment later; we aren't trained in the intricacies of human physiology - or in the mechanisms that emulate their function. When someone stops breathing, you respond - and if the situation becomes embarrassing later, well, damn it, it becomes embarrassing.

Better a little public humiliation than public mourning, he added.

Still, he added, discretion was one of Dr. Ogawa's finer traits - and one I intend to utilize fully, he thought to himself.

He stepped to the foot of the bed, pulling the blanket over the almost still form, then stepped out of the room.

A minute later, he admitted Alyssa Ogawa to his quarters, quickly directing her to his bedroom without offering an explanation as to how Andile had come to be in his quarters - or allowing her an opportunity to ask.

"It happened when we were sitting at the table," he did explain. "One moment we were talking - the next, she was unconscious. I moved her to my bed so she wouldn't fall and injure herself. When I lay her down, however, she began to breathe again," he added, suddenly needful of the reason to justify the panicked call to Sickbay.

To his relief, Alyssa nodded approvingly. "You did the right thing in calling us, Captain; while this has happened before, it's something we're watching carefully - and it's easier to address if we know when it happens."

Then, with the brisk efficiency that he had come to associate with the medical officers on his ships, she sat on the edge of the bed beside Andile, opened her case, pulled out a scanner and began to pass the device over the woman's body - and frowned.

"What's wrong?" Picard asked worriedly.

"Her liver enzymes are off," Alyssa replied. "It's alarming; she's been holding steady for so long; I thought we were out of the woods, that her liver had completed its repairs - but this would indicate that she's taken another turn for the worse," Alyssa informed him unhappily.

Picard hesitated, guilt riddling him, then gave in, knowing the truth would eventually out - and that Andile's health was more important than any embarrassment he might suffer.

"It's my fault," he said. "We had some wine..."

Alyssa looked up at him, surprised. "Oh?"

"Not much," he added hastily. "The lieutenant probably had, oh, maybe half a glass. She seemed to get a little... tipsy," he added, "so she stopped."

"I'm not surprised," Alyssa said. "Her liver metabolizes alcohol - and everything else - at a remarkably higher rate than most humans. Until she builds some tolerance, she'll feel the alcohol almost instantly - but she'll also recover in minutes as well.

"But in any case, a half of a glass - or even a glassful - wouldn't have done this."

"Maybe something she ate," Picard suggested.

"No. Eating wouldn't have hurt her at all. If anything it would help her! God knows we've been trying to get her to eat, but she's been refusing..." She stopped in mid-sentence, his words dimly registering. "Captain, are you saying she ate something?"

"Just a little poached chicken with broth and vegetables," he demurred.

Alyssa continued to stare at him. "Just chicken and vegetables," she repeated.

"And some bread and a small salad. It wasn't very much," he objected.

She continued to gape - then smiled widely. "You got her to eat!" she said a third time. "Captain, we've tried everything we could dream of to try to convince Andile to start eating again - but nothing seemed to reach her! A few more days, and we were going to have to start TPN - total parental nutrition - again and that would mean confining her back to Sickbay! And if that happened..."

"If that happened, you were concerned she would never leave again," he concluded for her.

Alyssa nodded. "The setback would have profound psychological and physical ramifications that I think we could not surmount; we most likely would have had to place her in stasis if she were to survive until we returned to Earth," she admitted. "But now..."

"It was only a small bowl of chicken and broth," he reminded her, trying to reign herd on her rapidly growing enthusiasm. "That was all."

"It was... wonderful, Captain; a wonderful start," she countered, then turned back to Andile, completing her scan.

"And it's an explanation for what I'm seeing; her liver enzymes are within norms for someone who has eaten something after so long a hiatus," she concluded.

"And her stopping breathing?" he pressed.

"As I said, this has happened before," she reassured him. "Andile's diaphragm spasms frequently, especially after she's had her therapy."

He blazed red. "My fault again," he admitted. "I was trying to teach her to play the flute. I must have overdone it," he confessed.

Alyssa smiled at him gently. "Please don't worry, Captain; aches and pains - and the occasional muscle cramp - are the price we all pay when we're trying to develop our muscle strength. In Biji's case, however, those cramps are simply a little more... well," she mused, "dramatic.

"And disconcerting for Beej and those around her," she added. "We've put her on medication to control the spasms, but she is several hours overdue for her injection," she added pointedly. "I was just about to have the computer search the ship for her when you called." She reached into her bag, drew up a hypo, checked the contents and dosage, then pressed it to Andile's neck.

Almost immediately, the unconscious woman drew a deep - relatively deep - breath, then let it out - and with the exhalation, seemed to move deeper into unconsciousness.

The doctor frowned, peeled back Andile's eyelid, and stared at the pupil, then checked her scanner. "That's odd," she murmured.

"What? What's 'odd'?" he replied instantly.

Alyssa stared at Andile for a moment, checked her scanner again - then looked up a Picard. "She seems to be... asleep," she said, somewhat dazed by the statement.

"Is that bad?"

"No - but it's... unusual," Alyssa said, puzzled. "Her typical response is to regain consciousness after the injection - not to move into a deeper sleep. In fact, she doesn't usually enter deep sleep at all. What sleep she gets is only when we've sedated her - and with her metabolism as fast as it is, the sedatives usually wear off in one to two hours. To be honest, Andile hasn't had a spontaneous night's sleep since her injury."

And far beyond that, Picard added silently, remembering the hints of vivid and haunting dreams that had filled his own sleep - dreams that, only recently, he had come to understand were not his own.

Alyssa slipped the scanner back into the bag, closed it, then rose to her feet.

Picard followed her as she left the room. "What now?" he asked.

"I'll contact Sickbay, and have a team come down with a gurney; Andile's so sound asleep, she'll never realize she's been moved - and with any luck, this sleep will continue until morning," she said.

Picard nodded, acknowledging the information - but as Alyssa reached for her badge, he reached out, stopping her.

"Dr. Ogawa... I don't mean to question your medical judgment - but is that wise? That is, if she's resting as thoroughly as you say, should you risk waking her by moving her?"

The physician studied him for a long moment. "You mean: why don't I just let her sleep here?" she said skeptically.

Picard gave a slight shrug. "Would that be a problem? She is asleep, after all..." he began.

Alyssa smiled tolerantly. "I appreciate the thought, Captain - but," she grew somber, "Andile is ill. She isn't living in Sickbay because she has nowhere to go, sir; she's there because her medical condition is still fragile. The spasms of the diaphragm are only one thing that she needs medication for; she needs to have the skin under the lung cleaned, she needs medications, she needs monitoring..."

"You said she's wearing a monitor; wouldn't that alert you if something happened?" he asked.

Alyssa hesitated. "It's not just the medical monitor, sir. She... she had nightmares," she explained reluctantly. "Rather violent ones, at times. She'll awaken, screaming..."

I know, he replied silently, remembering the nightmares that had followed his encounter with the Borg, the Cardassians, the news about Robert and Réné... He shook his head. Of all the people aboard the ship, he alone knew the nightmares that plagues Andile all too well...

"All the more reason to have someone with whom she's comfortable present, wouldn't you think?" he pressed.

Alyssa sighed. "Sir..."

He looked at her beseechingly, pleadingly. "Doctor, she fell asleep - here. There was a reason - beyond the food and wine. It was here - because she felt safe here. How do I betray that trust and send her back to a place where she can only sleep a few hours a night - and then only because she's drugged?"

Alyssa stared at him again - then shook her head. "The meds..."

"You can give them to her," he countered.

"It's not just one medication, sir, it's a series - over a period of time. Thirty micrograms of medfenisone every four hours, two cc's of dephynisoline every six, parathyronine upon waking..." She shook her head. "She needs attention, sir; someone to be there to give her the medications throughout the night," she said. "I'll have to assign a nurse..."

"I'm here," Picard countered instantly, surprising the doctor - and himself.

"You, sir?" Alyssa said, disbelieving.

"I'm already here, Doctor," he explained. "I've administered hypos before..."

"In an emergency!" she protested.

"The technique is the same," he argued.

"Yes, but..." She stopped, staring at Picard - then looking back at Andile's sleeping form - then back at Picard, and grew sober.

"Sir, you don't owe Andile anything," she said, pleading with him in quiet but fervent tones. "The decision you made, to keep her alive, that was a command decision, one you made in the best interest of the ship and the crew..."

He stopped her with a gesture. "Doctor, I made that decision for all the wrong reasons - but reasons I refuse to regret," he said firmly. "My request to you, however, is not because of a misguided need to make amends for my actions to a crewman I may have wronged," he insisted.

"Then why?" Alyssa pressed.

Picard hesitated.

The truth? he asked himself. That she had tried to kill herself - and that had stopped her - and now, he admitted, the responsibility for keeping her alive, for helping her find a new path in life had fallen to him?

That was hardly what he was about to tell the woman standing before him.

Alyssa Ogawa was as compassionate a human as Picard had ever met, and it was her empathy, her ability to understand her patient's needs - and their suffering - that had helped make her the nurse she had once been, as well as the physician she now was.

But compassion and empathy had to take a back seat to the realities of her role as physician: if she knew Andile had tried suicide, she would not only have refused to let her stay here, she would have had her confined in Sickbay under constant watch - or perhaps even under constant sedation - until she could begin the intense counseling that inevitably followed a suicide attempt.

It wouldn't matter that she had stopped in her attempt, that she had agreed to try not being andile, that she had given her word that she would not repeat her attempts as long as the mission continued; those were promises she had made to Picard - and promises that Alyssa - and the rest of the medical staff - would dismiss as meaningless, made under duress in an attempt to free herself - just so she could make another attempt, later.

She wouldn't of course, he added silently - but he doubted that Alyssa would understand that fact - especially if she learned that he had agreed to help Andile kill herself if she could not find her way free of being andile.

No, he decided, the truth was not the answer.

Then again, perhaps the truth was needed here.

"Doctor," he said at last, "I respect your knowledge and your abilities - more than you will ever know. You - and others like you, other physician, other medical practitioners - have saved my life more often than I care to remember. And I thank you for it," he added sincerely.

"But there were times during those long recoveries when I felt that I, as a person, had been forgotten; instead, I felt reduced to being nothing more than an amalgam of my symptoms, my injuries, my surgeries.

"I think that the lieutenant is in that position now," he continued. "She is no longer the person she was, but rather a mélange of treatments, surgeries, therapies, medications - all at a time when she needs to focus on returning to the person she was before this began.

"Tonight..." He shook his head. "Tonight, there were no drugs, no treatments, no therapies. Yes, she practiced her breathing technique - through conversation, through practicing music. She drank, she ate - not because it was medically advisable, but because it was the companionable thing to do.

"And she fell asleep, not because it was time to do so, or because she was drugged into unconsciousness - but because she was tired. And she felt safe and comfortable.

"With all due apologies, Doctor, right now, the last place she needs to be is back in Sickbay. No, this is where she needs to be; not necessarily with me - but beginning to reassert her existence as an independent person, not just a patient.

"Dr. Crusher was quite correct when she started to allow her a degree of personal freedom - allowing her visit the other areas of the ship. Now, you need to go one step further, to take the next logical progression in her recovery."

He could see the resistance in Alyssa's body; he could almost feel her refusal to consider the idea.

"What if you're wrong?" she countered.

"Then I'm wrong," he conceded. "Medically, you'll still be monitoring her - just as if she was in Sickbay. If she's in trouble, you can transport her directly back there."

"If we catch it in time," Alyssa argued.

He smiled. "Doctor, if you thought you could not monitor the lieutenant's condition adequately, you wouldn't have given her free reign of the ship in the first place," he replied.

Alyssa pursed her lips, knowing he was right - then gave a sigh.

"All right," she conceded. "She can stay - for tonight! - but only on the condition that her monitor indicates no abnormalities," she said firmly. "If it goes off, if her vitals are off by even a small percentage, then she'll have to come back to Sickbay - immediately," she added. "No compromises, Captain; this is either my way - or no way," she said.

He nodded. "What do I need to do?" he said.

"I'll give her the meds she needs now, then get the ones she'll need for the remainder of the night and bring them back here. I'll also need to program the computer to alert you when she needs the next ones," she advised, rising to her feet. "She'll need to come back to Sickbay when she wakes up so we can exchange her lung set for the next."

"Is there a particular time...?" Picard asked.

"No. We usually change it first thing in the morning because she's less aware of the pain - but that's strictly a matter of our convenience. The lung tissue is viable for thirty-six hours, so she'll be fine until late tomorrow night," Alyssa promised.

He nodded his agreement, then escorted the petite physician to the door. "I'll be right back," she promised.

Picard nodded silently as the doctor left - then sighed, silently asking himself what he had just committed himself to doing - and not knowing the answer.

For twenty minutes, he contemplated the question as he cleared the dinner table, then cleaned the flutes and replaced them in their cases - but finding no answers.

Perhaps, he decided, there was no real answer; perhaps it was simply a matter of helping a friend - then shook his head.

No, he knew, friendship was something that developed over time - and despite a history that spanned fifty years, tonight was the first time he had spoken with Dee in anything even resembling an attempt to get to know her solely for the sake of knowing about her.

If there was a friendship to be found there, it would be months - or years - in the making.

What then? he wondered. Pity?

Hardly, he insisted. Andile evoked many an emotion in those around her, himself included - but he could not imagine pity being one of those feelings. Pity was for the weak, the helpless, the powerless - and she was none of those things. Perhaps he was driven by compassion or empathy or even commiseration - but pity? Never!

He considered for a moment - then looked at the closed door to his bedroom.

Compassion - or could it be something more? he asked himself bluntly. I was in love with her fifty years ago; could this be some remaining vestige of that feeling?

No, he decided; whatever I felt for her once, it was fifty years ago - and we both are different people now.

And even if there were some traces of those old feelings... well, he thought firmly, this was not the time for such a relationship. Emotionally, neither of them was ready for such a relationship; she was still recuperating, both from her injuries and her recent breakup with Data - and I...

I still have feelings for Beverly, he knew. Pointless, meaningless feelings - feelings he knew that would never be returned, because of what he had said and done - but feelings he had nonetheless.

What then? he wondered as he glanced into the darkened room where Andile lay sleeping, studying he still form, watching the miniscule rise and fall of her chest as the remnants of her real lungs did their job - then shook his head, knowing he didn't have an answer.

Then again, he thought, finding answers to the questions of the soul was not his responsibility: that was why, he thought, starships had counselors.

He smiled, pleased in the knowledge that that task fell to another - then let the smile fade as the door chimed again, and he opened the door to face Alyssa Ogawa once again.

A half hour later, the grin was completely gone as he realized the enormity of the project before him - and the true fragility of Andile's condition.

So many meds, so many things to watch for, he thought, wondering once again if he had made the right decision as he watched Alyssa administer another injection, the check her patient's status with the monitor.

Perhaps she would be better off in Sickbay...

"I have to confess, Captain," Alyssa said softly as she studied the readout, "that I have my doubts about this - but there's no arguing with the facts: I don't think she's slept this well in months." She hesitated - then looked up at Picard. "Sir... with your permission, I'd like to try something."

He raised a brow in question and doubt.

"I mentioned that she needs to have the lung changed tomorrow..."

"I recall," he agreed.

"The biggest problem Biji has is that the lung is oozing bio-mimetic gel onto her skin - and that it's drawing her outer epidermal layers into the lung. It's not affecting the performance of the lung, but it is damaging her skin badly. We're having to literally rip off layers of tissue every day - and she refuses pain meds. We've tried using the ECMO while she's sleeping - to allow her own recuperative powers to manifest themselves - but the oxygenation is less effective than the lung, and it has affected her sleeping and her regenerative abilities. What I'd like to do - with your permission - is remove the lung tonight - leave it connected by an extra-long catheter so she can still receive full oxygenation - but allow her flesh to recover while she's sleeping."

He raised a brow. "Is that safe? Wouldn't the... tubes?... get tangled?"

"No, sir; I'll secure them in place - not that Biji moves very much while she sleeps," she added sorrowfully. "She can't tolerate much pressure on her right arm, so we get her into a comfortable position, then support her body with pillows and bolsters. It limits her movement."

"It must be uncomfortable," Picard murmured.

"It is - but she never complains," Alyssa answered. "I wish she would; I wish she would stop being the stoic - and let us know she's in pain, that she needs us; I wish she would let us help her," she added plaintively, almost bitterly. "But Beej is Beej," she sighed after a moment. "Better to have her - and all her stoicism - then to have lost her. Now, if you'll give me a few minutes, I'm going to remove the lung," she advised Picard.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

Alyssa smiled. "Thank you, but... I think this is something better left between a woman and her doctor. If you get my drift," she added, looking at him knowingly.

He met her gaze - but the emotion in the expression was one of confusion rather than comprehension - until he realized that Alyssa was beginning to strip off Andile's overshirt. "Er... yes. Of course. If you need anything..."

Flaming red, he hastily turned, hurriedly excusing himself from his own bedroom, pressing himself against the wall so there was no chance he could inadvertently look in upon the semi-dressed woman.

Thus it was that he found himself filled with both horror and embarrassment when the physician called out only a few minutes later.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"There's a Sickbay gown in my bag; could you get it for me?"

He nodded, not realizing the doctor couldn't hear his motion, then hastily hurried to where she ahd left her bag, withdrawing the blue gown, recognizing it as not dissimilar to the ones he had worn on more than a few occasions - and remembering how uncomfortable the damned things were.

Not intentionally, of course, but after even one day, he had ached to regain his own nightwear, his own pyjamas, hating the feel of the slightly coarse fabric as it rubbed against his flesh.

The thought of it pressing against the raw and worn tissue of Andile's body made him shudder.

Stepping back to his bedroom, he tapped on the jamb.

"Come in, Captain," Alyssa replied.

"You're certain?"

He didn't have to hear a laugh to know that she was smiling at his never-yielding hold on propriety - but he declined to apologize; there were just some things that were not done. At least, he added, not on my starship. Not in my quarters.

"Don't worry, sir," Alyssa replied, "She's covered."

He nodded, then entered the room, trying not to look at the recumbent form, trying not to notice the two thin plastic tubes, filled with burgundy red fluid, that pulsed rhythmically from beneath the medical drape that covered Andile's chest to the silver metallic shirt that lay neatly arranged over the back of a chair, and handed the gown to the doctor.

With practiced deftness, she replaced the drapes with the gown without revealing Andile's one remaining breast - but there was no way to avoid exposing Picard to the red, raw flesh of Andile's chest, or the ragged white scars and irregularly dented skin that marked where the reimplantation of her arm had been performed - or the small silver patches of the regenerators that dotted her chest and arms, all giving lie to those places where he body was unable to heal itself against the forces of her injuries, and the stresses of the bio-mimetic gel; all reminders, Picard thought, of the frailty of a body that had once healed itself with near flawless perfection - and with almost instantaneous speed.

And it would again - in time, Picard reminded himself wordlessly.

When she was well in body - and in spirit.

In the interim, he added, Beverly would regenerate that tissue, renewing the flesh to as close to perfect as medical technology permitted - but even the most marvelous of technologies had its limits; until all the surgeries were completed, Beverly would limit herself to healing only the worst of the damage, knowing that with each use of the regenerator increase the friability of the delicate tissue.

For what remained, Andile would have to heal herself - over time, and with the consequences that had faced all her antecedents - pain, scarring, and slow, slow recovery. It was the best Beverly could offer the woman, he knew - but looking at the raw, puckered flesh of her arm and chest, it didn't seem like enough.

And doubly inadequate, he added, knowing the decision to leave Andile as she was, to allow her to heal on her own, only reinforced the knowledge that of how much lay ahead, how many surgeries lay before her.

It was not, he thought to himself, a reminder that he could have born easily, had he been the chronic patient; how had Andile been able to face that realization of what lay before her, day after day after day? he wondered.

Or perhaps she hadn't, he added; perhaps that fact, that despite all the surgeries that had gone before, she had as many - if not more - to face in the days to come had been one of the reasons she had chosen to end her life this evening.

As he watched, Alyssa, finished dressing the woman, positioned her carefully on her back, then moved to the foot of the bed, pulled off Andile's boots and socks, leaving the woman's black leggings in place, then pulled the blankets back over the sleeping body.

"I don't think she'll need to move during the night," she concluded, studying the sleeping woman, "but if so, you'll need to help her turn on to her left side; use a pillow to support her right arm, and another behind her back to keep her from falling back - and she should be comfortable until early morning."

Alyssa put her equipment back into the bag - except for the half-dozen hypos that were arranged on the nightstand and the small monitor that was arranged at the head of the bed, silently watching over the sleeping form.

My bedroom, he thought to himself disapprovingly, has become Sickbay in absentia. It was not what he had intended when he made the suggestion...

... and yet, he thought as he followed Alyssa from the room, ordering the room lights to dim to a fraction of their earlier level, hearing the door slide shut with a gentle finality behind him, he found himself unable to regret what he had done.

"Captain?"

Alyssa's voice interrupted his reverie.

He raised a brow in surprise as he turned to her. "Doctor?"

"Biji's asleep - and her readouts indicate she may stay that way for hours," she announced.

"You make that sound as though it were not a good thing, Doctor," he pointed out.

"No," Alyssa countered with a smile. "It's wonderful. As her doctor and her friend, I'm happy that she's finally getting some sleep - and some food! It's so wonderful to know she's getting a part of her life back; knowing that..." She smiled, shaking her head, biting her lip - and Picard thought he saw the trace of a tear in her eye.

"Knowing that," she continued, "I beginning to believe she just might make it. You know, we knew that, after those first few rough weeks, we could drag her back to the world of the living - we knew we could keep her body alive - but the Biji we knew and loved? Captain," she said thoughtfully, "we had no way of knowing we could keep her with us. Tonight... I'm beginning to believe once again.

"But," she added quickly, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye, "she's not out of the woods yet. She's definitely not stable enough to be on her own. If you have to go to the bridge - either for an emergency, or because she's still sleeping and it's your shift, you need to call Sickbay, to have someone come here and stay with her until she does wake. She'll be fine on her own for a few minutes - but under no circumstances do I want her to wake up alone," she insisted.

Picard frowned, sensing that the physician was concealing something. "It's not her waking up alone that worries you, is it?" he said.

Alyssa looked at him, surprised by the unexpected perspicacity of the man.

"No," she agreed.

"It's the dreams, the nightmares..."

Alyssa studied him - then gave a short, quick nod. "They're horrifying, Captain; not just for Biji - but for everyone in Sickbay. The screams..." She shuddered, recalling the shrieks that filled Sickbay almost every night. "At first we thought it was the pain - she clutches at her hands, her wrists, at where the scars used to be - but every test we run shows there are no pain receptors being affected.

"It's psychological trauma, Captain - but because it is psychological, not physical, there's nothing we can do for her. That's something she'll have to deal with - when she decides she's ready. But speaking on behalf of the entire Sickbay night shift... well, we all love Biji - but as far as we're concerned, her getting into counseling cannot start soon enough.

"Which brings me," she added with obvious reluctance, "to the other matter I need to discuss with you." Alyssa gestured at the two chairs that they had occupied only a brief time before.

Picard gave her a curious glance, then followed her gesture, taking one of the chairs while she perched again on the edge of the other - then drew a deep and uncomfortable breath.

"Sir, your relationship with Andile, whatever it is, is absolutely none of my business."

Picard frowned, his forehead wrinkling in creases of confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean personally," she added hastily. "Whatever your relationship is with Andile - well, it's none of my business. But as her physician, sir, I am obligated to let you know that I believe it is unwise - perhaps even potentially dangerous - for Andile to become involved in a romantic relationship at this time. She was badly traumatized by the events surrounding both her current injuries as well as those from two years ago - and she had not yet begun to address either of those issues. For her to involve herself in an emotional relationship would be foolish for her - and for you, sir," she informed him.

Picard felt his face beginning to warm as his cheeks flushed.

"Doctor..." he began to explain.

"But the choices you and Biji make are your own. However, sir, I must inform you that, at this time, a physical relationship is absolutely contraindicated," Alyssa plunged ahead. "Even the most careful of sexual relations could damage her lungs, put undue pressure on her vasculature - not to mention that we have not yet begun to repair the scarring of her vagina and anus. Intercourse for her would not only be painful, but it could be life threatening..."

"Doctor!" he seethed.

"I'm sorry if this embarrasses you, sir, but you have to understand the full ramifications of what can happen!" Alyssa insisted. "The tissue is so fragile that it could easily tear, and she could bleed to death before either of you were aware of the problem. I don't mean to insult you, Captain, but during the heat of the moment, even the most tender and careful of lovers..."

"Doctor," Picard interrupted, his voice low and full of fury, his face blazing crimson, "I hope you are not suggesting that you think I would take advantage of the lieutenant, just because she is my guest..."

"No, sir," she replied. "Of course not. I'm simply informing you of the consequences, should such a decision - a mutual decision," she added hastily, "be made," she said.

Picard glared at her - then forced himself to calm down.

She's doing her job, he reminded himself; she's protecting her patient as best she can - albeit completely unnecessarily, he added silently.

He nodded slightly to the petite physician. "I appreciate your advice, Doctor, and I respect the fact that it took a fair amount of courage to face me about this issue. However, it was... not necessary. The lieutenant and I are... friends. Nothing - absolutely nothing - more," he assured her. "And she will be returning to Sickbay in the morning," he added hastily. "Tonight is simply a matter of...convenience - compassion, if you will; giving her a chance for a good night's sleep for the first time in months. With any luck, it will establish a pattern that you and the others can build upon," he added with a smile.

"Yes, sir," Alyssa replied blandly, wondering how a man so wise in the ways of running a ship, so astute about politics and diplomacy and science and art could be so far off the mark when it came to understanding the realities of the human heart - especially his own, she added.

She opted for silence, however, saying nothing, merely nodding her acceptance of his pronouncement, then stood up, reached for her bag and moved to the doorway. "Remember, sir, if you need me, I'm just a call away," she said at last. "I'll have someone here in minutes."

"Thank you, Dr. Ogawa. I'll bear that in mind. And now... Have a good night," he said, watching as she stepped through the door, tapped the locking mechanism - and turned to survey the room around him.

Twenty minutes later, the table had been straightened, their music and stands put away, and the room returned to its original, near-pristine condition. Slipping back into his bedroom, he secured his pyjamas and a robe, changed - oh-so-quietly - in the bathroom, secured an extra pillow and blanket from the closet and slipped back into the living area.

Tightening the belt of his robe around him, he arranged the pillow at one end of the couch, stretched out over its length, arranged the blanket over his body and checked the chronometer. An hour until the next med, he realized.

"Computer," he called out. "Set alert to wake me in fifty-five minutes - low level alarm," he added, uncertain if the noise of the alert would wake his guest - and not willing to have this, her first real night's sleep, end prematurely - or disastrously - because of an overloud alarm.

Then he added a second order. "Lights," he instructed the computer, then, as the lights faded, he found himself staring at the stars.

If wasn't quite the same, he decided; the perspective from his couch wasn't quite as it was from his bed - but the stars were the same ones he had watched for the past few months, and something in the unfamiliar familiarity contented his soul as little else could do.

He yawned, closed his eyes - then half aware, half in unconscious act, reached out for the mind of his friend.

There was nothing there - nothing, but the relaxed calm of a sleeping mind.

_Good night, Dee_, he thought to her.

And then he thought of nothing else.


	162. Chapter 162

**Chapter 162**

She shivered, the cold wind managing to cut through the thick layer of rotting garbage that covered her, chilling her despite the heat that the decomposing matter generated.

The child lying beside her in their burrow of refuse gave a soft whimper, shaking as the wind reached her - but too weak, too exhausted to wake enough to cry louder.

Andile opened the front of her thin dress, then pulled the child against her flesh and wrapped the dress around them both, hoping that her body heat, as little as there was, would warm the child enough to let her return to the deep reaches of dreamless sleep, and grant them both a chance to hold on to what little energy they both still possessed.

Of course, she thought as she felt Varel snuggle against her, felt the child's shivers ease, then disappear completely, it might be simpler, might be better, not to fight the cold at all - just to let it take them both, and ease them from this world to the next.

They said death by hypothermia was an easy passing, she reminded herself. Yes, you're cold for a time - but only a brief time, she added - then the sleep came: sleep - restful, deep... and then permanent.

Even I would die, she thought with a degree of contentedness; at some temperature, even my cells can't regenerate - and I, too, would finally die.

I think, she added a moment later. I think I'd die. I think my cells couldn't come back. But if they did...

If they did, she would wake - but Varel would not. She would be dead - and it would have been my fault.

The gods gave you to me, little one, she thought, pulling the child even closer to her; they gave you to me as my responsibility - and as my test of worthiness, my test to prove that I am not andile, that I am not filth - that I have some value, some worth that proves I have redeemed my soul.

I cannot abandon that test, she thought - nor could I ever abandon you, she added, looking down at the sleeping child, unable to see her for the mass of garbage that mounded over them that filtered out every trace of the few city lights that reached out to this, the distant periphery of the city where the Cardassians disposed of their trash.

Lightless as it was, though, the mound was not nearly deep enough to blunt the cold night's winds. Ignoring the smell of rotting plants and food, Andile reached beneath her own body and began to scoop and push at the muck there, burrowing out a deeper channel for the two bodies to lie in.

It stank; this deep into the middens, the filth bore a stench that threatened to overwhelm her senses - but Varel seemed not to notice, her only response to the movement a faint sigh as the heat increased and the effect of the wind faded; she nestled against Andile once again, though this time out of contentment rather than cold.

Andile smiled at the child, running one finger across the delicate ridges of her forehead and brow, wishing she could see the child's beautiful features to remind herself how generous the gods had been in giving this child to her, entrusting her safety, her health, her life to her, to an andile.

I will protect you, she swore silently; I will care for you, and see you to safety; I'll find a place where they can help you, and give you back the life your people stole from you... I hope, she added, having no idea how much of the brain damage that the early starvation had done to the child, or how much Starfleet medical technology could do for a Cardassian child.

But if there was nothing they could do, she added, moving her fingers up, beginning to run them through the child's long hair, then I will keep you with me forever - or as long a forever as the gods grant you.

But that means getting out of here, off this planet - and that meant finding a way to contact Starfleet.

It could be done, she knew; there were transmitters at Central Security that could send a message, alert Starfleet to their situation - but there was no way she could penetrate the building's defenses - and even if she could, even if she could somehow send a message out, there was no way that Starfleet could - or would - risk sending a rescue ship to collect them. They were only two people - and Starfleet would not risk the military repercussions of sending a vessel into an enemy's territory without a damned good reason.

And I am not a damned good reason, she knew all too well; by the gods, Czymszczak might risk my life to benefit his political career - but he sure as hell isn't going to risk that career to save me. Probably never planned on getting me out, she added grimly; once he got his information, we were superfluous - or worse, a threat. If anyone knew what we had done, his career would be ruined.

But getting off planet didn't require Starfleet's arrival, she reminded herself; Cardassia Prime had dozens of spaceports, with hundreds of vessels moving on and off every day. Surely there had to be at least one captain who would be agreeable to taking a child and her baby sister off planet - if only for his own perverse pleasures, she added.

She drew a breath, the memory of that first brutal assault still playing in her memory, her body still aching from what he had done to her.

Her screams had been real that time, her mind unable to block the pain that she had never felt before - and to her horror, her cries had only excited him further, driving him to use her, abuse her, again and again, until finally sated, he had rolled off her, leaving her too shocked by the overwhelming pain of the assault to do anything but crawl away.

Or rather, almost anything; even as she dragged herself from the site of the assault, she pushed at his mind, erasing the memory of who she had been, what she had looked like - and, she remembered with a small smile, the memory of precisely how much money had been in his coin pouch.

It had been enough to buy the Chiemma that she had befriended food, clean and warm clothes for a few days - and to get them accepted by the engineers as just more children playing near their worksite.

I used them, she reminded herself sharply; I used them for the information I needed.

Used them, a quieter voice reminded her, then helped them to find their way out of the city. Well-dressed, well-fed - or as well-fed as any child on a war-torn planet could be, they wouldn't be considered to be the Chiemma, only a few more in the steady stream of war refugees and orphans that had become the norm on Cardassia.

You got them out, the voice reminded her.

And now, she thought looking at Varel in the dark, I'll get you out as well.

Somewhere, there had to be a ship's captain who would find the idea of debauching a young girl incentive enough to risk violating Cardassian laws to get them off planet. Of course, she knew, he would have no intention of allowing them to survive the abuse - Cardassian laws regarding child rape were severe - but once they were off planet, once the captain believed they would be at his mercy... well, Andile thought, then the situation would change.

The gods may have damned me for my telepathy - but there were times it came in useful, she thought.

And when we're on that ship, and on our way home, she thought to Varel, I'm going to give you a bath - and wonderful bubble bath, and scrub you until you can't remember what it was to stink of garbage and waste, and wash your hair until it shines and gleams, and I'll dress you in warm 'jamas, and find you the biggest, softest bed you've ever seen, and I'll hold you until you can't remember that there was ever a bad day in your life.

And whatever that Cardassian captain does to me so that I can get you to that place and that time - it will all be worth it, Andile thought.

She ran her fingers through the tiny girl's long hair - but the mats were so thick that they tangled instantly.

Andile sighed, then determinedly began to work at the first of the tangles, gently pulling at them, then with a little more force, until she found herself beginning to tug at them with ever increasing force.

Her efforts must have awoken the child, for Andile looked down only to see the tiny face looking up at her, the eyes bright but uncomprehending, the smile gentle, wide - and completely trusting.

Andile smiled back, then tugged at the mat once again, more forcefully this time - and watched in horror as Varel's head fell from her neck, Andile's hands falling away at the same time, still tangled in the thick, knotted locks.

"Varel? Varel!" she screamed, watching in horror as great founts of crimson shot up from the severed neck and her own severed arms, covering the corpse of her child.

"Varel!" she screamed again, falling to the ground, trying to reach to her child - flailing desperately at the body with her own handless arms. "Varel!"

"Stop there, Biji," Deanna interrupted.

At her words, Andile froze, Deanna's previously set hypnotic command pausing the Andile's mind in mid-nightmare.

Pausing her mind - but not her emotions, Deanna reminded herself, nor her reactions to those images. Even with the hypnotic controls in place, the engineer was trembling, unable to resist the emotional impact of the visions that plagued her night after night - and now, courtesy of the dream recollection therapy they had begun, her days as well.

But the terror of her days was something that Deanna could control - and soon, with Andile's continuing cooperation, perhaps they could end the terror of her nights as well.

"I want you to go back, Biji; go back in the dream, back to where you could see Varel's face, where you could see her smile. I want you to go to that point now," she added, seeing the resistance on the woman's face.

Still, for a long moment, the woman's expression didn't change as she held fought the command, holding on to the horrific image in her mind's eye - then, with a faint gasp of relief and release, the determined expression faded - and a gentler, almost beatific one replaced it.

Deanna sighed, a wash of relief flooding over her as well. "Can you see her now?" she asked.

Andile nodded faintly, her face radiating joy.

"Good. Tell me, Andile, how do you feel right now?"

"I... love her," Andile managed in a mechanistic tone.

"That's what you feel, Andile," Deanna corrected her gently. "What I want you to tell me - and tell yourself - is _how_ you feel."

Andile hesitated again, once more finding it difficult to accept her emotions, let alone to verbalize them, even at Deanna's hypnosis-induced direction.

"You need to say it, Andile; you need to confront and accept your emotions for what they are - your feelings. Not what you think you should feel; not what andile are permitted to feel - but what you are feeling. Say it, Andile; how do you feel about seeing Varel as she is right now - in your arms, sleeping, happy, and content?"

The engineer hesitated once again, fighting the order both internally and externally, her body shaking as she struggled against ten thousand years of ingrained training - then suddenly stilled as she finally gave in to the truth.

"I'm so happy," she whispered. "I love her so much! She's my light, my life, my joy... my world..."

Her voice trailed off as tears began to flow, and Deanna reached out, touching Andile lightly on the arm.

"Hold on to that thought, Andile," she directed. "I'm going to bring you out of the trance now, but I want you to hold on to the feeling that you're experiencing right now - of how happy you were when you were with Varel. All right?"

Tears streaming down her face, Andile nodded.

"Good," Deanna said. "Now, I'm going to count from ten to one, and with each number, you're going to become more and more aware of your surroundings - but even as I bring you back, you're going to remember the feeling. Ten. Nine. Eight..."

As Deanna counted backward, she watched Andile carefully; even in the most stable of patients, the egress from the dream state to full consciousness could be fraught with danger as the repressed emotions overwhelmed the patient, sending them into anything from hysteria to convulsions - and Andile, she reminded herself, was anything but stable.

And yet, she added as she continued the countdown, Andile had suffered only the mildest of emotional responses to the therapy; perhaps, in part, because of Deanna's meticulous control of the therapy, making sure to leave Andile in an emotionally safe position before withdrawing her from the dream state.

But only in part, she knew equally well.

"One," she concluded.

For a moment Andile sat on the couch, her breathing still even, still steady, the joyous expression still locked on her face even as the tears flowed over her cheeks - then a low wail of grief and pain, too long suppressed, coursed up from the depths of her throat and the tears began in earnest.

Now, Deanna thought, now I can feel for her, now I can show the passion I feel, rather than just the compassion my profession permits; now I can allow myself to be as human as she needs to be. Aching for her friend and her patient, she reached out to console the engineer - but another hand had reached the woman's shoulder first.

"It's all right, Dee," Picard's low baritone said softly, gently stroking her arm as she grieved. "It's all right," he promised - then glanced back at Deanna, eyes raised in question.

She smiled, knowing the request he was making even before he spoke it - though her knowledge had nothing to do with her empathic abilities, and everything to do with routine; he always asked for a cup of tea after counseling. "I'll be right back," she said, rising from her chair, making her way to the replicator.

"Three teas," she ordered, "Earl Grey, hot," she added, then turned, using the time the replicator needed to produce the tea to study the two - and to remind herself once again how little she knew either of them.

She didn't know Andile at all, of course; empathically, the woman was a complete blank, with nothing showing but what few emotions she deigned to reveal. But even after almost fifteen years of serving with Picard, she had come to realize she didn't know him either.

A private man, she reminded herself; a man who found it awkward and uncomfortable to share himself with others, even those he loved; that she had managed to eke out a fraction more of his inner nature had been an accomplishment of which she was both proud and uncertain, wondering if somehow that inner knowledge had damaged their relationship, creating barriers between them.

It had certainly made every subsequent counseling session more awkward, she knew; now, no matter how brutal an event might have been for Picard, whether it be emotional or physical, she had to coerce him into her office to discuss it - and even then, at the first glimmer of self-understanding, the man bolted, as if satisfied with that minimal progress, willing to settle for that minute amount of help rather than fully face his own fears and foibles.

Unfair, she chided herself; there was no doubt, she knew, that the captain was fully conscious of his own weaknesses and flaws; one didn't get to be - and stay - a Starfleet captain without a good understanding of one's own psyche. But that didn't mean he enjoyed sharing that knowledge - and he certainly was not about to voluntarily share it with her or with anyone!

It had come, then, as a considerable shock when, two weeks earlier, he had requested a meeting with her and with Beverly to discuss Andile's medical and psychological situation - only to have the shock double when, after listening to their reports and the concerns, he had informed them that Andile would be moving into his quarters.

"As you may or may not know, through unusual circumstances, the lieutenant ended up sleeping in my quarters last night," he had told them. "This was with the knowledge and sanction of the medical staff, but only after I had been fully briefed about her condition and medical needs. Despite the rather dire warning, however, the night passed uneventfully; indeed, according to your report, Doctor, she made more progress in her physical recovery in one night than she had in the previous four weeks," he had pointed out before Beverly could protest.

"That's because she ate and slept!" Beverly argued.

"My point exactly, Doctor," he had countered. "In the few hours we shared last night, she ate - albeit only a small amount of food - and she slept - for over nine hours, and without nightmares - a problem that has been plaguing both the lieutenant and your night shift team," he added pointedly. "I do not doubt your medical expertise," he said, shaking his head as he looked at Beverly, "nor do I discount the fragility of the lieutenant's condition - but the reality of the situation is that she needs to begin to resume a more normal life - and that cannot be done while she is living in Sickbay as a perpetual patient. She needs to transition back to the independent life she once had," he announced,

"With you," Beverly replied.

"Yes," Picard agreed.

Deanna grimaced uncertainly. "Captain, your idea has considerable merit - but perhaps Andile's 'transition', as you call it, would be better done with someone of her own gender. There could be issues..."

Picard raised a brow. "Issues?" he challenged her.

Deanna began to explain - then stopped. There were no 'issues' she reminded herself; no one on this ship would have ever dreamed of suggesting the captain would ever even consider coercing an officer or crewman into a sexual situation against their will - and certainly, she added, the captain would never had entertained such an idea. "I stand corrected," she demurred.

Picard raised a brow in acknowledgement of the concession.

"Well, there are some 'issues' from my point of view," Beverly interjected. "You're not a qualified medical technician, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "That you correctly administered Beej's meds last night was one thing - but to continue to do so, night after night, for the weeks and months that Biji is under therapy is unreasonable. Your health and ability to command would suffer," she pointed out.

"I'm not suggesting to continue in that role, Doctor," he countered. "Indeed, that is my point. The lieutenant needs to begin the transition from being cared for to caring for herself. She will be on the majority of these medications the remainder of her life, correct?" he asked.

Beverly nodded.

"And did you anticipate her staying in Sickbay the remainder of her life?"

Beverly's brows raised, the she shook her head. "No. For the immediate future, we'd train Beej to self administer them as needed; over the long term, we'd plant infusion pumps within her body to administer the drugs continuously. She'd have to refill the implants monthly - but it would free her from the dependence on thrice-daily hypos," she admitted.

"Then, unless there is a medical reason against to delay, I would suggest you prepare and implement your training program immediately so that she can medicate herself," he ordered.

Beverly bristled at the command, but nodded. "As you order, Captain," she said, her voice brittle.

"In addition, make sure that you provide training in the performance of any other routine procedures she will need to perform, including changing the catheter lines at night so she can sleep without the breathing device being attached," he continued.

Beverly's jaw locked as she gave a terse nod of her head. "Yes, sir," she snapped back.

"Good," he answered, his own tone growing equally hard. "And you, Counselor? Any professional objections?"

"Honestly, Captain, I would have to say that your own lack of enthusiasm for counseling might be detrimental to Andile's recovery. She does need to confront the emotional impact of what happened to her on the Breen ship, as well as to address the previous events in her life that have brought to the emotional point she has reached. Considering how intensely you reject counseling..."

"I do not reject counseling, Counselor," Picard interrupted. "I do not always find it as critical in my personal well-being as you do - but I do attend sessions when you deem them necessary," he pointed out.

"Yes, sir - but only then - and with little or no enthusiasm. I can't accept that Andile, who is equally resistant to therapy, would not find your attitude and behavior supportive of that resistance, and, indeed, use that mutual antipathy as a means to avoid treatment altogether," Deanna pointed out.

"What if I were to tell you that she has already agreed to seek your assistance in this issue?" he countered,

Deanna blinked, dumb-founded, amazed beyond words - and, a moment later, skeptical. "I'm glad Biji's willing to 'seek' help - but when? And will she participate fully and willingly?" she added.

"Counselor, I'll not debate that point," Picard replied with a sigh. "Counseling is rarely participated in fully and willingly. If it was, if all people were eager seek out the source of their inner demons fully and willingly, you would either be overwhelmed by the number of patients at your door - or you would find no one, as people came to accept themselves without the subconscious' need for subterfuge and disguise," he reminded her. "The lieutenant has agreed to seek treatment; for how long and in what direction - and with what enthusiasm - that treatment proceeds is between the two of you."

He hesitated, stopping as if to add something more to the discussion - then stopped. "Are there any other salient objections?" he finally asked.

"I still do not think Andile's condition is stable enough for her to be on her own," Beverly answered.

Picard raised a brow. "Indeed? You just reported that in one night Andile had regained a marked amount of her recuperative abilities, that the damaged skin under the lung had regenerated by more than forty percent, that her liver and kidney function had increased again and that her neurotransmitter production was near norm - all improvements over yesterday's report, Doctor, which showed significant decreases in her recovery."

"A fluke," she objected.

"Perhaps - or perhaps not," he countered - then relented. "I'm not denigrating Sickbay or your people, Beverly - but it has been a long time since you were a patient," he reminded her. "You may have forgotten what it's like to be 'treated', to be 'done for' - to lose your independence of thought and action to others, who tend you as if you were no longer a matter of significance."

"It's not like that!" she protested.

"It is, Beverly," he objected gently. "I'm sorry - but it is, and the longer one stays, the more intense the dissociation."

"He may be right, Beverly," Deanna piped in. "Not about Sickbay, per se, but about Andile's need to assert her independence. She's spent almost all her life alone, caring for herself - but now she's forced to rely on others. This has to be very hard for her."

"Perhaps - but I'm not willing to let her die just because she wants to reassert her self-sufficiency!"

"It doesn't have to be that extreme, Beverly," Deanna aid smoothly, then looked at Picard, "Nor does it have to be so absolute. First, Biji had a medical monitor with her yesterday; couldn't she continue to keep that with her so that if anything went dramatically wrong, you could simply beam her to Sickbay? And for Andile's part, couldn't you set up some parameters that would serve as guidelines? Weight gain, adherence to the medication regimen, adequate sleep, some sets of parameters that would force Andile to comply if she wishes to continue her independence?"

Beverly hesitated, then grudgingly nodded. "I could," she agreed. "But if we're going that far, why not simply dismiss her from Sickbay altogether to live on her own? Why this 'transition' phase?" she asked.

Startled by the unmistakable hint of jealousy in her tone, Deanna glanced at Beverly hearing the unspoken question as clearly as the spoken one.

Picard must have heard it as well, for his expression darkened - but his tone remand calm and even. "If you believe she is ready to live on her own, Doctor, then I have no objections."

"I do," Deanna interrupted. "It may be technically possible for Andile to live on her own - through goal-setting and medical monitoring - but much her underlying psychological problems stem from too many years without companionship, without having the emotional support system that friendship provides. And right now, what Beej needs above everything else is the reassurance that she does have friends.

"And she does - but the other people with whom she might be able to transition herself back to a healthful independent life are limited, by number, situation - or personality. It's going to take a strong person, with a strong personality and unshakable determination to get her through the next few weeks or months. Ideally, Data would have been my first choice - but he has exempted himself from consideration via his personal relationship with Biji - and by his actions in that relationship. Worf would have been another excellent candidate - but his initial animosity toward Biji may have created barriers to any relationship developing there. Admittedly there is mutual respect between the two - but until that respect is acknowledged and a personal relationship developed, it would be difficult for Worf to provide - and Andile to accept - the help needed in reasserting her independence. In time, yes - but not now.

"Geordi is both a good friend and co-worker of Andile's, but to be blunt, he doesn't have the force of personality necessary to ensure her cooperation. And while Beverly could certainly provide the technical guidance and the personality needed, I think Andile would find the situation little changed from the current one; to her, Beverly is Sickbay - and she needs to move away from that situation, not to remain in it," she concluded.

"And you?" Beverly asked.

Deanna smiled. "And where does she sleep, Beverly? Next to me, next to Will - or between us?" she asked bluntly. "I love Beej, I care for her - but I've spent far too much of my life trying to determine where my life with Will was going to lead. Now that we're finally going to be married, I'll not sacrifice the little time I share with him for anyone - not even for Biji."

"There are other crewmen..."

"Beverly," Deanna countered softly, "the captain is right; he is the best possible candidate for helping Biji return to the life she once had - or at least as close as her condition will allow. But she must attend counseling, sir; on this, I cannot allow any discussion," she added adamantly.

"I was not about to argue the point," he had concurred. "Indeed, after this discussion is over, I'd like to arrange an appointment with you," he added.

"Then you've already talked about this plan of yours with Biji?" Deanna replied, taken aback. To offer her this opportunity, this hope - then possibly have to take it away - was cruelty itself.

"No," he replied, to Deanna's relief. "I didn't want to broach the idea without consulting both of you first. I thought presenting the idea only if it had previously been agreed upon - and then only with all conditions determined in advance. I take it then that you are agreeable to the idea?" he added.

Beverly shook her head. "I don't like it one bit, Captain - and I think you and Deanna are taking a foolish risk with Beej's health and her life."

"It's her life I'm concerned about," Picard countered. "As the situation stands, she doesn't have one - and if she doesn't believe there is something worthwhile for her to work toward, she will give up on what she does have. Take this as an axiom: for the lieutenant, mere existence does not equate with a meaningful life. We must help her regain the ability to give her life meaning - or she will find a way to end it. Not here, not with us - but at a time and place when we can no longer be there for her. And if that happens, we will have failed - all of us.

"Now, Doctor, I need you to establish reasonable parameters for the lieutenant's transition outside Sickbay as well as goals that she should be able to reach and maintain, and a timeline she should be expected to follow," he ordered.

Beverly fumed silently - but finally nodded acquiescing. "I'll have it to you tomorrow."

"Today," he objected. "I want to present this to her this evening."

She clenched her jaw -but nodded again. "Today, then - but I reserve the right to amend the plan as her condition changes - and to order her return to Sickbay if I see any degradation in her condition."

"Document your requirements, Doctor; all of them," Picard replied. "It's imperative that the lieutenant knows exactly what is expected of her - and what will not be tolerated. The same for you Counselor," he added, looking at Deanna.

"Counseling can't be quantified as easily as physical health, Captain," she argued.

"Agreed - but adherence to a counseling schedule can be, along with a list of the therapies involved that you may require. If she's going to balk at the prospect, we need to know now - and if there are compromises to be made, it would be better to do so at the beginning, while we have the upper hand in this situation."

He drew in a deep breath. "We are in a position to help one of our fellow officers recover from a life-threatening ordeal - indeed, from a life of ordeals. It will require some sacrifice on all our parts - but is that not the nature of Starfleet? To care not just for the welfare of the Federation as a whole, but for one's fellow officers as well?"

"Sacrifice, Captain?" Deanna had asked a few minutes later, after the meeting had dissolved, and Beverly had fumed her way out of the office. "I understand that Beverly's sacrificing her professional reputation - and you're sacrificing a measure of your cherished solitude and privacy. But what am I sacrificing?"

"Your evenings, Counselor," he had replied.

"My evenings?"

"Yes. I'd like you to arrange for the lieutenant's appointments to occur after eighteen hundred hours," he had explained.

She gaped. Not in rejection, but in surprise. "But Captain, if Biji's not on duty, I could see her any time..."

"Yes - but I am on duty, and with the conferences likely to resume in the not too distant future, I would like to establish a time when for the sessions when I am less likely to be called away," he explained.

Deanna hesitated at that, not understanding - then shook her head. "Sir, while I appreciate your wanting to assist Andile, I could not consider having you in attendance during her sessions; Counseling is a private matter, and under both professional ethics and Starfleet regulations, what transpires during those sessions is considered confidential..."

He held up a hand, silencing her in mid-sentence. "I wasn't suggesting that you allow me to sit in as an observer, Counselor," he explained.

"No...?" she replied. then added, "I don't understand, Captain."

He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with what was on his mind - then spoke. "I was going to suggest - rather, I was going to request," he amended, "that you consider joint counseling - for the lieutenant and myself."

It was Deanna's turn to hesitate as she gaped at the suggestion. "Joint counseling? Sir, do you understand what you be subjecting yourself to?" she asked.

"I know what I'm asking," he answered abruptly - then drew a breath and met her eyes. "Deanna," he said calmly, "what happened to Dee... to the lieutenant... on the Breen ship happened to us both. There were... are... events, that neither of us understood then - or now," he explained uncomfortably. "Events - and issues - that we both need to understand, and to come to terms with, before we can go on with our lives."

She looked at him worriedly. "Events that affect your professional abilities, Captain?"

To her surprise, he smiled, shaking his head. "Counselor, I may hate counseling - but I do care for my ship and her crew. I would not have waited this long if I felt that either were at risk. This... this is personal," he explained at last, his voice dropping in apparent embarrassment.

Deanna gaped again - then instantly closed her mouth. "Captain, I'd be delighted to counsel you - but if it's to be a joint sessions, then I need to know that Andile's agreeable to it - and I need you both to be fully aware that you will be revealing certain aspects of your lives that you might not be comfortable in fully divulging. You're both very private people, and..."

He held up his hand again. "Counselor, that is not going to be an issue," he assured her, half smiling. "Or rather, that is the issue. But I'll...we'll explain... this evening. If that fits your schedule," he added hastily.

It didn't, she thought silently; she and Will had dinner plans - but she be damned if she'd miss the first opportunity the captain had ever willingly given her to confront his psyche about issues that transcended the requirements of his position.

That, when she spoke with the woman an hour later, she had learned that Andile has been equally willing - if equally reluctant - Deanna had found herself surprised once again.

It hadn't surprised her, however, when the two had arrived at her office that evening, both dressed in off-duty attire - and both clearly rethinking the agreement.

Indeed, Andile had barely spoken the entire evening, unable or unwilling to share even the tiniest fraction of herself, barely responding to Deanna's leading questions - and Picard not doing much better - slowly curling herself into a small knot lodged in the corner of Deanna's couch, her barriers fully up - and fully apparent.

For most of the hour, Deanna had sensed only one set of emotions, and that was her own growing frustration, sending her to rethinking the feasibility of the joint session, deciding that they should be terminated if they could make no headway into the situation - when, to her surprise, Picard had reached out his hand to Andile, taking hers in his, and murmured, "It's all right, Dee. You're safe," he added.

For a moment, Deanna had felt herself taken aback by the reassurance; of course she was safe, she thought. Did Andile think that she would betray a confidence given her under the sanctity of the professional relationship? she thought indignantly.

It had taken her a moment longer to realize that wasn't what the man meant - and a moment longer to understand the words ramifications.

It wasn't that she was safe in this office - or indeed, on this ship - but rather that she was safe... with him.

That Picard had a gentle and compassionate side came as no surprise to the counselor; she had counseled him through the loss of a nephew and brother, through the loss of friends, even through the loss of a family that had never existed except in his own mind - and through it all, she continued to find herself touched by the intensity of emotions this man was capable of possessing - indeed, that he did possess fully and relished heartily when given the opportunity - and yet continued to deny himself.

Until now, she realized. Somehow, something had reawakened that portion of his personality - and for whatever reason, Andile had become the focus of that aspect of his personality. Tears stinging her own eyes, she watched as Andile looked to Picard, their eyes meeting in unspoken conversation - and then turned to Deanna. "I... I had a daughter," she whispered, the words trembling as they fell from her lips.

Stunned, Deanna fought to keep her jaw from dropping at the revelation – then forced herself to return to her professional demeanor. "I didn't know that, Andile," she said gently. "Would you like to talk about her?" she pushed gently.

Andile shook her head, almost imperceptibly. "No."

"No?" Deanna replied, perplexed.

"No," Andile repeated, a tear coursing down her cheek. "She's dead."

Heartsick at hearing of yet another devastation to the soul of the already plagued woman, Deanna started to offer her sympathy, only to have Andile bat it away with her words.

"She's dead. I killed her."

She had shut down after that, pulling her body even more tightly against herself, only her extended hand daring to venture outside the tight shell of her fetal position - and that hand clutching tightly to the captain.

That had been two weeks ago, Deanna thought, watching the two; two weeks of slowly drawing Andile out of her shell, of slowing coaxing information from Picard about what had happened on the Breen ship - and about how the two lives, which had intertwined lightly throughout their respective histories, had suddenly been slammed together at a level that even Deanna was not fully able to comprehend.

That was for the next week's sessions, she reminded herself; after long discussion, Jemat had agreed to visit with the three - and with Beverly, Deanna reminded herself, glancing at the chronometer, remembering that she and Beverly had made plans to meet in Ten Forward after this session to discuss Jemat's visit - among other things, she added glumly - so that they could try to determine precisely what had happened between the two - and what they could do about it in the future.

If anything, she added, not entirely certain that changing past events would be good for either Picard or Andile.

Both had changed, she thought, in part through the therapy she had provided - but in greater part through changes in themselves.

Retrieving the three tea cups from the replicator, she watched as Picard helped Andile straighten, his hands touching her easily, familiarly; not in a passionate way, she added, but without the usual reluctance the man had toward touching others.

Deanna smiled to herself as she reentered the office area, wondering if he were even aware of that aspect of himself, wondering if he knew what effect his touch had, wondering if he were aware of the silent approval he granted others in allowing them even for the brief moment of contact, to transcend the barriers he placed between himself and the outside world.

Probably not, she decided as she set the cups on the low table before the two - just as he probably was not aware of how much he himself had changed in the last two weeks.

Half a month ago, he would have pulled away from the engineer - or anyone else - at the moment he realized another person was watching him; half a month ago, he would not have continued to hold her hand after the absolute necessity for the contact had passed.

But that was two weeks ago, she reminded herself - and none of them were the people they were then.

Even Andile, who had begun as the most intractable of all her patients, was slowly changing, slowly beginning to question the lifelong indoctrination of self-doubt and self-loathing - though, Deanna reminded herself, even for a woman who had endured such mental abuse for a century, the depths of pain and hate were intense. If she didn't know better, she would suspect that Biji were considerably older...

But of course she wasn't, she reminded herself firmly. That she was over a century pressed the bounds of credulity; that her parents and her people had brutalized her so horribly, so traumatically that it would impinge upon her soul so deeply simply reminded Deanna that humankind's greatest enemy was humankind itself.

Setting the tea cups down, she eased herself back into her chair and smiled at the engineer. "How are you feeling, Biji?"

"I know the hypnotic suggestion was that I should feel happy when I thought of Varel," the woman replied, "but I don't. I'm so sad," she added. "I miss her so much."

"I know," Deanna soothed. "But the suggestion wasn't that you should feel happy when you think of Varel - but that you should remember how you felt when you were with her at that moment. To the greatest extent, that feeling was happiness - but a part of that feeling might well have been sorrow. There were some sad aspects to your time with her, Biji; what this recursive dream therapy is trying to do is to move you away from the feelings of guilt and self-hatred that fill your nightmares - and let you fully remember the entire aspects of your time with Varel."

"I killed her!" Andile protested. "Shouldn't I hate myself for that?"

"Andile, your options were limited," she reminded the engineer firmly. "Your actions were forced upon you by circumstance. That you don't blame the Cardassians for what they did to you - or her - that you can understand their actions in the greater perspective of their need to protect their world, is mature and educated - but in many ways, it is unrealistic as well. You know there is blame to apportion - but you've decided that you alone should bear the brunt of that burden. That's unreasonable as well, Biji, and unfair. Our minds and our emotions aren't sophisticated and rational, and your forcing rationalizations on your mind that aren't truly felt is helping create the problems you're now facing. The nightmares are, in part, your mind rebelling

against that coercion.

"In time, you'll come to understand what you truly feel about your role - but for now, accept that there was joy with Varel - and sorrow, and many, many more emotions," she reminded her.

For several minutes, the three sipped at their tea, the talk drifting from therapy to other topics - including the latest communiqué from Starfleet.

"Judging from the Admiral Czymszczak's tone in the message, I'm not entirely certain that Starfleet was pleased to learn that we weren't destroyed," Picard informed the two.

"I doubt Starfleet was displeased, sir - only the Admiral," Deanna countered. "It Starfleet Command was truly unhappy they would have terminated the discussions and ordered our return. Instead, you've been given permission to continue serving as the Federation ambassador to the talks - and to continue pursuing an alliance with the Breen," she reminded him.

"Tiron says his government is willing to continue the talks as well," Andile offered. "I gather there is a growing faction that sees such discussions as pointless - but as long as Hiren remains as the Romulan Praetor, negotiation and diplomacy seems to be the course they will follow. A good thing, too," she added, draining the last of her tea from her cup. "The Romulans aren't in an economic position to mount an attack against the Federation - and certainly not to sustain a prolonged war. It won't take much of a change in the Senate composition, though, for them to change their mind."

"About war?" Deanna asked worriedly.

"About talking," Andile answered. "After that first encounter with the 1701, they isolated themselves for almost a hundred years before they finally emerged and re-established contact with the Federation; as bad a bruising as they took during the Dominion War, I half thought they would have done the same thing again, hiding away, trying to rebuild their resources rather than openly display their weakness," she said. "They're a proud people, Captain; they will not easily bear the stigma of having been hurt during the war - and if they feel themselves too shamed, they will hide."

Picard looked at the woman beside him, nodding at her interpretation of the situation. "And when they come out, they'll be looking to avenge any insult they feel they have suffered."

Andile nodded. "And speaking of suffering," she continued, "I am suffering. Suffering the..." She hesitated, thinking, then spoke slowly and carefully, as if trying to uncertainly recite something, "the slings and arrows of outrageous hunger."

"She's been reading my collection of Shakespeare," Picard informed the counselor.

"Apparently," Deanna agreed with a smile.

"For the first time in my life," Andile offered, "I have the time to read! So," Andile interrupted herself, rising to her feet, taking Picard's hands and pulling him up to join her. "What's for dinner?" "You promised me something different..."

"And different it is," he agreed, smiling mischievously. "When was the last time you were in San Francisco?" he asked as they moved toward the door, Picard crooking his arm, securing Andile's hand in the bend.

She gave him a puzzled look. "When we left Earth, of course," she answered, surprised.

"Yes - but when was the last _time_ you were there?" he repeated.

Andile frowned, looked at Deanna - and got a smile in return. "Go on, Andile; I think I know what - or when - the captain has in mind - and I think you'll like it."

"As long as it has food," Andile replied.

"It has food," Picard assured her - then looked at Deanna. "Counselor, would you care to join us?"

Deanna smiled, shook her head. "Thank you - but I have plans for this evening."

"As you wish," Picard agreed. "Tomorrow then?"

The counselor nodded. "Tomorrow - and I'd like you both to dress in comfortable clothing. We're going to try an active aggression release therapy."

Picard raised a brow, obviously worried - but, to Deanna's delight, also somewhat intrigued. "Tomorrow, then. Come, Dee; San Francisco - and your dinner - awaits us."

He led the woman through the door, leaving Deanna alone to watch them - then to give a tired sigh.

One counseling session done, she thought; one more to go.

And this one was going to be far more difficult.


	163. Chapter 163

**Chapter 163**

Deanna ran her hands over the tunic and skirt she wore, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles as she hurried toward the massive doors that marked the entrance to Ten Forward - then stopped a few feet short of the actuator.

Calm down, she thought; find your center, she added, closing her eyes, drawing a slow breath, then tapping her fingers against the nerve plexus just behind her ear.

All good calming techniques she reminded herself, ones that she had taught hundreds of her patients and friends over the years - but, after a few moments, she realized none were working for her tonight.

It wasn't that she was late for her dinner with Beverly; they were both equally guilty of allowing work to interfere with their weekly 'girls' night out', and Beverly would certainly understand that her last appointment for the day had run late. She was flustered because she was attending this dinner with Beverly under false pretenses: Beverly thought she was meeting with a friend - but Deanna was going as a counselor.

Worse, she thought as she ran her hands over the casual outfit once more, a counselor in sheep's clothing - or rather, she amended, in friend's clothing.

A part of her had wanted to her to remain in her usual uniform, a subtle reminder to Deanna and her would-be patient that their encounter was a professional one. The other part, however, had argued that while Deanna might be going as a counselor, what Beverly was expecting was a friend - and that meant taking a few extra minutes to change from her work outfit to something more typical for their weekly outing.

It was deceptive, she thought to herself - but what she was doing was not meant to be malicious - anything but, she added. Beverly was, after all, her best friend - but sometimes the line between friend and counselor blurred, she reminded herself - and sometimes what a friend really needed was a counselor... even when she didn't know that was what she needed.

She started to run her hands over her dress once again - then stopped. No more putting it off, she chided herself, then stepped toward the door.

The massive doors slid apart, opening to a gentle wave of noise and general camaraderie as others took advantage of the dinner hour to share a meal in the ship's lounge, the overall positive energy refreshing Deanna as she entered, reducing her tension as she looked around the room for her friend.

As she had expected, Beverly was at their usual table; spying her sitting there, Deanna waved, then hurried to join her, leaning over the table to give her friend a hug before taking her seat.

"Been waiting long?" Deanna asked as she sat down, surreptitiously noting that there was already a drink on the table - and that it was half-empty.

"A while," Beverly agreed a little coolly - then managed a tired smile. "Will keep you late?" she asked.

Deanna shook her head, then gestured at one of the servers to come to the table. "Will's on beta shift while the negotiations are still in abeyance. He'll take the alpha shift back from the captain when the discussions start up again."

"Oh?" Beverly asked in surprise. "I didn't know they were starting again."

Deanna nodded. "The captain made an announcement about it earlier this evening. Didn't you get it?" she asked curiously.

Beverly shook her head. "I was doing some research in Sickbay; I haven't caught up on my intraship mail yet today."

"Well," Deanna explained, "both Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell received coded communication packets from their governments today. And while they didn't reveal the contents of those packets, I could sense their mutual relief when they opened them. I suspect that they - like the captain, and the rest of the crew, for that matter - were concerned that after the Enterprise went missing for so long, the talks would have been canceled - or worse."

"They thought we might have gone to war in the interim?" Beverly asked.

"Considering the situation we left, I wouldn't have been surprised if that had happened. I don't think I was the only one worried about it, either. The overall level of tension on the ship had been growing increasing tense ever since we left Earth. But shortly after they received their messages, they each spoke with the captain - and he made a general announcement a few hours later.

"And we needed that," she added with a sigh. "The captain's announcement has been only the second piece of good news the crew's had in a long time."

"Second piece?" Beverly asked, curious. "What was the first?"

Deanna gave her friend a surprised look. "That Beej was going to make it," she answered, as though the answer had been an obvious one. "You may resent her, Bev - but she is loved by a lot of people on this crew - and respected by most. She did save the ship - and the captain's life," she reminded the physician grimly.

"I don't resent her!" Beverly snapped back.

"Oh, no. Of course not," Deanna agreed sarcastically - then smiled brightly as the server approached their table. "I'll have whatever she's having," she said, gesturing at Beverly's glass, then looked at the physician. "Another for you, Bev?" she asked.

Beverly nodded.

"Two Serovian brandies," the server echoed.

Serovian brandy? Deanna thought, startled; pretty strong stuff for a before dinner drink, she thought - but deigned not to react.

"Anything else?" the server asked.

"Two fettuccine alfredo with asparagus and broccoli," Deanna answered instantly. Two brandies on Beverly's empty stomach might make her work as counselor simpler tonight - but the doctor would pay for the indulgence the next day, and that was not something she wanted her friend to suffer. "And a loaf of that crusty bread - and butter," she added.

The server smiled, then turned away.

"I'm hungry," Deanna hastily explained in response to Beverly's surprised expression. "Will made me miss breakfast," she explained with a red-faced smile. "And lunch..." She sighed and shook her head.

"Second thoughts about the wedding?" Beverly teased.

Deanna stared at her friend for a moment, confused - then, understanding, shook her head. "Missing lunch wasn't Will's fault, Bev. It was... something else entirely. You know," she sighed, "as much as I was relieved to have the negotiations back underway, there are times I regret that we re-established contact with Starfleet."

Beverly, her glass half raised to her lips, stopped and raised a brow instead. "Oh?"

"Contact with Starfleet means contact with the Federation - and that means contact with Betazed," Deanna sighed,

"Ah! Your mother," Beverly realized with a sympathetic smile.

"I wrote her a message to let her know that Will and I were engaged - but I couldn't send it until we re-established communications. Considering how far out we are, and how long it took us to restore communications, that means she couldn't have gotten it until two weeks ago at best - barely time to read it and answer - and yet I received a message from her today. She's got the entire wedding planned, down to the last detail - including the date, the honeymoon - and what our first child is going to be named!" Deanna raged.

"Well," Beverly demurred, "planning a wedding can be tedious - and a little overwhelming. Maybe she's just trying to help you out," she mused philosophically as she sipped the dark gold liquor.

"Beverly," Deanna countered knowingly, "we're talking about _my_ mother. She just wants to make sure that everything is done her way!"

"Point taken," Beverly commiserated with a slight bow of her head. "But remember this, Deanna: whatever your mother does, she does it out of love for you." She tilted back the glass, finishing the last of the liquor, then set down the glass.

It was promptly removed and replaced with a fresh one as the server returned and placed a pair of drinks before the two women.

"Thank you," Deanna said softly, then met Beverly's eyes, seeing in them the experience of being a bride - and of being a mother.

A mother whose own child was missing.

"You may be right," she agreed softly - then raised her drink. "A toast: To my mother. To mothers everywhere. May the gods keep them safe."

"To mothers everywhere," Beverly replied.

They touched rims then each took a sip from their glass, Deanna barely able to choke back a cough at the strong liquor. "My god! How can you drink this stuff, Bev?!" she gasped.

"After the first one, your mouth gets numb," the physician replied quietly. "After two your throat follows suit; after three, all the feeling returns - but you don't care," she explained.

"And how many have you had?" Deanna managed, still gasping at the burning in her throat.

Beverly smiled wearily. "Just the one - two with this - and don't worry, Counselor, it'll be my last," she added, a hint of resentment in her tone.

"I wasn't judging, Beverly," Deanna countered gently.

Beverly looked at her friend, then shook her head repentantly. "I'm sorry, Deanna. That was uncalled for. I've just had a bad day. A bad week," she amended.

"I'm sorry," Deanna replied. "Anything I can help with? Professionally... or personally?"

"No," the doctor answered - then gave a bright but forced smile.

"Then maybe you can help me," Deanna countered.

"Oh?"

The empath nodded. "Bev, you've been a bride. My mother's efforts aside, I'm at an absolute loss about what to do for the wedding. I mean... where do I start planning? What do I plan?" she asked with a hint of desperation in her voice.

As she watched, Beverly sat back, closed her eyes, thought for a few moments, then sat up again and looked at Deanna. "It was a long time ago, Deanna - and the same circumstances were completely different. I was in med school, Jack was just starting out as an officer; we had to fit the wedding and honeymoon in on one of his leaves and one of my mid-term breaks. We really had no plans; we barely had a wedding by any standards except technical definition. No wedding gown, no wedding party to speak of; just me, Jack, Walker, Jean-Luc..." Her voice trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes, and she hastily took a swallow from her drink.

"Bev?"

To her surprise, Beverly slammed the nearly-empty glass back down on the table, her knuckles turning white around the tightly held glass, her face growing red with rage. "Damn it, Deanna! He's sleeping with her!"

Deanna's gasped in astonishment at the unexpected explosion of anger and hurt from her friend - as did a number of the other diners at the adjacent tables.

Setting her hand on Beverly's to quiet her, the counselor turned to the others and smiled reassuringly at them.

It must have been enough, for the others turned away - slowly - and resumed their own, earlier conversations. After a moment, confident that their discussion was no longer being monitored, Deanna looked back at her friends, fury raging in her eyes.

"Beverly..."

"Don't tell me he isn't!" she seethed. "I was there last night - and they weren't even making a pretense of sleeping apart. No blankets or pillows on the couch... and there were indentations in both pillows - and the bed on his side was warm! He's sleeping with her," she repeated angrily.

Deanna stared at her friend for a long moment, wonder whether to try to ameliorate her friend's pain - or simply confront it outright with the truth.

She studied Beverly for a moment - then decided.

"Yes, he is," she confirmed quietly.

Beverly drew in a sharp breath, as though taken aback by the affirmation.

"You knew?!" she seethed, betrayed.

"I'm their counselor, Beverly," she reminded the woman grimly. "A change in their relationship - especially one of this nature - is something that a good counselor would ascertain and discuss with them, and only them," she added.

"I am the ship's CMO," she reminded Deanna harshly.

"And when their sleep patterns and room selection affects their medical status, you be the next to know. But this didn't. Yes, Beverly, the captain is sleeping with Biji - but that's all he's doing."

"Isn't that enough?!" Beverly raged.

"Beverly, he's _sleeping_ with her. That's all. They're not having a sexual relationship. They share a bed."

"And you believe that?" Beverly scoffed.

"I do," Deanna replied. "I've served with the captain for enough years that I can sense when he's... involved in a relationship," she admitted with a hint of an embarrassed blush, then continued, "And he's not. In that type of relationship, I mean," she added hastily - then gave Beverly a frank look.

"And you know it as well," she said accusingly. "I've seen Biji's medical reports; I know she was assaulted before - and that if she were to resume a... relationship..." Deanna chose the word carefully, "it would show up in a medical scan - or with an emergency call to Sickbay. And to be blunt, I don't think the captain or Biji would risk her health - or her life - as fair trade for an orgasm."

Beverly frowned, silently acceding to her friend's assessment. "But if they're not... you know..."

"If they're not having sex, why are they sleeping together?" Deanna proposed - then nodded, accepting the question, considering the answer. "Beverly, you were married. Weren't there times when you and Jack shared a bed for reasons other than making love?" she asked. "For talking?"

"You can talk in the living room," the physician snapped back.

"Did you and Jack talk in the living room?"

"Sometimes," Beverly insisted.

Deanna smiled, hearing the obstinance and the hesitancy in Beverly's voice. "Well, Biji and the captain do talk in his living quarters sometimes as well. But there are times, late at night, in the early hours of the morning, when the matters of greatest significance and smallest triviality weigh the heaviest upon our hearts and souls. You've been there, Beverly; you've had your share of troubled nights when what you ached for the most wasn't a partner to share your body - but to share that part of your life. Right now, Biji and the captain are facing demons they've both held back for most of their lives - and they're finding comfort in the knowledge that they are there for one another, both in counseling - and afterwards. It's something they've both lacked in their lives - a confidant in whom they can be utterly secure. Someone with whom they can discuss their deepest secrets and fears - without worry about being betrayed. Someone who will be there in those small of hours of the night when we feel most alone. Above everything else, Beverly, what they both need right now is a friend."

Beverly looked at her friends, a stricken expression on her face. "He could have come to me," she whispered. "He used to come to me."

Deanna gave her a hard look. "Once - but now?" she asked coolly. "Be fair, Beverly: he went to you once before, Beverly - and you shot him down. And still, he waited. He's waited for more years than any man could reasonably be asked or expected to wait, hoping against all reasonable hope that you might change your mind, because deep in his heart, you were the only woman he truly loved. How long did you want him to keep on waiting?" she asked.

"He hasn't always waited," Beverly protested. "There have been other women..."

"He's had affairs," Deanna objected. "So have you," she added. "But nothing has ever come of them. And do you know why? Because neither of you are willing to commit to anyone else if there was even a glimmer of hope for relationship between the two of you."

"You're saying it's my fault all his other relationships have failed?" Beverly gaped.

"To be blunt, yes," Deanna replied, then added, "just as he has been the reason yours have failed. Let's be honest here, Bev: as long as you're there, he'll always have doubts, always wonder if he shouldn't wait just a little longer, just in case you come around. It's cruel, what you're doing to him, Beverly, what you have done to both of your lives! Whether you mean it or not, it's been cruel - but it's a cruelty I realized I could no longer support - not when there was an option at last.

"When Biji and the captain mentioned the change in their sleeping arrangements - and it was accidental at first; Beej had a horrific nightmare and the captain went to calm her, only to fall asleep on the bed with her - I supported it whole-heartedly, and I've encouraged them both to embrace their need to share their lives this way. It's been difficult for them both - they are both very private people, both, in their own ways, terribly shy, terribly reserved - but they both knew that maintaining the emotional status quo in their lives was unfulfilling and ultimately counter-productive to what they both want."

"And that is...?" Beverly asked pointedly.

"What we all want, Bev: to be happy," Deanna said.

Beverly fell silent, casting her eyes down - then reached for her drink, taking another large sip from the glass.

"And while I wouldn't say that they've found that happiness, they both have made remarkable strides in their recovery since that time," Deanna added.

She hesitated a moment, taking a sip from her own glass, then setting it down and confronting the woman before her.

"And to be equally blunt," she added, her tone growing cool - almost brusque, "if and when the time comes, I'll support the further evolution of the relationship - if that's what they want. People need people, Beverly," she reminded her friend, "even Biji; even the captain. Especially the captain," she amended. "He needs someone who can share his life beyond the limitations of a professional relationship. He needs someone who can and will care about him - and about whom he in turn can care for.

"He had that once before; he had a wife - albeit for only a few minutes of subjective time - but it stirred a part of his soul he's repressed throughout his life. I believe he's realizing that he no longer wants to repress that past of himself. He tried to explore that need with Anij, once; he's trying it again, in a new way, with Beej.

"It's important for him to fulfill that need, Beverly, just as it's important for Biji to do the same. Hell, it's important for all of us to enrich our lives and fill those parts of our souls that we've left empty, whether by choice or not. Let him find that part of himself, Beverly; if you can't find it in yourself to create a relationship with him, then at least have the decency to let him have that grace, that relief, that blessing with someone who does care about him," she chided her friend quietly.

Beverly started at Deanna for a long time, then felt a tear begin the slow journey down her cheek. "I do love him," she whispered softly.

"I know," Deanna answered softly. "I think he knows as well - but knowing isn't enough," she added. "Not for either of you. You have to do something; you have to act. You have to let him know, once and for all!"

The doctor shook her head. "I can't. I just can't! Not yet!"

"I know, Beverly," Deanna replied sympathetically. "Your marriage to Jack - and his death - had left you afraid of another real relationship. Your parents dying when you were a child, then Wesley disappearing - none of that has helped; every real relationship you've ever had has ended with your being horribly hurt - and I can understand why you wouldn't want to risk it again. But can you tell me that the life you've been leading these last few years has been fulfilling? Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life? Alone - but too scared to risk another commitment - and possibly another hurt?"

Beverly looked at her friend for a long time - then shook her head. "I don't know, Deanna; I just don't know."

Deanna reached out, laying her hand atop her friend's. "Then think about it for a while; give yourself a chance to think about what you have, what you want - and where you want your life to be. And when you decide, I'll help you find a way to accomplish those plans... Just as you're going to help me with my wedding," she added.

Beverly sniffed back a sob, wiped away a tear - then managed another smile - though this one wasn't as forced as the earlier one. "I know Betazed weddings are performed in the nude. I suppose that eliminates the problem of a dress," she laughed.

"Presuming we marry on Betazed," Deanna countered. "But I think Will would like to be married on Earth - and it would be easier for all our Starfleet friends to attend if we were there," she added. "If mother insists – which we all know she will - we can have a second, smaller ceremony on Betazed later."

"On Earth then. You'll definitely need a dress," Beverly said. "White?"

"I thought white was the symbolic color for virgins," Deanna countered.

"It was, once," Beverly agreed. "Now it's just tradition for a first wedding."

"Even so, I'd rather not invite comments," Deanna decided. "And white never has been my best color anyway. Dark amethyst is good."

"Talk about inviting comments!" Beverly countered. "What about ivory?"

The discussion was interrupted momentarily by the arrival of the food - and by the surreptitious removal of the mostly untouched drinks.

Hungry, the two set to their meals as they continued their discussion of the minutiae of the wedding, until Beverly sat back, sated, relieved - but, to Deanna's dismay, once again with a troubled look on her face.

"I presume that look isn't about what to order for dessert, is it?" she said.

"Since we always order chocolate mousse torte, you know it's not," Beverly agreed.

"So what is bothering you?" the empath asked.

"You're the empath, Deanna," Beverly countered. "Don't you know?"

"An empath, Bev - not a telepath. I know it involves the captain - but then again, most of your emotions involve him," she said.

"I think that's overstating the case a bit," Beverly grumbled.

"Hardly. It's an understatement, if anything," the counselor said. "And he is involved in this, I can tell. So give, Bev; what's bothering you?"

The physician considered for a moment, then gave a defeated sigh. "I think... I think it's time to step down, Deanna; I think my emotions are affecting my abilities as CMO."

Deanna gaped at her friend, stunned by the revelation. "How? What emotions? And in what way?"

Beverly sighed again. "I told you I was in the captain's quarters last night; I didn't explain why," she added.

Deanna nodded. "I was wondering about that," she demurred.

"Usually Alyssa takes the night shift - but since Biji's out of Sickbay now, I thought I'd cover a few shifts for her so she could spend some nights with her family," Beverly explained.

"That was nice of you," Deanna murmured.

"Well, I'm certainly not using my nights for anything exciting," the doctor replied. "Better that Alyssa enjoy her life. I'm sorry," she added hastily. "That was rather self-pitying, wasn't it?" she asked.

"You're entitled... once in a while," Deanna conceded. "Go on."

"We got an emergency call from the captain; Biji had gone into respiratory arrest and he couldn't revive her."

"Oh, my god!" Deanna gasped. "What happened? Neither of them mentioned it in their session tonight!"

"She didn't get an adequate dosage of one of her drugs last night; after two hours, the effective level in the blood was too low to support the area of her brain that controls respiration. After the captain notified us, we treated her - and she recovered quickly."

Deanna nodded, understanding at last how Beverly had come to learn about the change in sleeping arrangements.

"So what is troubling you - aside from the obvious?" Deanna asked.

"Dee..." Beverly hesitated, then looked at her friend. "You know that what he calls her, don't you?"

Deanna nodded.

"Damn it, Deanna, that's _your_ nickname - not hers! Doesn't he know that?" she grumbled.

To her surprise, however, the empath only smiled. "No, he doesn't. But what you need to remember is that, to the captain, I am not, nor have I ever been 'Dee'. I am 'Counselor', Deanna, Commander Troi - all as needs be - but he had never called me by anything that could remotely considered as a familiar name. In fact, if you were to tell him that 'Dee' was my nickname, I will guarantee that he will be completely astounded by the fact. He simply doesn't think of any of us - except maybe you and Will - in those terms. That he finally has found someone he can think of in those terms is one of the healthier changes I've seen in him of late.

"So if I don't mind it, neither should you," she continued. "Now you were saying...?"

Beverly hesitated, searching out her train of thought once more before continuing. "Err, yes. The meds. At first I thought that the fault was in the captain or Andile - that they had incorrectly used the hypo, and the dosage was insufficient. And of all the drugs, this is the one that an insufficient dose could kill Beej - and we might not catch it. As the dosage falls off, respiration is decreased gradually; oxygenation of the brain tissue is decreased - and brain damage and death may occur before the medical monitor alarm level is reached."

She sighed. "The only thing that saved her is the fact that she _was_ sleeping with the captain - and he sensed something was wrong. When he couldn't wake her, he called us - and that's when I found out what was what."

"I'm sorry," Deanna said.

Beverly shrugged. "It's hard to be unhappy when you realize that it kept Beej alive," she said. "But it was more than a bit of a shock," she conceded. "Not as much of a shock, though when I examined the hypo that had delivered the incorrect dose. As I said, I assumed that it was human error - even though Jean-Luc swore he had used it correctly. When I examined the hypo, however, I discovered a flaw in the device itself. The infusion tip was mis-aligned. No matter how you used it, half of the drug was rerouted into the chamber. Every dose was reduced by fifty per cent - regardless of who used or how it was used," she informed her friend.

Deanna's brow furled in horror. "But... how? How did that happen?"

"The easy answer is that it was replicated during that brief time when the replicators were failing," Beverly replied. "Something in the program was damaged, and the hypo was incorrectly created. I've checked all the remaining hypos, just to ensure that none of the others were affected - and it appears to be a fluke; a one in a million error."

"You don't sound as though you're buying that possibility." Deanna replied.

"It's... a possibility," Beverly insisted.

"What other options do you have?"

"That someone deliberately damaged the device."

Deanna's eyes widened. "You think someone's trying to kill Beej?" she whispered, horrified.

"I think... I think Andile knows too many things about too many people - and that there are those back in Starfleet who would like to see her not return. Tiron and Zumell aren't the only people to receive communications from home," she reminded the counselor. "Unfortunately, almost everyone has received some communication from home; I'm afraid we're not going to find any help there."

"But there couldn't be that many people who could have programmed the replicator to make that critical change - could there?" Deanna countered.

"No. And in fact, no hypos have been replicated since we've been in contact with Starfleet," Beverly said. "I checked the log."

"So..."

"So someone had this planned in advance."

"The saboteur?" Deanna gasped.

"It could be. I hope it is," she added, then explained as she saw the horrified look in Deanna's eyes. "If it's the saboteur, then we're still dealing with only one person. If not..."

"If not, then there are two - at least - still aboard," Deanna realized.

"I analyzed the hypo; the molecular breakdown is consistent with the rest of the hypos manufactured on the ship - but when or by whom, I can't tell, except that it was made prior to our computer failure; the replicator logs were erased when the system failed," Beverly concluded. "Someone who knew that at some point, a defective hypo was going to be needed. But how do you know someone's going to need to be treated - unless you already know they are sick?" she asked.

"Beverly, do you know what you're saying?" Deanna gasped.

"I'm saying that no one - not one person on this crew - knew Biji was ill - dying, in fact, when she first came aboard. Almost no one in Starfleet knew how severe her condition was, and how very likely it was that she would require treatment - except for the people who refused to treat her: her physician at Starfleet Medical - and their direct superior, Adm. Thaddeus Czymszczak. I am now sure that he arranged to put at least one person aboard to watch Andile, and to kill her if necessary. But I still don't know who," she added angrily.

"Worse, I'm so uncertain of my place with the captain that I'm reluctant to approach him with what I've found!

"Damn it!" she raged. "I'm his CMO! We're supposed to be able to discuss anything concern the welfare of the ship or crew - and yet I can't talk to him about this - or anything!

"What do I tell him? That I suspect my own people? One of my nurses, a tech? Alyssa? Greg? Who do I trust? Or do I tell him I don't trust anyone? Do I take over the complete control of Andile's care myself? What about the rest of the crew? And what happens when..." Her voice trailed off again.

"When what, Beverly?" Deanna asked, sensing the real source of the woman's troubles underlying her unspoken question. "What happens when what?" she repeated.

Despite her prompting, however, Beverly remained silent for a long time, lowering her head to her upraised hands, silent, thinking - and wondering.

After a long time, she raised her head and faced her friend. "I need to leave this ship, Deanna," she said softly. "I'm questioning things that I once never would have questioned; questioning what to do - when a proper doctor would have know the correct path all along."

"Beverly," Deanna countered gently but firmly, "you are both a good doctor - and a proper one. You'll do what's right - even if that means it takes you a day or two to reach the correct decision," she assured her friend. "Now, what's the question you're worrying over?"

Beverly smiled at her friend, though the reassurance seemed less effective than Deanna had hoped. "You're a good friend, Deanna - though you're probably not going to think the same of me after tonight."

She drew a long breath. "You know as well as I that, in her present condition, Andile will not be able to resume her role in Starfleet. Yes, they'll find her a position somewhere - at a desk, if she's lucky - but she'll never be able to return to field work. Her condition is just too fragile.

"She'd never stand for that, of course," Beverly added. "She'd leave and find herself a place where she could work. In other words, if nothing changes, she'll be gone in a few months - and Jean-Luc and I will find ourselves back where we are now."

"Is that what you want?" Deanna asked.

"It may be better than the alternative," Beverly objected.

"Which is...?"

Beverly hesitated again. "I think... I think I can give Andile back her lungs. Real lungs," she added.

Deanna gaped her eyes widening. "Beverly! That's wonderful! But... all the problems with Andile's hands... I thought she couldn't accept cloned tissue!'

"She can't - or rather, she can't tolerate tissue that's cloned ex vivo. Her immune system is constantly modifying itself, changing in response to God-knows-what - but rendering her resistant to anything from the outside - including her own tissue, if it's been outside her body for more than a few weeks," Beverly explained. "We were barely able to reattach her right arm - and she's still receiving anti-rejection drugs to help the attachment complete the healing process."

"Then how...?"

"I think it's possible to clone a pair of lungs - within her body," Beverly explained.

"Inside her body? Is that possible?!" Deanna murmured.

"In theory; reality may be something else altogether. You see, there's only a small portion of the left lung remaining - so there is ample space within the chest cavity for the tissue to expand without severely affecting her remaining lung. I can implant a few cells from each lung and provide an adequate blood to permit growth; medication will enhance the development and natural growth of the tissues.

"The problem is that the lungs are not mirror images; the left and right have different shapes - and cloning in vivo limits the amount of manipulation I can do to the cells. In other words, I need cells from both the left and right lungs to properly do the job - and Biji doesn't have that tissue."

Deanna shook her head, confused. "Then where are you planning on getting the cells?"

"From the only compatible donor on the ship - the captain. He's donated nanites to her in the past; not only are they genetically compatible, but she's already been allo-immunized to his presence."

"So he could save her - give her back the life she once had," Deanna replied softly.

"Or give her back the life she has now," Beverly countered. "A life - with him. Do I save her - so she can have him? Or do I doom her to a life she'll hate - and try to win him back for myself?" she asked.

Deanna raised a brow. "I can't answer that for you, Beverly. That's a question only you can answer."

"No it's not," Beverly sighed. "You can't win what isn't yours. The captain would never want to be fought over - and he would never consent to go off with the winner of such a battle. I won't fight for him, Deanna. If he wants Biji, he can have her - with my blessing - and with my help. I'll talk to them both tomorrow about what's involved. If they agree, I'll begin the process in a few days - then, with any luck, the lungs will be mature enough to replace her existing lung and the external device in about a month. If it's successful, then she should be able to return to partial duty in five weeks - and full duty within six months. That is, if she's ready," she added, looking pointedly at her friend.

"If you mean psychologically, my best guess is that she will," Deanna replied, quickly determining that this discussion fell under Beverly's purview as Andile and the captain's physician. "We've been making some remarkable progress with the regressive dream recollection. While the nightmares are still horrifying, there are some noteworthy changes."

"The axe is gone?" Beverly asked, remembering the constant presence of the blade in Andile's dreams in Sickbay.

"No," Deanna conceded, knowing that the first night that the image of the axe faded from the dream would be the first real confirmation of Andile's emotional recovery. "But it is significant that when the axe falls now, Varel is still alive."

Beverly tilted her head. "Significant how?"

"Until now, Andile encounters the axe only after Varel dies," Deanna explained. "Now, for the first time, she is not seeing herself as ultimately responsible for what happens to the child. Events have been taken out of her control - both literally - and figuratively," she added. "The axe cuts off her hands and Varel's head, symbolically preventing Andile from changing anything that happens from that point forward. Biji is finally beginning to accept that she did not have control of the situation; that, in the grand scheme of things, there was nothing she could do - or have done - to change what happened."

"But she was responsible for Varel's death!" Beverly protested softly. "She killed her!"

"And you think there is a day - a minute? - of her life when she isn't painfully aware of what she did?" Deanna asked, her voice both cool and sympathetic. "She knows what she did, Bev; now she has to come to accept what she didn't do, as well. And for Andile, that's the far harder task. That she's beginning to understand that, even at this basic subconscious level, is a good sign.

"But there have been other little advances in her condition in other ways," she added.

"Oh?"

Deanna smiled. "She was complaining about the captain's idea about going to the holodeck after therapy. She wanted to eat dinner first!"

"Andile wanted to eat?" Beverly said with obvious delight.

"Not only did she say it - but I was acutely aware of a growing sense of hunger while she was talking about it - and it wasn't just the fact I had missed two meals. But now that I think about it..." She waved at the server again, who hurried over.

"Something else?" he asked.

"Two chocolate mousse cakes," the Betazoid said promptly.

"And two coffees," Beverly added. "Extra dark, extra strong," she added - then smiled at Deanna. "Before I broach the idea to Beej and Jean-Luc, I want to make damned sure it's feasible - and I'm not going to do that on one and a half brandies," she said.

The server gave a half bow then cleared the table, leaving the two woman alone once again.

"I think you've made the right decision, Beverly," Deanna informed her friend.

"There was no decision to make, Deanna," the physician replied, "Except the decision to finally give up on thirty years of hope. But you know what they say," she reminded her friend. "All good things must fade away."

Like friendships, like unfulfilled romances - like so many things, she thought.

"And I'll let it fade," she added softly. "As long as he's happy."


	164. Chapter 164

**Chapter 164**

"You don't have to do this," Geordi reminded his friend, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

Unmistakable - except to the android standing beside him at one of the consoles in Engineering. "Reviewing the status of all the ship's departments is a part of my duties as operations officer, Geordi," Data reminded his friend, a slightly confused expression on his face. "My presence here, however, is simply a matter of routine," he added, "and is not intended to suggest that Engineering is in any way deficient."

Despite himself, Geordi smiled. "I wasn't concerned about that, Data," he assured the android. "We've been stuck here for almost six months; some of the crew might be going a little stir crazy from all the inactivity - but I've enjoyed it. It's the first time in years that I've had the time I wanted to bring the engines up to their maximum efficiency!" he explained joyfully. "I just wish that I could have re-installed Beej's engines..." He stopped himself in mid-sentence and shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Data; I shouldn't have brought up her name."

Data gave another confused look to his friend. "I am fully cognizant of Andile's name, Geordi. I do not understand why you are troubled by the use of it."

"I," Geordi protested softly, "am not troubled by it, Data; I was concerned that you might be," he explained.

"You believe it is inappropriate to use her name?" the android countered, perplexed. "Due to her injuries, she has been removed from the official duty roster indefinitely," he continued. "It would therefore be more inappropriate to refer to her by her rank, though Starfleet regulations do allow such familiar usage until such time as her official status has been formally determined - and that will not occur until after we have returned to Earth. Nonetheless, utilization of the appellation..."

Geordi raised a hand to still the torrent of words. "Data..."

The android fell silent in mid-explanation, looking at his friend. "Yes, Geordi?"

"I wasn't concerned about the correctness of what I was calling her; I was concerned about bringing up her name at all!" Geordi explained.

The perplexed expression crossed Data's face again. "I do not understand, Geordi," he said. "While in many cultures the verbalization of an injured or ill comrade's name might be taboo, forbidden lest the evil spirits responsible for the harm done were to be recalled to the individual, I do not believe that is a practice on modern Earth - or, for that matter, your ancestral practices. Or am I mistaken?" he added concernedly.

"Data," Geordi said with a frustrated sigh, "I'm not worried about me; I'm concerned for you! You and Beej were... well, you know, an item... and I just thought..."

"Ah. You were concerned that being reminded of Andile's presence on the ship - and her importance to the Engineering department and your enjoyment of her presence herein - would arouse negative emotions within me," Data said.

"Yeah," Geordi replied. "Something like that," he agreed.

Data inclined his head in understanding - and appreciation. "Your concern is noted and appreciated, Geordi - but it is unnecessary. I have discontinued the use of my emotion chip; I am no longer subject to emotions, negative or positive."

Geordi looked at skeptically at his friend. "Data, this is me you're talking to," he reminded the android. "You know: your personal engineer? Not to mention," he added with a hint of underlying doubt, "your best friend?"

Data met Geordi's questioning gaze with a sincere expression. "You are my best friend, Geordi," he assured the man with gentle honesty.

"Then don't lie to me, Data - and don't lie to yourself. We both know your programs were designed to become integrated into your autonomic functions the longer you used them. You've had your emotion chip running for years; after all this time, what you're feeling is no longer being generated by the chip, Data; those are _your_ emotions - and you can't turn them off any more than I can turn mine off."

"That statement would not be entirely accurate, Geordi..." Data began to protest.

"All right," the engineer conceded. "You didn't have the chip long enough to experience the full range of emotions for a long enough period for them all to become part of your internal programming, but the basic emotions - happiness, sorrow, hate... love," he added softly, "those emotions have become as much a part of you as... as... your art, your music, your acting," Geordi insisted. "You loved her, Data..."

"No," the android countered. "I did not love her."

"Data..." Geordi sighed patiently.

"I _do_ love her," he corrected her friend. "Indeed, I believe I will always love her."

Geordi smiled sympathetically at his friend, relieved at the android's confession of the truth they both knew. "I know, Data," he said gently. "Which is why I thought it might be a bad idea for you to be here today."

"You believed my seeing Andile will cause me emotional distress?"

"I doubt that just seeing her would do that, Data - but if you insist on doing the review today, in the way you have it laid out, you're going to be doing more than just seeing her; you're going to be working with her. The captain and Dr. Crusher have agreed to let Beej resume a few of her previous duties. Not many of them - I think they're testing her limits - and not for too long; a few hours is all - but she is scheduled to be working where you are planning to be - and when you are there."

"Despite a remarkable recovery, her injuries and the subsequent recovery have left her considerably weaker than she was prior to this mission," Data agreed. "Perhaps I should suggest that the lieutenant's return be delayed until her recovery is more complete."

"I already tried that, Data," Geordi confessed, hoping to have spared his friend the uncomfortable situation, "but the captain was adamant about her starting today."

Data nodded. "I would have to concede that her return, even in the limited capacity she is to undertake, would have to commence at some point - and the captain must have concurred, deciding that there was 'no time like the present'."

More likely, Geordi thought with a smile, that Andile had made life for the captain and Dr. Crusher miserable, raising holy hell at being cooped up in her quarters all day long with nothing to do.

Or rather, he amended, disapproval growing dark in his thoughts, the captain's quarters.

Not that it was his business, he added; who the captain slept with - or didn't sleep with - was none of his concern... but still, he thought, if the captain had to take up with someone, taking up with his second officer's ex was inconsiderate at best - and at worst, damaging - if not flat out destructive - to the morale of the crew.

Not that anyone begrudged either of them their emotional and physical needs; after all, both the captain and Beej were well-liked and respected - but to flaunt their relationship so openly, to actually move her into his quarters - and after having only known her for such a short time? It was disturbing, Geordi decided; no, more than disturbing; it was downright disappointing.

After all, he thought, there were those aboard who had been holding out hope that the captain and Dr. Crusher would somehow find a way to overcome all their personal problems and get together - and, Geordi conceded to himself, he was one of them.

But while hope was indeed a glorious thing, sometimes hope was not, in and of itself, enough; after fifteen years together, it seemed that the relationship was simply not to be.

The fact saddened him - but then, he admitted, figuring out his own relationships had never been his strong suit; trying to figure out why the relationships others had succeeded - or failed - was completely beyond him.

And beyond many of them, he added: after all, the captain and Beverly hadn't figured it out, he conceded sadly - and for that matter, neither had Andile and Data. At least, he added, not with each other. Perhaps then, he should be happy that at least the captain and Andile had found something for themselves... together.

But how happy could he be when his other friends were so badly hurt?

"Okay, so she's starting today - but Dr. Crusher has given me strict instructions that she is not to work more than two hours - and all of it is to be desk work," Geordi said. "You could delay the start of the review until she's done..."

"That would require you to work past your duty shift," Data countered.

Geordi smiled. "Oh, and _that's_ never happened before," he chuckled.

"Our present circumstances would not justify such an expenditure of your free time, Geordi," the android objected.

"Fine," the engineer said. "Then why not do Engineering tomorrow? She won't be here tomorrow," he reminded the android.

"I have the communications section review to perform tomorrow, Geordi," Data reminded his friend.

"And you couldn't just switch the two?"

Data frowned. "It would be inappropriate to perform a routine review without first alerting the department head."

"Data," Geordi protested, "we're sitting in the middle of nowhere - and we haven't moved an inch for almost six months. If there's a single department that isn't at peak performance, then the section head _should_ be written up, regardless of whether you gave proper advance notice, Data - and you know it as well as I do."

"That is not the point, Geordi," Data replied.

"No, it's not," Geordi agreed. "The point is: you miss her, you want to see her - and if possible you want to talk with her, interact with her. I understand, Data," Geordi commiserated. "I've felt that way about some women. But it isn't healthy," he added. "For either of you. It didn't work out, Data - now it's time to move on. Let her go, Data," he advised.

The android studied his friend, considering the words - then, to Geordi's sorrow, shook his head. "I cannot, Geordi. But I will not permit her to be hurt by my actions or my needs. I will therefore perform the review in another section of Engineering until she has gone; I will not attempt any interaction with her, nor will I initiate any conversation... if that is acceptable with you," he added.

Geordi sighed. "It's not whether it's acceptable to me, Data; I just don't want you to be hurt anymore than you have been already."

"But I have not been hurt, Geordi. Seeing her does not hurt me..."

"Data," Geordi interrupted softly, "you do know that she and the captain are... well, you know..."

"They are alleged to be involved," Data concluded for him.

More than alleged, Geordi protested silently, having seen the two walking slowly through the corridors only a few nights before, engrossed in what could only be described as an intimate conversation - and having seen them enter the captain's quarters - together - a few minutes later - but held his tongue.

"Yeah," he said instead.

"If that is true, then I am happy for them both."

"Really?" Data replied, taken aback once again by how little he understood his friend, even after all their years together.

Data looked back at the engineer, then answered, "No. But, perhaps, in time, if I say the words often enough, I will come to believe it."

Geordi studied his friend for a long minutes, then lay his hand on the android's shoulder, giving it a consolatory squeeze. "I hope, for your sake, Data, that you're right. So," he continued, "where do you want to start?"

Data ran his hands over the console before them, pulling up first his original plan for the day's work. "Based upon your previous comments, Geordi, I presume that you intended on having Andile review the engine upgrades you have completed today."

Geordi nodded. "Even for Biji, it's a pretty intense review - and it should effectively kill about two hours."

Data looked at his friend skeptically. "She will know immediately if you are simply presenting her with 'make work', Geordi, attempting to occupy her time for the requisite two hours she will be here."

"It's not 'make work', Data; I need her to review the changes I've made since she was... hurt... before I can have her look at the efficiency rates we're achieving."

"You are concerned about the efficiency rates?"

"Not the rates themselves, but about the fractional increase in heat output," Geordi said. "While the specs say we can handle the additional load, I'd like to beef up the exchangers, just in case we run into a situation where we need the ability to handle that extra load."

"A wise precaution," Data concurred.

"And one I'd like Biji in on; even after all this time, she still know the Enterprise better than anyone aboard," Geordi sighed.

"True. I would offer my help as well, but given your previous remarks, I presume you would deem that inadvisable."

"You can say that again," Geordi muttered. "All right. Given that Beej will be studying the specs in my office for two hours, what if we were to start your review with the changes we've made in the plasma manifolds, then work out way backward to the dilithium chamber? By the time we're back, Beej will be long gone."

Data nodded. "That would seem a logical approach, Geordi. May I review your notes on the manifolds?" he asked.

Geordi nodded, then pulled up the file, transferred them to the console, and began to outline the new pathways he had engineered.

The two remained gripped in the technical discussion for several minutes - then Geordi found himself looking away from the file, an uncomfortable sensation tickling at the periphery of his sense.

A change in the engines? he worried instantly, his every sense on the alert.

But the deep throaty thrum of the engines was unchanged, the faint resonance running through the floorboards beneath him and the muffled sense of vibration no different than they had been on any day for the last few months.

He scanned the boards displayed before him, searching out a tell-tale that was lit where it should be dark - or dark, he added, where it should be light.

But nothing was out of place there either, he realized a moment later.

Then what...?

The realization came to him a moment later; it wasn't a change in the engines he was sensing - but rather, a change in the engineering team themselves.

Normally, Engineering hummed with activity, with the low voices of dozens of people discussing their work, calling out orders and responses, the unavoidable noise of work being performed as equipment was overhauled or repaired or upgraded - all the inescapable noise that was as much a part of Engineering as the warp engines were.

But that noise, he realized, was suddenly missing.

He turned around, looking out over the people who made his crew, only to find them not only silent - but locked into place as well, their silence a sign of respect - and astonishment.

"Oh, come on!" Andile said, her voice now faint and gasping where once it had been soft and mellifluous - but the caustic grin on her face unchanged. "You guys act like you've never had anyone return from the brink of death before!" she goaded them as she walked slowly into the room, the captain following behind her. "On this ship, it should almost be routine! Miracles, my friends, are our stock in trade! We are, after all, engineers - engineers on the finest ship the Federation had ever known! Now, come give your Biji a hug, tell me how much you've missed me - and fill me in on the latest gossip! I've been out of the loop for months!"

The tension, which had been almost palpable, suddenly gave way, crashing in on the room's inhabitants as they ruches forward to embrace the delicate engineer, sweeping her away from her guards and into the loving arms of her friends and co-workers.

"Beej..."

"Tomas and Marnia finally set a date..."

"The infuser array..."

"I came to read to you, Biji; did you hear me?"

"My niece wrote..."

"You're so thin...

"You look so much better..."

"You're so pale..."

As Geordi and Data watched, the tiny woman was carried away by the throng, apparently secure and content in their presence - then the two looked back at the captain who was watching the crowd with unmistakable concern.

"Give them a few minutes, sir," Geordi protested. "They haven't seen her in months..."

Picard raised a hand to silence the protest. "It's all right, Geordi," he reassured the man. "It'll take your people - and the lieutenant - several months to reacquaint themselves to one another - but they are professionals; I know they'll return to their assigned positions as soon as they realize she is not leaving."

Data inclined his head a fraction. "Is that official, sir? Lt. Andile is being returned to duty?"

"No," Picard demurred, lowering his voice "The lieutenant's presence here is... therapeutic. She is facing another surgical procedure in the near future, and Counselor Troi felt that returning to duty, even in a limited form, would help the lieutenant reestablish a positive mental attitude."

Geordi's forehead wrinkled as a worried expression crossed his face. "A dangerous procedure?" he asked, his voice now equally low as Picard's.

Picard raised a brow in silent question.

Geordi shook his head. "Captain, Biji's as strong as they come. If Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi are concerned about her needing a positive mental attitude, then it's because the procedure is dangerous, and they want every advantage they can get."

The captain looked at the engineer, then at Data - then gave a reluctant nod. "Dr. Crusher has developed a technique that might - only might!" he emphasized, "permit the cloning of a new set of lungs."

"Captain," Data argued quietly, "the doctor may not be aware of this, but Andile has been the subject of multiple attempts to clone her hands; the procedures failed - and caused her great emotional and physical distress. In light of these negative attempts in the past, I do not know if such a plan is wise," he cautioned.

"Dr. Crusher is fully aware of the previous cloning attempts and their results, Mr. Data," Picard replied sharply.

Startled by the tone, Data raised his brows in surprise, then gave a short nod of acquiescence. "My apologies, Captain; I did not mean to suggest any incompetence on the doctor's part. My concern was simply for the lieutenant."

Picard stared at the android - then gave a long sigh. "Of course it is, Data - and if there is an apology, it is on my part. I realize you are concerned for the lieutenant's well-being - as are we all - and," he added gently, "that the gift that you have given her - the creation of a external, functioning lung - has allowed her to regain much of the life she had before.

"Dr. Crusher's attempt to clone a new set of lungs for the lieutenant wasn't meant to imply your work was unappreciated or unwelcome," he continued. "Indeed, the fact that you were able to free the lieutenant from her confinement to a Sickbay bed, and allow her much of her previous freedom, was what inspired Dr. Crusher - and Jemat - to pursue this idea, and to attempt to completely restore the lieutenant to the lifestyle she had before the accident."

Data gave the captain a peculiar stare. "I am not offended by their attempts, sir - nor by the fact that Andile wishes to resume all of the activities she enjoyed before she was hurt. I just do not wish her to be disappointed once again."

Picard nodded, then looked away, studying the woman across the room, not wanting the two officer to see his grim expression.

If this doesn't work, Data, he thought grimly, she won't be disappointed: she'll be dead, he thought, reminding himself of Beverly and Jemat's dire warning of all the things that could go wrong in the next few weeks.

The implanted tissue could fail to engraft properly, he thought, remembering the litany the two had detailed, triggering an immune response that would prevent any further attempts to transplant cells form his body to hers - but even if it engrafted properly, the blood vessels might fail to develop adequately to permit proper air exchange from blood to tissue.

But even if everything went properly at first, the strain of supporting rapidly growing tissue might prove too great a task for her body, damaging or killing Andile in the process.

And even if everything went perfectly...

Even if it all went according to the plans - and the hopes - of Beverly and Jemat, there would come that final step in which the remaining tissue of Andile's own lungs had to be surgically removed and the new ones transplanted - a procedure that, in other circumstances, would have been relatively routine.

But nothing with a woman of Andile's age and condition was routine, they had told them both; if the transplants failed to engraft, the lysing cells would contaminate Andile's system, triggering massive organ failure - and death.

Of course, she could always stop the procedure at any point, he reminded himself, and opt to resume the life she currently had - with its certainty of survival - and its limitations.

But she wouldn't, he knew, one hand rising to touch the still-tender places on his chest where Beverly had excised several alveoli from each lung a few hours before, preparatory to the implantation that would occur the following day; if Andile had had doubts, she would never have permitted him to endure even that trivial procedure.

And, Picard added, Beverly would never have given Andile permission to resume even these minimal hours if she didn't feel the psychological boost were essential for the engineer's ultimate survival.

No, they were all committed now, he thought: Andile to the return of her life, Beverly to the ultimate well-being of her patient - and he to watching the possible loss of the two women he cared for - Andile to death - and Beverly to the self-recrimination of losing a patient.

Not that Beverly hadn't lost patients before - but in those cases, she had been able to maintain a professional dispassion, a distance that kept her from being emotionally tied to them. This time, though, her patient was both friend and enemy - and if the outcome were not a good one, he knew his friend would never cease questioning whether she had somehow sabotaged Andile's treatment, unintentionally hurting - or killing - her, somehow yielding to a subconscious command despite her conscious intentions and efforts.

It would end her career, Picard thought; never completely certain of what had happened, she would never again trust herself to care for another person - and her career would end as certainly as Dee's life would.

My fault, Picard apologized silently; if anything happens to Dee, the pain you suffer, my dear Beverly, will be my fault entirely.

I could stop it, he reminded himself; until those cells are implanted tomorrow, I still have the right to rescind my decision.

It would end any chance Dee had at the resumption of her previous life, he reminded himself; worse, it would be a devastating blow to Beverly, another inference that I doubted her abilities, when, in fact, I admire her.

She didn't have to do this for Dee, he thought; she could have allowed her to go on as she is, justifying her decisions by claiming that she had restored Andile's abilities to lead a reasonably normal life - and that, by medical standards, that was good enough.

But good enough simply wasn't, he reminded himself, pride surging through him at the thought of what his CMO - indeed, his friend - had done; Beverly had gone above and beyond, as she had done so often in the past.

No wonder I admire her, he thought.

No wonder I love her.

Loved, he amended, sobering - then glanced at Andile, the crowd around her thinning - then looked back at his other officers. "You'll see to her work?" he asked Geordi.

The engineer nodded. "I'd like her to review the work we've been doing; I'm concerned about changes in the heat exchangers and I'd really like her input on my plans to upgrade them."

Picard nodded his approval. "If you'll see to that, then...?" he said, dismissing the engineer.

Taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Geordi stared at Picard - then strode toward the diminishing crowd encircling the diminutive engineer.

He watched for several moment, them certain Geordi was out of ear-shot, turned to Data.

Before he could address the android, though, Data offered, "I will be performing my routine Engineering review..."

Picard stopped him in mid-explanation. "Not today, Mr. Data."

Data raised a brow in curiosity. "Sir, I can assure you that my personal feelings for the lieutenant..."

"Are not in question," Picard interrupted. "Indeed, those feelings may be beneficial, considering the task I have for you."

Despite Data's protestations of not having emotions, there was not doubt that Picard's words caught the android sense of curiosity; he looked at Picard, eyes raised in interest. "Yes, sir?"

"Data, we - Dr. Crusher and I - have reason to believe that several attempts have been made on the lieutenant's life in the last few months," he advised the android.

Data stiffened. "I was unaware of such events, Captain," he replied.

"No one is, Data; we haven't advertised it, letting people believe that they have simply been set backs in her recovery; indeed, each attempt has been planned so that it looks just like that," he admitted.

"And you are certain they are not?" Data asked.

Picard shook his head. "Certain, no; there is always the possibility, remote as it may seem, that everything has been a stroke of massively bad luck on the lieutenant's part. But..."

"But, as the lieutenant would aver, coincidence of such magnitude is usually reserved for poorly written novels."

Despite himself, Picard smiled. "Agreed. But if its not coincidence, then it's exceptional planning and execution - and there can not be many people on the ship capable of both."

Data nodded. "I understand."

"There's more," Picard added. "Whoever had attempted to kill the lieutenant may also be involved in the circumstances that resulted in our being here in the first place; someone attempted to discredit the lieutenant during our investigation of the sabotage, in order to prevent us trusting her knowledge and abilities."

"I thought that Ambassador Tillerman - along with Commander James - was responsible for the sabotage," Data opined.

"They didn't act alone, Data," Picard reminded him. "For one, they had to have had assistance at a high level in Starfleet: without her promotion, Commander James would not have been in position to join the crew of the Enterprise - and that promotion in rank had to have been instigated by someone in the Admiralty."

"That does not suggest another conspirator left aboard," Data pointed out.

"No - but neither Jay nor Sandra James were experienced enough to be trusted to execute a plan this detailed without flaw; whoever wanted this mission to fail would have sent along another saboteur, perhaps unknown to those two, just in case things went to hell."

Data nodded. "We have encountered continuing computer issues that defy standard engineering solutions - and that suggest a conscious external cause," Data mused.

"Solutions that the lieutenant might be able to resolve - if she were alive - and trusted," Picard countered.

Data frowned. "I do not understand."

"Killing someone is an injudicious way to remove them from the playing field; while effective, it immediately raises questions - and this ship has a reputation for not allowing questions to go unanswered. No; given the circumstances, if someone wanted a crew member's effectiveness nullified without removing them entirely, it would be far more effective to raise doubts as to the trustworthiness and remove then that way," Picard pointed out.

"Then you believe the information raised at her interrogation was falsified?"

Picard shook his head sorrowfully. "No. The lieutenant herself admitted it was all truthful. But there is no way our computer should have had access to that data; it was top secret, eyes only material, limited to Starfleet Command and the Admiralty."

"A computer error, sir? Files transmitted in error?"

"Another coincidence?" Picard replied skeptically. "I think not. No, I think we need assume the worst – that we still have a saboteur aboard – and that the lieutenant's life is at risk until we can identify the culprit."

Data nodded. "Then I will begin my investigation immediately," he replied.

"Sotto voce, Data," Picard added hastily. "Do so - but keep it quiet. We haven't a clue who the individual is - and if we let him - or her - know we are looking for them, they might well fade into invisibility once again."

Data nodded. "Yes sir," he said, then turned away - only to turn back again a moment later. "Sir?"

"Yes, Data?"

"I would like you to know that I am not offended by your relationship with the lieutenant; I erred in dissolving the relationship we had, but having done so, I have come to accept that she should continue to develop her personal and intimate relationships with others," he said. "Therefore, while I am disturbed by the attempt made upon Andile's life, I am grateful that she was with you at the time."

"Data.." Picard began, "our... relationship... isn't like that. We're..."

"Sir," Data interrupted. "I do not require details. Indeed, I would prefer not to know the extent of your involvement with her. All that concerns me is... that she is happy. Now, if you will excuse me...?"

Picard nodded, sighing as the android walked away - then looked across the room at the subject of the android's affection.

Are you happy? he wondered. Are any of us truly happy?

How ironic, he thought; we spend our lives, are careers, trying to ensure the safety of worlds we will never inhabit, to protect the lives of people we will never know, so that they can search out the happiness we are all entitled to - and yet we deny ourselves that very prize.

Perhaps Beverly was right, after all; perhaps leaving the Enterprise is what she needs if she is to find her happiness.

But there was a time I thought it could be with me, he added wordlessly.

He studied the engineers before him, watching as they talked - then turned and left the room.


	165. Chapter 165

**Chapter 165**

Deanna stirred sleepily, sensing the slight movement from her bed partner, and turned to look at him, sleep and love competing equally in her expression.

"You're up early," she whispered sleepily.

He smiled at her, at first in apology for having wakened her - and then with a more mischievous grin.

"When you're in my bed, Imzadi," he whispered back, "I'm always 'up'," he informed her - then reaching for her hand, led it beneath the blankets so she could verify the fact for herself.

"Umm, you are," she purred sleepily yet happily, her eyes closing as she caressed him - then looked back at him, an equally devilish look in her own eyes. "And you're not," she added.

Startled, Will opened his half-lidded eyes to met her gaze, instantly worried, his hand suddenly opening to engulf hers as she held him - then frowned. "I'm not... what?" he asked, having found no change in his body's state.

"You're not," she murmured, her hand still exploring him, "in your bed," she reminded him. "These are my quarters," she added.

Relief fought with frustrated resignation as he looked back at her. "Imzadi," he said warningly, "there are simply some things you should not tease a man about; hydraulic engineers aren't the only ones who have to worry about sudden - and catastrophic - losses of pressure."

Deanna laughed softly. "I don't think you have to worry about that quite yet, Will," she reassured him. "But if you're concerned, I'm sure Beverly could take a look..." she began to tease.

He cut her off with a kiss, then pulled back and shook his head. "I wasn't worried," he answered. "I believe that if you continue to exercise your muscles, you'll be able to always keep them functioning at top performance."

"Top performance?" Deanna repeated, her eyes opening wide, her look crestfallen. "That was 'top performance'?" she asked sadly.

Will gaped at her - then, watching as she began to laugh softly, removed her hand from its current location and occupation, pulled it free from the covers, and pinned it to the bed with his own hand.

A moment later he had secured her other hand as well - then looked down at her. "You want top performance? I'll show you top performance," he informed her - then lowered his head to her, covering her mouth with his, and began to kiss her, her laughter fading away, quickly replaced with soft moans which disappeared soon after as passionate groans and cries took their place.

"Top performance?" he repeated a considerable time later, looking up at Deanna who was now lying happily on top of him.

Content, she murmured a soft groan of satiation, too replete with pleasure to manage a more detailed analysis of their love-making.

Smiling, Will lifted his head, kissed her thoroughly, then eased her off of him and back to the bed before pushing his way free from the covers.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped from the shower - and sighed in frustration as he realized that, once again, he had no clean clothes. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped back into Deanna's bedroom and moved to the replicator, ordering up a clean uniform.

"You know, Imzadi," Deanna said softly as she reached his side, handing him a steaming mug of black coffee, "you could just leave a few uniforms here. It would save time - and who knows when will have a red alert in the middle of the night - and the replicators go down?" she asked... again.

Will nodded, agreeing silently with her old argument even as a clean uniform appeared. Taking it, he removed the towel and finished drying himself.

"Not that," Deanna added, appreciatively looking over his body as he began to dress, "you wouldn't make quite an impression on the bridge crew if you showed up like that."

"There isn't a bridge officer who hasn't had that nightmare," he replied - then gave her an equally appreciative study, enjoying the way her thin dressing gown clung to the curves of her body. "Though in your case, it would be a delicious fantasy," he murmured.

She moved to him, meeting him with a passionate kiss - then felt him push her away, gently - and reluctantly.

_Imzadi?_ she asked, slightly hurt.

Will smiled at her. "Duty," he said.

"You're not on for another two hours," she reminded him petulantly.

"I know - but I know the captain's going to be on the bridge for only a few minutes this morning before the day's negotiations start - and there are some things I need to review before I meet with him. Important things," he added, moving close to her, pulling her into his arms as he looked down at her.

"Oh?"

"I've been thinking about this for some time, Imzadi."

"About what?"

"Your bureau is too small."

Deanna raised a brow. "You're going to see the captain about my bureau," she repeated skeptically.

"In a way," Will demurred, then pulled away, took her by the hand and led her back to the bed. Sitting down, he pulled her to his side. "You're right; one of these days, there's going to be a crisis on the ship in the middle of the night - and I'm going to need to be on the bridge in a hurry. But... " He hesitated. "Please understand: I love you, Deanna," he prefaced, steeling her for the words to come, "but you have more...stuff... on and in your bureau than any ten men."

"You've been in the quarters of ten men?" she teased.

He grinned, shaking his head. "You know what I mean - and I'm not complaining. These are your quarters, your space, your possessions; just because I don't have as many things doesn't mean you should - or shouldn't. But you do, and that means there is no space for my clothes, not to mention the other things I would like to have on hand in the morning," he reminded her.

"I could clean out some drawers..." she offered.

"I wouldn't ask that of you," he countered. "And... it's not the point," he continued.

"Then what is the point?" she asked.

"Starfleet regs permit married couples additional living space. That would give us room for your things - and mine, without either of us having to give up our possessions. The problem on the Enterprise is that there are no married officer's quarters available, because none of the senior officers are married," he reminded her.

"I don't see a solution, then - unless you want to take over one of the unused junior officers quarters," she added - reluctantly, hating the thought of giving up the expansive windows that revealed the vast depths of space beyond.

The stars they displayed had become her companions, her night lights - indeed, the marvelous background that outlined Will's form when they made love each night - and morning, and afternoon, she added with a smile - then frowned again. Given a choice, she wouldn't willing give up the stars... except, she added, if that was the choice that had to be made to make a home for herself and Will.

"A few months ago, I would have agreed - until I remembered what Geordi did in Sickbay, creating a 'private apartment' for Beej by tearing down some of the interior walls."

"But Biji's space was smaller than our quarters," she reminded him.

"Yes - but the theory - tearing down an interior wall to add space - is the same."

"We both have neighbors," Deanna pointed out. "I don't think they'd want to move," she said.

"No, and I wouldn't ask them. But due to the fact we shipped out without a full crew complement, there are several unused spaces in section three; with some work - and the captain's permission - Geordi and his team could enlarge the space so it would be adequate for a newly married couple," he suggested.

Deanna fell silent, considering the idea; section three wasn't quite as optimal a location as her quarters - or Will's were, since it was not quite as conveniently located by the ship's main turbolifts... but for that same reason, there were fewer occupants in the adjoining spaces as well.

It would be nice, she mused, not to have to check her responses to Will's... attentions. Not that she believed in routinely screaming during the height of their passions - but every now and then...

Deanna grinned at her fiancé. "Sounds lovely, Will. Absolutely lovely."

And once we're ensconced in our new home, free from any possible accidental eavesdroppers, we'll see about that 'top performance', she added silently.

Some time later, Will stepped onto the bridge, studied the scene before him - and stopped.

There was something... well, he thought, not wrong - but different, with the bridge crew this morning.

Usually the last few hours of the night shift were noted by a more casual atmosphere that reflected the reduced number of personnel present and the more intimate relationships that had developed among the tight-knit group.

There was nothing untoward in their interactions, Will knew, just a strong sense of camaraderie and fellowships that was difficult - if not impossible - to achieve among the larger group that manned the bridge during the other two shifts of the day.

This morning, however, the conversation seemed a little... stilted, a little more subdued - and, Will realized, definitely more limited, the officers restricting themselves to topics directly relating to their work, and even then holding themselves to brief questions and concise answers.

Nothing wrong, Will thought - but different, nonetheless.

It took only a moment for him to realize the cause.

_Ah, ha!_ he thought. _The captain's in his lair_.

Of course, he amended instantly, that wasn't a fair simile; the captain was hardly a predator - and the crew were not helpless prey, nor was there even an iota of animal fear perfusing the room.

No, the dynamic at work here was simple - and complex at the same time, Will thought: respect.

It was interesting, Will mused as he watched the others, even fascinating, how people responded to the captain, wondering if the man were aware of the effect he had on those around him.

He must be, Will decided after a moment; after all, people were not promoted to the rank of Starfleet captain without fully understanding the effect they could exert on their crew by their behavior, their demeanor - or in the case of a man like Jean-Luc Picard, his mere presence.

Or even his lack of presence, Will added, looking to the closed ready room door.

It didn't matter that the man wasn't on the bridge, he thought; the bridge crew knew their captain was nearby - and as such they were going to remain at this level of optimal performance on the least chance that the subject of their admiration might come out of his ready room unannounced.

Such behavior wasn't necessary, Will told them wordlessly; the captain didn't require this level of formal adherence to Starfleet protocols - and yet, he added, there was something in Picard's demeanor, in his behavior and personal comportment that suggested that anything less would be, well... something less.

It was not the first time Will had made this observation; he had come to understand, long ago, the respect and admiration the captain engendered in those around him - but it did leave him wondering if he would ever be worthy of such veneration - or, he admitted, if he would want it.

Not that he didn't want the respect a captain was due, he admitted freely - but would he want his crew like this? Or would he prefer his ship, his crew, to be freer, more relaxed?

After all, he thought, the formality that the captain demonstrated as part of his command style might well elicit the same formal behavior in his crew - but it also created a distance, a separation between them that kept the man alone and apart from the very people who cherished his presence.

Or, rather, it had, he added; after all, how aloof could the captain appear after moving a lover into his quarters?

Not a lover, he countered silently. Deanna had insisted time and again that their relationship was completely platonic, that neither the captain or Andile were emotionally ready to involve themselves with anyone; that their decision to share a living space was made from simple need.

Of course, Will added, sex was a simple need...

At least, he conceded, it is for me - but for the captain...?

No, he thought, shaking his head. Nothing was simple for the captain: not sex, not pleasure - not even relationships.

Especially not relationships, Will thought; despite knowing and working with the captain for over fifteen years, despite considering him both mentor and friend, there was still so little he knew about the man - but on the same hand, the captain knew so very little about him as well.

Perhaps, though, it was different with Biji; perhaps in her he found someone with whom he could have a different, more intimate relationship; someone who could know all there was to know about him - and in turn, someone he could know equally well. God knew they both deserved something good in their lives.

And as for Deanna's insistence that the relationship was not a sexual one, well... it didn't really matter what he thought - and, Will conceded, for the first time that he could remember, the captain seemed unconcerned - well, relatively unconcerned - about what anyone thought. He had made no effort to hide the relationship - but then again, he had made no effort to advertise it either, leaving the gossips among the crew to decide for themselves.

And probably for the better, Will decided. There would be some who doubt the innocence of the relationship, attributing an unexpected and previously unknown passionate component to the man's personality, while those who believed in the innocence of the friendship, the simple fact that the captain had opened his life in order to aid one of his crew, one of his friends, revealed depths of compassion that they never suspected the man possessed. But whatever they decided, the captain's image would be changed forever in their minds - changed and enriched, whether the man liked it or not.

For the first time in a long time, Will mused, the captain was no longer in total control of the image he wanted presented to his crew; for the first time, a glimpse of the real man threatened to peek out from behind the carefully constructed façade he displayed to his crew.

Too much work, Will decided; when I have a ship and a crew of my own...

A crew of my own, he grinned to himself, laughingly chiding himself for worrying about details that might never matter; if and when he got a ship, the crew would decide for themselves how they would respond to him - and what he did or did not want would play only a very minor part in that decision.

For now, he added, his main concern had to be the here and now - starting with the most basic and obvious question: What was the captain doing in his ready room at such an ungodly hour?

The most obvious - that he was preparing for the day's negotiations - also seemed the most unlikely; of late, the captain had spent more and more time preparing for the negotiations in his quarters, discussing the issues at hand with Andile.

Will nodded to himself, appreciating the idea, remembering how easy it had been to talk with the woman, to listen to her thoughts, opinions, and ideas - and to reevaluate one's own thoughts and intentions in the light of that reflection.

But having Andile as a seemingly permanent resident in the captain's quarters - a fact that still rubbed uncomfortably at Will's ideas of what should - and should not - be, why would he have come here, now - unless, of course, something had gone wrong in that situation.

Lover's spat? he wondered, then chased off the idea, remembering Deanna's insistence that neither passion nor sex lay at the base of that strange relationship.

What then? Certainly not a dangerous turn in Andile's health he added; if Andile had become ill again, the captain would have been at her side in Sickbay, Will decided - then added, as would Data.

And since they were both here, he added, glancing at Data who was situated at the science station... then what? he wondered.

But a good first officer shouldn't waste his time guessing, he reminded himself after a few moments; it was his job to ferret out the facts as quickly and succinctly as possible, so that he would have options ready for his captain, if and when he needed them.

And, he continued, if there were a better course for facts than Data,

he could not imagine who it would be.

Will turned to the android, observing the being for a moment before speaking.

"Find anything, Data?" he asked at last.

The android glanced up from his board, clearly surprised - and somewhat worried - by the question. "I beg your pardon, Commander?"

"Your research," Will explained, gesturing at the personnel files displayed on the screen. "Your hunt for the saboteur," he added, dropping his voice enough so that only the android could hear him. "Have you found anything? Any one?"

Data's face returned to its previously passive, unemotional expression - an expression, Will thought, that was chillingly reminiscent of those Data possessed when they had first met, before he had expanded his research into human emotion - and into his own.

It was not an expression he cared for, Will thought to himself; disliking the fact that Data seemed to be regressing in his search for himself - but, he admitted, what he liked or disliked in the android's behaviors was his problem - not Data's.

Still, it hurt Will to watch how quickly the man had reverted to his earlier ways - and how much of the fascinating individual he had become had been lost in the process.

It had not, however, affected the android's superb work abilities; if there was a person aboard who could determine the identity of the saboteur - or saboteurs - it would be Data.

But judging from Data's manner, it probably would not be him either.

"There is no verifiable data that would suggest one feasible candidate," Data replied. "There are many individuals who fit the time profiles involved, but have no record of having the knowledge required, while others had access to the appropriate information and ways to execute it," he continued, "but have personnel profiles that would suggest such behavior to be antithetical to their innate personalities - or have verifiable alibis that exclude them from consideration," Data concluded blandly.

Will nodded, and, despite himself, Data felt the tension in his body ease - a surprising sensation, for the android had not been aware of the anxiety he was carrying.

Riker's question had caught the android by surprise; not that he had been unaware of the first officer's presence on the bridge, but rather by what he mistook - if only for an instant - as a question into the investigation of Andile's possible assassin - and inquiry, he knew, that only the captain and he were aware was being performed.

Fortunately the question Will asked - and the one that Data was researching - happened to have very similar, if disappointing answers.

Whoever the saboteur was, he was trained well enough to be able to cover his actions beyond even Data's abilities to trace, leaving him - or her - just as unknown, just as elusive, as when Data had begun this inquiry, almost one week before.

"Have you considered the possibility of multiple operatives, working in tandem, one alibiing the other?" Will pressed.

"I have considered that possibility - and discarded it. The greater the number of conspirators, the greater the chance of one being revealed - and in turn, reveling the others. This is the reason that Cmdr. James was murdered; she was the weakest link, the one most vulnerable to revealing the others. Ambassador Tillerman was also removed from the scene for what, I believe, were similar circumstances; he was not of sufficient character to have withstood interrogation for long, given the possible outcomes he faced. Whoever the originator of this plan was, he - or she - must have understood the nature of the people involved, and provided methods to ensure their removal, one way or the other. To not have removed this last individual bespeaks the plan's creator inherent faith in the ability of this person to remain inviolate.

"To have such reliance in one person is credible, but there must be a strong foundation of prior knowledge and history sustaining the confidence; to have such faith in two or more individuals would statistically unlikely.

"No, Commander, I believe that there is only one saboteur left aboard - and unless he makes an egregious error in his future actions, I do not believe we will be able to determine his presence," Data concluded.

Will frowned at the pronouncement, not just because of the unexpected disappointing answer, but equally so by Data's countenance; if Data hadn't stated that he had turned off his emotion chip, then Will would have sworn the android was, unbelievable as it seemed, angry.

Indeed, the being seemed absolutely furious.

Understandingly, Will clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Data; if you couldn't find him, then we have to consider the possibility that our saboteur has had special training in avoiding detection."

Data looked at the commander knowingly. "I, too, have reached the same conclusion, sir; the saboteur was trained and implanted by Section 31."

Will nodded solemnly. "We need to tell the captain," he said.

"The captain is meeting with Jemat," Data informed the first officer.

"Jemat?" Will echoed. "At this hour? I thought they usually met in the afternoons and evenings."

"You are correct, sir. However, of late the negotiations have been taking more time as the captain and the Cardassian and Romulan ambassadors attempt to finalize certain key points - and of late, the captain has declined to conduct any meetings in the evening," Data informed him.

"No meetings at night?" Will murmured in disbelief.

"He has stated that his evenings would now be reserved for his personal use," Data informed him.

Will shook his head. "I didn't hear anything about this."

"Indeed? It is in the Federation code of conduct, Commander," Data replied. " 'Maintaining proper mental and physical health is a requirement of all Starfleet officers and crew. Proper observation and utilization of non-duty hours for personal enjoyment, in conformity with the Starfleet's standards of behavior, is expected of all Starfleet members.' Technically, the captain has been out of compliance with this requirement for many years," Data added.

"Yes, but..." Will began to object - then stopped.

What am I complaining about? He asked himself. I've told the captain time and again that he needed to take more of his time - but...

But it was time to be with Andile, he thought - and that, he added, was something with which he was not comfortable.

Not yet.

Maybe never, he added.

Not that I don't like Beej, he protested; I do! She's smart, and witty, and charming and bright... but there is so much about her that we don't know. So much mystery, so much danger that could do harm to the captain, his reputation, his career... The captain would be better off spending his time with someone who was not only his intellectual equal, but who wouldn't pose a threat to him...

Someone like Beverly.

He sighed. But that decision isn't mine to make, Will admitted; the ways of our hearts aren't always subject to the will of our minds - and never to the wills of those around us. Still...

"She is a good person, Commander," Data said softly.

Startled, Will looked at Data - and realized that his face must have shown his disapproval of the situation. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"Andile," Data clarified. "She is a good person. Her relationship with the captain, will, I believe, prove beneficial for them both, as it was for me," he added softly.

"Data, how can you say that?" Will gaped. "She hurt you so badly you've opted to turn off your emotions altogether!"

"Commander," Data answered quietly, "I chose to turn off my emotions not because I was injured, but because I realized that I have experienced those feelings to the 'height and breadth my soul can reach'. I saw no point in continuing the pursuit of those feelings, as they can never transcend what I felt with her. I am... satisfied," he concluded. "My only desire now is that Andile find the same level of emotional satiety that I have."

And, he added with a grim determination that belied his denial of emotions, I will not permit anyone to deny her the opportunity to find it.

To that end, Data touched his commbadge. "Data to Captain Picard," he said quietly.

Picard answered a moment later. "Picard here. What is it, Mr. Data?"

"Sir, Cmdr. Riker and I have been reviewing my findings concerning the assignment you gave me; we may have derived some data that would interest you."

"Cmdr. Riker is with you?" Picard echoed, obviously surprised - and, if Will could be certain of the inflection in his tone, pleased.

"Yes, sir."

"Then would you please both join me in my ready room?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Data said, then touched his commbadge to break the connection. "Commander?" he said, gesturing for the senior officer to lead the way.

The ready room door opened as they approached, and, entering the room, they watched as Picard rose from the couch where he and Jemat had been seated, two partially emptied tea cups arranged on the table, a small container of the spicy salt mixture that the Breen enjoyed set between the cups.

No Earl Grey? Will thought, surprised for the second time that morning by the changes in the captain.

Jemat followed the man's gaze, then smiled at the first officer. "Worry not, Commander," he said, rising to his feet, extending a hand in the ritual human greeting. "I have not corrupted your captain. Earl Grey will always be his first choice; he drinks _ehr'laq_ and _vors_ out of courtesy to politeness to a visitor."

Will took the proferred hand, shaking it perfunctorily. "Of course, sir," he said - then looked at Picard. "Good morning, captain."

"Good morning, Will. Data said you had information?"

Will's eyes widened slightly at the question, then darted to where Jemat sat before returning to Picard. "Perhaps you would prefer to receive this information in private?"

Picard followed Will's eyes, then shook his head. "Jemat - and the Breen - have a vested interest in this as well as we do, Will. While the original plans to capture the Enterprise were prepared with the Breen's cooperation, we have good reason to believe that they, too, have been manipulated. We have discussed the issue, and I believe that only an open and completely honest approach will allow both parties to move toward a peaceful settlement."

"In return," Jemat volunteered, "we are prepared to open our records to your people, so that the identities of those involved from your side will become a matter of record - though how you choose to proceed will be up to you," he added.

Will gave the Breen a puzzled look. "I don't understand," he admitted.

Picard spoke before the first officer could say anything. "Politics, Will," he said - then gestured at the other chairs arranged around the table. "Please, sit down, gentlemen."

The two took the indicated seats, Will pitching forward, elbows on knees in rapt interest while Data sat in perfect, mechanical attention.

For a moment, pity filled Picard's heart at the choice his friend had made - but command often had no place for such emotions, he reminded himself. Hardening his heart against Data's pain, he took his own place back on the couch.

"Jemat has explained to me that the internal policies and practices of his people are such that he can not - and will not - act to punish Ambassador Tillerman for his actions in the events leading to our current situation, nor will he permit the ambassador to return to Federation space, lest he become subject to criminal charges."

"He is a treasoner and responsible for the murders of four officers - no to mention what he did to Beej!" Will protested.

"Will," Picard sighed, "he acted on behalf of at least one member of the Admiralty; that dismisses the charge of treason. As for the murders, there is only hearsay evidence to connect the actions of Sandra James to those of Ambassador Tillerman. It wouldn't stand up in court. And what happened to the lieutenant was accidental," he added grimly. "The only charge that is supportable is the Jay attempted to kill me - and a charge of attempted murder is not sufficient to risk the negotiations between our two people," he informed the others.

"You said Tillerman was acting on behalf of the Admiralty," Will said. "If that was the case, why all this?" he asked.

"Not the Admiralty as a whole, Will," Picard said.

"Ambassador Tillerman approached us on behalf of one member of the Admiralty, Commander," Jemat explained. "The plan that was developed was, in essence, an offer of your ship, your people, as a gift to the Breen, to study and utilize as we chose."

"As you chose," Will growled. "Vivisection, torture..."

"Commander," Jemat countered tolerantly, "our practices and policies are abhorrent to you - but in many ways, yours are abhorrent to us. Your Prime Directive prohibits you from acting to save the lives of cultures less developed than yours; your inaction has cost the lives of millions - perhaps billions - of people when in fact, you had the ability to save many of them. We, on the other hand, have used our research - which we freely admit cost the lives of thousands of beings throughout the last three hundred thousand years - to expand the numbers of cultures on worlds throughout the galaxy, to populate planets that were otherwise uninhabited. Millions, perhaps billions, now live that would not have otherwise. Which one of us then is the greater villain?" he asked.

Will opened his mouth to argue - then fell silent. As much as he disapproved the Breen's actions, he was, in many ways, no more fond of those of his own government.

Jemat seemed to appreciate the difficulty the man was facing; he nodded at the man sympathetically. "We each try to find the best answers, Commander - but no one answer is ever completely correct, not when confronting the complexity of existence. We accept that we are inadequate to the task, Commander - but we also accept that we must continue to try."

"I don't believe that that is a sufficient response, _outo_," Will answered at last.

"Which is," Jemat countered, "why we are out here, rather than on our home worlds, doing nothing. We must continue to try, Commander; it is in the very nature of both our species.

"Nonetheless, I believe that our presence here, at this place and in this time - for both your people and mine - was manipulated, not for the peaceful benefit of both our peoples, but rather for the gain of specific individual within your society."

Will gave Jemat a troubled look.

"Will," Picard interjected, "I think - and Jemat agrees - that Admiral Czymszczak is behind what's happened here. He was the one person who was in position to ensure that the Enterprise - with the new prototype engines - was the ship assigned to this mission."

"And," Will added glancing at Data, "to oversee the who was recalled to the ship - and who was not."

"If the captain's conjecture is correct, it would explain what we have found - but the implications are profound."

"Number One?" Picard interrupted, confused by the remarks of the two.

"Captain," Will said, "Data believes the reason we have not been able to identify the saboteur is because he - or she - has been trained to avoid such detection."

Picard raised a brow. "You're thinking Section 31?" he asked.

Will nodded.

"Section 31?" Jemat interrupted.

"A branch - a secret branch - of the Federation developed to train and implant individuals to implement covert - and in many cases, unsanctioned - operations," Picard explained.

"And you believe this Section 31 is responsible for placing a saboteur on your ship?" the _outo_ pressed.

Data spoke. "Our knowledge of Section 31 is limited, sir. But this operation had been poorly run - a characteristic unlike those Section 31 operations of which we have learned. No, sir, it is far more likely that while the operative was trained by Section 31, he or she was then co-opted by Admiral Czymszczak and instructed to act only as need be should the situation arise. This has been borne out by the limited number of occasions on which the individual has acted since Ambassador Tillerman had left the ship," Data added.

"Occasions?" Jemat asked, perplexed.

"The continuing issues with the computer recording systems, sir," Data said, Will nodding in agreement. "They have been determined to be directly linked to a number of devices that have been monitoring internal ship's communications."

"You believe your saboteur is monitoring your internal communications?" Jemat said.

Picard nodded. "Trying to learn what we know - or think we know," he said.

"And you have disabled these devices?"

"At first, yes," Picard said. "But as we found them, we also found the hiding places were more and more difficult to locate. Rather than force him to place them in such a location where we could not find them, we have opted to announce the system repaired, so he will not attempt to resort to more sophisticated hiding locations - and so that we can know what is being overheard. Negotiations and other important meetings are being held in areas that we have secured - such as this room - and the records maintained outside the main database."

Jemat nodded. "Quite wise; never let the hunter know he had become the hunted," he murmured.

"Something like that," Will agreed.

"You said 'occasions'," Jemat continued. "Have there been other similar events?"

Picard hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath before looking at the others - then nodded. "Yes. There have been several attempts on Lt. Andile's life since the accident..."

Will's mouth dropped in horrified astonishment, but it was the Breen who responded first.

"What?!" Jemat exploded, jumping to his feet. "Captain Picard, this is completely unacceptable! She can not remain aboard this ship! I insist that you make arrangements for her immediate transportation to our mothership where she can be adequately protected!"

Picard raised a hand, trying to calm the normally implacable alien. "Jemat..."

"Her life can not be placed at such risk, Captain! She is too important, too critical to the survival of my people..."

"Jemat!" Picard snapped. "Calm down. She is not currently at risk - and now that we are aware of the potential risk, we have taken all precautions possible for her safety."

"It is nonetheless completely unacceptable!"

"I'm sorry, Jemat, but she is a Starfleet officer, and, as long as I am her superior officer, it is my responsibility to see to her safety. I can not do that if she is on your ship; indeed, if she were to leave the ship at this point, I would be negligent in my duties, as neither your ship nor your people have the technology needed to perform the medical procedures she will need during the next few weeks."

"Then you will send your Chief Medical Officer..."

"Jemat," Picard replied as calmly as he could, "Beverly is staying here; the lieutenant is staying here - for now," he added. "I will see to it that she is safe."

"How?" the _outo_ grumbled.

"The operative has to move cautiously; he can not move openly without revealing himself - and his orders on this must be clear, as each attempt on the lieutenant's life had been done with great subtlety and tremendous care. Those events in the lieutenant's life that are planned - her therapies, her treatments, are being performed by officers I can trust; the other events in her life are being kept random, so that no planning can take place. We hope that in doing so, we can keep the saboteur off guard - and unable to act."

"And if you are wrong?" Jemat pressed.

"Risk is an inherent part of life in Starfleet, Jemat," Picard said quietly. "The lieutenant knew that when she joined - and has maintained an understanding of that necessity throughout her career."

_But she is no longer just a member of Starfleet_, Jemat reminded him wordlessly. _She is the savior of my people_.

_So you believe - but your belief precludes telling her_, Picard reminded the _outo_.

_She can not change the life path she has chosen to accommodate our needs,_ Jemat conceded wearily, then spoke aloud. "Care for her, Captain; watch over her."

"As I watch over all my people, Jemat," Picard agreed - then glanced at Data, who nodded solemnly.

"We will protect her, Jemat," the android agreed.

"That having been said, Mr. Data, would you please make arrangements for the lieutenant to be escorted to Sickbay for her physical therapy this morning?" he asked. "Please extend my apologies to her, and let her know that I will join her this evening as arranged."

"Yes, sir," Data said.

"Captain, may I have your permission to join Cmdr. Data? It has been some time since I have seen the lieutenant - and I would like to see the extent of her progress," he added, ever the physician.

Will gave Picard a wary look, but the captain ignored it. "Of course, Jemat."

The alien _outo_ rose to his feet, moving to Data's side and exiting the room with the android, leaving Picard to face his first officer.

"You trust him?" Will asking disbelievingly.

"Will, Jemat would do anything to protect the lieutenant," Picard replied calmly.

"So that he can get her back to his ship, it sounds like," Will growled. "What the hell was that nonsense about her being critical to the survival of the Breen people?"

"You know what the Breen believe about her, Will," he reminded him quickly. "If it was up to him, they would take her back to Breen space – if for nothing else than to keep her safe," he added.

Picard studied the man standing before him, then rose to his feet, moved to his desk and retrieved a padd.

"It's odd," he continued, "that a race so technologically advanced would also have such strong religious and superstitious beliefs. It would be interesting for a Starfleet officer to spend time aboard one of their vessels, coming to understand their ways," he said.

Will grinned. "You should suggest to Jemat that the Breen host an officer exchange program. I wouldn't say our exchange with the Klingons was entirely successful - but we did manage to learn quite a bit from one another, albeit painfully," he added, rubbing his jaw.

Picard grinned. "I was thinking something along the same lines - though I hope it doesn't come to blows this time around."

Will's eyes widened in excitement. "You mean there is another exchange program in the works?"

Picard nodded. "I received official approval yesterday; Jemat agreed to meet with me this morning so that I could relate Starfleet's concerns and requirements - but in general, both the Breen and the Federation feel that an exchange would be an essential step in the negotiation process. After the program concludes, then both sides can operate with at least a fundamental understanding of the other side."

"Captain," Will interjected, "this may be premature, but..."

"You'd like to volunteer for the program - correct?"

Riker nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I thought you'd say that - and in fact, it's one of the reasons I was in contact with Starfleet so quickly; you were my first choice for the program."

Will smiled - then felt the smile fade as Picard's use of the past tense sank in. " "Were", Captain?"

"Yes, 'were', Will. Despite my recommendations, Starfleet Command has turned down my request to send you on the mission," Picard responded, though without much regret in his voice.

"I don't understand," Will said.

"It would not be appropriate, Will," Picard continued.

"Appropriate?"

"Yes," Picard replied, trying hard not to smile. "As a rule, Will, Starfleet Command does not send captains on exchange missions."

Will stared at the man, confused - then shook his head. "I don't understand," he repeated.

"The communications packet included Starfleet's approval of the mission, Will - but it also included this." He handed Will the padd in his hand.

Will stared at the document as Picard continued to speak. "Captain Gahan of the Titan has tendered his resignation, Will - and Starfleet is offering you the center seat."

Jean-Luc Picard smiled openly at the stunned man standing before him - and extended a hand.

"I say this with far more pride than I have a right to, Will - but, congratulations, Captain Riker."


	166. Chapter 166

**Chapter 166**

Dixon Hill grabbed the petite archaeologist's hand, pulling her behind him as he ran through the dark and foggy backstreets of a chilly San Francisco, the glint of the streetlights barely able to penetrate the murky air to reach the rain-slicked sidewalk beneath them.

"Down here," Dixon whispered, suddenly turning into the narrow alleyway. "This alley goes through to the other side of the building," he began to explain - then stopped short as the solid brick wall loomed before the two. "I must have miscounted when we were running," he confessed, chagrined.

"Explain later," the archaeologist, Elin Solderholm, gasped. "For now, let's just get the hell out of here before they catch up with us!"

She turned, this time pulling Hill behind her as she started back toward the street - then stopped as the clatter of running feet hurried by the alley entrance - then slowed, stopped - and began to return.

"Fuck!" the archaeologist muttered, then looked at Hill. "Any ideas?" she asked him.

"Hope they pass us by," he whispered back.

She gave him a look of pure astonishment. "How much am I paying you?"

"Not enough, honey," he countered in a rough whisper. "Remind me to raise my rates. Now quiet; whoever was chasing us might go back to the street if they decide were not down here."

"That's your best suggestion?" she asked incredulously.

"For the moment, I don't see that we have much choice," he replied, then turned his attention from the woman to the surrounding environment.

Damn! he cursed to himself. Of all the alleys in San Francisco, he had managed to get himself trapped in one with no other outlet, no fire escapes - not even a recessed doorway in which they could hide themselves!

There were a few garbage cans scattered about the far end of the passage - but to hide there would be almost as obvious as remaining where they were, Dixon thought, their forms outlined in the fog by the harsh glare of the single bulb that shone from over one of the doors in the alleyway.

As if reading his thought, the woman muttered, "At least we can do something about that. Give me your gun," she ordered.

Dixon raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your gun!" she hissed. "Hand it over!"

Startled, Dixon started to open his overcoat, but apparently he moved too slowly for the archaeologist's needs; she turned, ripped open his coat, slid a delicate hand under his suit coat and pulled the gun from his shoulder holster. Crouching slightly to brace herself, she aimed the gun...

"Don't!" Dixon snarled. "They'll hear it."

She nodded. "Yes - but it's an alleyway, Mr. Hill - and it's foggy. The sound is going to ricochet off every surface for a half block - and with all the fog, they won't be able to focus on a location for the sound."

"Unless they're standing at the alley's entrance, or see the light go out," he countered.

"You pays your money, Mr. Hill; you takes your chances," she replied, crouching to target the light once again - then gave a grunt of disgust. "Damned skirt," she muttered, then grabbing the fabric, hiked up the silver-grey pencil-slim skirt to mid thigh, sank into the crouch and sighted the light once again.

Damned good shot, Dixon thought as the light went out, followed by the faint tinkling of broken glass hitting the pavement as absolute blackness surrounded them.

Damned good legs, too, he added, the memory of the slim but well-curved and well-muscled limbs frozen in his mind as the last thing he had seen before darkness had surrounded them - that, he conceded, and a flash of the top of the silk stocking and the lacy garter belt that held the stocking.

"Keep your eyes where they belong, Mr. Hill," she whispered coldly. "There are five bullets left in this gun, and I would hate to waste one on you when we may need them later."

Startled, unaware that he had been caught staring at her legs, he looked up hurriedly, grateful that the sudden darkness hid the flush of embarrassment that reddened his face - but he was not about to let her know she had left him flustered.

"Shh," he hissed sharply. "After that shot, they're going to know we're still close." He held out his hand. "Give me my gun," he ordered.

She expertly flipped the gun around, then held it out, proffering it to him butt first.

A smooth maneuver, Hill thought; she had handled her share of weapons, he realized, taking the gun back. Holding it before him, her reached back, took her hand, and cautiously began to lead her toward the entrance to the alley. If we're lucky, he thought, we might just be able to sneak past whoever was searching for the archaeologist.

Luck, however, was not Dixon Hill's strong suit; if it was, he admitted, he wouldn't be squeaking by, barely managing to make ends meet from case to case... and sometimes not even managing that.

It had been months since his last case; Madeline, his secretary, had been forced to find another position, what few meals he had had of late had been through the generous invitations of his friend, Detective Bell and his wife - and he was months behind in his rent on both his apartment and his office; if it hadn't been for Erin Solderholm with her ridiculous story of someone trying to kill her – that and her very healthy retainer - he would have been out on the streets days ago.

If he could just stretch this case over a few weeks, he might well be able to get back on his feet again; hell, Dix thought, I might even be able to pay off my bar bill at Mike's.

He glanced at the tiny woman trailing behind him - and sighed.

There was no doubt in his mind that he could stretch this out, collecting week upon week of retainers from the woman, slowly reestablishing his financial backing while playing her along, pretending he believed her story... but desperate or not, there were some things he could not, would not, do.

And slowly taking her money under false pretenses was one of them.

No, he decided; as soon as we're out of this alley, I'm taking her back to my office and getting the real story.

He looked back at her again, making out her shapely figure even in the gloom of the misty night, and shook his head. Probably a former lover, he decided, someone who couldn't accept that the relationship was over.

Dixon decided he could understand that; Elin Solderholm was not only damned good looking, but she was intelligent and witty as well. Hard for any man to give that up, he thought; hard to give up what probably went along with it, he added, remembering the feel of her hand reaching under his suit coat, brushing against his chest as she retrieved his gun.

For a moment, he regretted that he didn't keep his gun tucked in the front waistband of his trousers. It was a stupid place to keep one's gun, of course, rife with danger - but then again...

"In your dreams, Mr. Hill," she whispered, glaring.

"Quiet," he whispered sharply - then stopped short.

Caught by surprise, the archaeologist slammed into the detective, giving an involuntary exhalation as she fell to the ground.

"Hill!" a voice barked from the dark murk of the street, alerted by the unexpected noise. There was a patter of hurried footsteps as people raced to the alley entrance. "I know you're in there! Send the broad out, and you can go, scot free. I've got nothing against you; send her out and we're gone. Deal?"

Erin tugged on Hill's trouser leg, causing him to look down. "He's lying, Mr. Hill. He can't let you live; you'll talk to the cops - and he won't be able to get out of the country!" she hissed.

Hill looked down at the woman, considering - then called out, "What guarantee do I have that I can trust you?" he asked - though the question was directed at the woman as well as at the unknown voice.

For a moment, there was silence, then the voice answered, "None - but I don't see that you have much choice, now do you, Hill?"

"Not really," Dixon agreed, still looking down at the woman.

"Don't trust him!" Erin hissed once again.

"I don't - but there's three of them - and I'm betting they're armed," Hill whispered back.

"So are we," she pointed out.

"One gun, five bullets," he countered. "That was a hell of a shot you made, taking out the light - but can you guarantee you can get all three - in this muck, in the dark - and with them moving?"

She glanced at the opening to the alley, now completely lost in the fog - and shook her head. "No. Not from here," she admitted.

"Then we have three options," he informed her quietly. "One, we do as he says..."

"He'll kill you - and once he gets what he wants from me, he'll kill me, too," she objected.

Hill raised a skeptical brow, but said nothing. "Two, we try to bluff our way out of here..." He let his voice trail off.

"And three?" she asked.

"You tell me the truth, and I try to negotiate out way out of this," he said.

She glared at him indignantly. "I did tell you the truth."

"Yes," Hill replied sarcastically. "That your uncle found a treasure, and these people are after you because you have the clue as to where it's hidden."

"He did - and I do!" she snapped back.

"And Big Tony is after that clue."

"Yes! But..."

A shot rang out, echoing noisily down the narrow passage. "Time's up, Hill! Send the dame out..."

"Gods, I hate that word!" she snapped, jumping to her feet, grabbing the gun from Hill's hand and striding furiously down the alley. "You want this 'dame', Big Tony? You got me!" she called out angrily, the gun held before her - and began to fire as she walked.

"Damn it!" Dixon swore. She was going to get herself killed - and me along with her, he thought.

She was firing blindly, he thought - but as the sound of additional gunshots filled the alley, he realized that Big Tony was also firing into the dark, as uncertain of their location as they were of his.

But three of his men shooting meant three times the chances of hitting one of them - and they were shooting into an enclosed passage, meaning there was every chance that those bullets would ricochet off the walls, increasing the chances that one - or both - of them would be hit.

Damn it, he thought, you hired me to protect you; how was I to guess I'd end up protecting you from yourself?!

But he had accepted her money, he reminded himself - and he had accepted the job.

"Damn it," he muttered - then leapt after her, tackling her to the ground even as shots echoed around them.

"Stay down!" he hissed.

"He called me a dame!"

"You're going to get yourself killed for a word?"

"I'm a fucking professor!"

"You're about to be a dead professor!"

"Not quite yet, Mr. Hill," the voice boomed from behind them, the bulk of Big Tony Maggiano pushing aside the wisps of fog as he carefully approached the two, his gun at the ready - and closely followed by two goons, equally well armed. "There's some information that the dame... excuse me, the professor," he corrected himself, "owes me. Now get up," he said.

Dixon looked over his shoulder at the man and his weapon, then looked back at Elin, then glanced down at the where their bodies pressed together, the gun still clutched in her hand - and hidden from Big Tony's sight.

She smiled - then mouthed the word, 'three'.

Damn it! he swore; she planned this!

Well, he amended, not planned, per se - but she had certainly had manipulated the circumstances to her advantage, using Big Tony - and me! he realized with a flash of anger - to get her into position where she could take out all three of their attackers with reasonable certainty of success.

Whether she had realized that she might have gotten killed - or gotten him killed - he didn't know - but for the first time, he began to realize how seriously she considered the situation.

It also, he added, told him of precisely how intelligent and capable she was.

Maybe, Hill conceded, her story, ridiculous as it sounded, was true. And maybe, he added, if they managed to get out of here alive, she would tell him the rest of the tale.

He decided he was looking forward to that - and perhaps more.

"Hands up," Tony said.

Providing, of course, that they made it out of the alley alive,

Dixon moved his hands slowly to either side of Elin's body, opening them to show that they were empty.

"Now get on your knees," Tony ordered, adding, "slowly."

Dixon placed his hands on either side of the woman, then gently pulled back to his knees, keeping the woman - and the gun - concealed from the gangster.

"Now stand up," the gangster ordered.

Dixon looked at Elin; the moment he stood, the gun would be revealed - and he would be dead. Perhaps they would both die, he added, suspecting that might be a better result for the archaeologist than being captured by the big man. He had no idea what Big Tony would do to a woman to get information he wanted - though, considering the woman's good looks, he could hazard a few guesses - but he had seen what was left of the few men Big Tony had questioned.

That was, he thought, if they had been men, he added; there hadn't been much left to identify when Big Tony had finished with them.

She must have had a similar thought, for he saw her grip tighten around the gun.

"Get up, Hill!" Tony repeated.

Dixon looked at Elin - then rolled to one side as three shots rang out in the alley.

He continued his roll until he was back on his feet - and stared at the three fallen bodies.

"Good shooting," he gulped. Being a hard-boiled detective was one thing - but seeing three men shot down in relatively cold blood was still a little hard to take - especially when the shooter was a tiny, fragile-looking woman.

A very surprised, fragile-looking woman, he added, seeing the stunned expression on her face.

She looked down at the gun, still leveled at where Big Tony had been standing - then looked back at him. "But... I didn't fire!" she managed.

Dixon stared at her - then looked back at the three fallen men, and saw the neat bullet holes in their backs, even as the sound of car tires squealed off in the distance.

"Seems like you've got a guardian angel," he muttered, still slightly stunned by the realization they were both alive.

"Guardian devil is more like it," she countered, pushing herself to her feet as the sound of police sirens began to draw close. "Come on, I'll tell you about it while we're getting the hell out of here."

She grabbed his hand, pulled him past the dead bodies, and back into the mist of the San Francisco night.

Twenty minutes later, they reached Hill's office in the ramshackle building - all that he could afford on the income of a private detective who still possessed some semblance of professional scruples.

Dixon led the archaeologist up the staircase, then, reaching the second floor, unlocked the door, led her past the unused secretary's desk, hoping that in the dim light that filtered in from the hall that she didn't notice the dust that lay thickly settled over most of the furniture

I should get someone in to clean the place, he reminded himself - as though I had money to hire a cleaning lady, he added.

Opening the door to his office, he flipped on the light switch, gestured her into the room, removed his overcoat - then turned as he heard her sharp inhalation.

"By the gods! You've been shot!" she gasped.

Startled, he looked down - and for the first time saw the dark stain that had spread over the left sleeve, neatly framing the dark hole at its center.

Damn, he thought. That was my only suit jacket! he grumbled to himself as he realized a burning pain was searing through his upper arm.

He shook his head; when one thing fell apart, it seemed to take everything with it! But he was not about to let this woman's opinion of him sink even further than it already was, he decided.

"It's nothing," he demurred. "Must have nicked me while we were in the alley. You're not in much better shape," he added.

Elin looked down at herself, studying what had been, a few hours before, a perfectly fitted, closely tailored silver grey suit that brought out the best in her coloring - and her in her figure, Dixon thought - but that now was badly torn and adorned with the remnants of dirt, rain and garbage from the alley.

"Eh. Just clothes," she said with a nonchalance that seemed far less forced than his was. "Truth be told, I'd rather be in trousers and a work shirt anyway. But that's a lot of blood for a nick," she replied. "Let me take a look at it. First aid kit?" she added.

He gestured at one of the file cabinets. "In there."

She followed his motion, opened the drawer, pulled out the box - then sighed as she studied the contents. "First aid kits work better if they have supplies," she said, pulling out the last of the supplies, studying them.

"It's on my list," he admitted. "I've been a little short on funds lately."

"I never would have guessed," she countered acerbically. "Not much of a private detective, are you?"

"I do as well as I can," he countered defensively, then added, "but cases have been few and far between of late."

"Which is why you took me on - even though you don't believe me," she said.

Dixon smiled. "Let's just say that I believed your five hundred dollar retainer, Miss... excuse me, Professor Solderholm."

That earned him an embarrassed smile. "Err... that's actually a bit of an exaggeration - not that I haven't earned it," she added hastily, "but the university felt that a woman had no business holding a tenured position when there were equally qualified men who could take the position. They thought I should be at home, having babies, not researching the Aztecs and the Toltecs."

"So why aren't you?" Hill answered.

"Having babies? I can't," she answered bluntly, her voice icily cold. "I can't have children."

"I meant," Dixon responded, ignoring the pain in her voice, "why aren't you researching the Aztecs and the Toltecs? What are you doing here in San Francisco?"

She reddened again. "Sorry. I thought you meant..." She let the thought trail off, thought for a moment, then gestured at his arm once again and the still-growing stain. "You're still bleeding, Mr. Hill. Come on; take off your shirt," she ordered.

He raised his brows in concerned question.

"Four years doing field work in Guatemala means I know basic first aid," she answered. "I've treated gunshot wounds - and as long as the bullet isn't buried in the flesh, I can clean you up as well as any doctor. Got some antiseptic?" she added, looking back into the first aid box.

Dixon stepped to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bottle of Scotch.

Elin raised a brow, then took the bottle, pulled out the cork, raised it to her lips and took a generous swallow.

"Gods!" she gasped as the raw alcohol flowed down her throat. "Well, if that won't kill bacteria, nothing will." She held the bottle out to Hill. "Painkiller," she explained. "Take a hit."

Dixon studied her for a moment - then took the bottle.

A bottle of decent Scotch was also going to be on that list, he added a moment later, choking as the alcohol burned a neat path to his empty stomach - then started to peel off his suit coat.

A few moments later he sat bare-chested on the edge of his desk, gritting his teeth as Elin cleaned the wound with the alcohol, then deftly wrapped it with the last of gauze from the first aid kit.

"It's deep - but it's clean. The bullet tore through the muscle, but the bleeding is slowing. I should stitch it up," she added, "but I'm guessing you don't have a sewing kit, do you?"

He raised a brow in horror. "Sewing kit?"

She smiled. "You learn to use what you have when you have to," she explained. "Sewing is sewing - whether flesh or fabric."

He grimaced at the thought. "No. No sewing kit."

"Oh, well. Try not to use it for a day or two, then. Don't want you to bleed to death while you're on my dollar."

By God, she's a cold one, he thought - then changed the topic. "So what brings you out of the field and in to San Francisco?"

"My uncle," she replied, returning the few supplies to the kit and returning it to the drawer. "He raised me after my parents died, taught me that I could be anything I wanted, took me on digs all over the world - got me hooked on archaeology when I was just eight. I took my first degrees in general archaeology - but when I went to Tikal, I knew I found my calling.

"By the gods, Mr. Hill," she said, her enthusiasm mounting as she spoke, her voice growing soft, deep, intense, startling him with the unexpected passion it contained, "to be there, standing in those forests of such intense green, absolutely lost in plants and trees so thick that it's impossible to accept that any other sentient being has ever stood there before - then realize that the hills, the mounds, the uprisings that surround you are actually the remains of buildings, of an entire civilization! You're not only not the first person to stand there - but rather an entire race of people preceded you and created a magnificent world beyond your comprehension in the very place you're standing! Gods, it thrills the heart - and the soul, Mr. Hill." She looked at him, her eyes afire with passion.

Passion for her work, he thought - and perhaps, he added, much more. "Call me Dixon," he replied, his voice growing equally low, equally intense.

She looked up at him, startled - and enticed by the strength in his voice. "Dixon," she agreed, her eyes drifting down to his bare chest, studying the lean muscles and soft grey curls appreciatively - then stepped back, slid a finger through the hole in the shirt, then handed it back to him. "Seems like you're going to need that sewing kit after all."

"It's going to take more than a few stitches to fix this," he countered.

"Cold water and salt," she informed him. "It'll take the blood out."

"Something else you learned in the jungle?" he asked, making no effort to put on the ruined shirt.

"Basic chemistry, Mr. Hill," she explained. "No one cares about blood stains on a dig, Mr. Hill; hell, they don't care much about blood there either - though judging by that guy in the alley, maybe this jungle isn't too different from the one I come from," she added.

"Which leads me to the obvious question: why was Big Tony chasing you?" he asked.

She studied him for a long time, as if trying to decide whether she could trust him or not - then slid one hand beneath her lace camisole - and, as Dixon watched, pulled out a small gold amulet.

She stepped forward, holding out the necklace, but not taking it off.

Dixon took the proffered necklace, studied it indifferently - the pendant was roughly made, slightly irregular in shape - hardly noteworthy, he added. "Very nice," he said, "but hardly worth killing for - or dying for," he remarked.

Elin smiled. "On the contrary; it's enough to pay your fee - and then some. But you're right, it's not what Big Tony is after. You see, Mr. Hill, this piece isn't the only one. At Tikal - and many other sites in central and south America - there were incredible goldsmiths who made exquisite pieces of jewelry."

"Wasn't that what the conquistadors were after when they conquered the area?" Hill asked.

Elin gave him a surprised smile. "I'm impressed! You're better educated than you appear, Mr. Hill," she replied.

He frowned at the veiled insult, but she continued speaking before he could protest.

"However, Tikal fell long before the Spanish arrived. That's why my uncle was there: trying to verify his theory that disease - malaria, specifically - and the gradual decrease in arable land was the reason that Tikal fell; it wasn't a conquest by a foreign power, but rather a period of decline and eventual abandonment. Sort of like this place," she added, looking at the decrepit office.

"There are other private detectives in San Francisco, Miss Solderholm," he retorted.

She looked up, surprised at the anger in his voice - then smiled and shook her head, "I didn't mean _this_ place," she replied. "I meant San Francisco - and the so-called civilized world in general." She looked around the office, then stepped to the window. "It's dirty, Mr. Hill; it's dangerous. The people here look tired and angry and sick and unhappy..."

"If it was so much better back in Guatemala, what are you doing here?" he countered.

"I didn't say it was better," she protested. "The people there have their problems as well; what I wouldn't give for them to have access to a better education, medicine... But that is, in part, why I'm back," she continued. "If my uncle is correct - if Tikal was abandoned slowly, over a period of time, then there is reason to believe that the site maintained a degree of veneration for the people lived - and still live - there."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning that you don't loot the graves of those you revere, Mr. Hill; meaning that the gold and gems that adorned the bodies and the tombs of the nobles might well still be intact," she explained.

"And ripe for you to plunder them?" he objected. "Somehow, it doesn't seem appropriate for the people of Tikal to deny themselves the wealth their ancestors left them just so you and your uncle can take it for yourselves - no matter how philanthropic your intentions," he replied.

She gave him a cold smile. "Life's obviously left you a bitter and cold man, Mr. Hill - but please don't drag us all down with you. My uncle and I have no intention of plundering the graves, Mr. Hill. Our expedition is being done with the cooperation of the Guatemalan government; everything - everything! - we find becomes the property of the state; we get the rights to publish our findings and take the intellectual credit, the publicity and acclaim - and," she added without a trace of false modesty, "the lucrative publishing rights and honorary degrees that will follow. We'll get what we want and need Mr. Hill; in return, the state gets the archaeologic treasures and concomitant public interest that will follow - and the people of Tikal will get the education and medical care they need... providing we get to the sites first."

He hesitated, hating how quickly she countered down his protests, refusing to allow himself to be impressed by the petite woman - no matter how impressive she was.

"So what's stopping you?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, we've run through our funding; the government refuses to allow us to proceed unless we can pay for the officials who are accompanying us - and for the troops we'll need to defend the dig from looters and gangs once we begin. The hell of it is that Uncle Anders believes he found the location of the nobles' burial sites - this pendant is just one of the pieces he's found so far! It was my job to come back to the States, present our preliminary findings to the University board and secure additional funding."

"But they said no?"

She smiled - but anger filled her eyes. "They most definitely said 'no'. They said that they had no reason to believe that Uncle Anders so-called 'find' was anything more than a fluke - a single piece of jewelry that could have been as easily left from a hundred years ago as a thousand years ago. They said that without further substantiation - substantiation from a qualified professor - meaning a male professor - they would not provide another penny - let alone the thousands that I need to get back and help him complete the dig!"

Hill nodded, considering her words - then raised a brow. "Which still leaves the question of how do you expect me to help you?"

She sighed, then stepped to the front of his desk, lifting herself onto it and crossing her legs before she continued, oblivious to - or uncaring of - the tear in the skirt that once again revealed a length of well-turned leg.

"Mr. Hill," she continued, "the reason the board didn't believe me wasn't just because I'm a woman - and not tenured - but because they had been given reason not to believe me. The problem in Guatemala - and in so many of the developing countries that are the focal points of archaeologic studies - is that they are so desperately poor. A few well placed dollars here and there..."

"Bribes," Hill offered.

She nodded. "...and they look the other way. In Uncle Anders case, word of his research - and his theory - reached the heads of the state antiquities department - and through them, to a certain man - a man who would not hesitate to discredit my uncle's work so that he could plunder Tikal for his own benefit. Jorge Menosoro. He's a bad man, Mr. Hill," she said softly. "He tried to kill Uncle Anders in Tikal - and if it hadn't been for some friends who helped us escape, he might well have succeeded."

"How do you know he hasn't?" Hill asked.

She glared at him, worry and anger filling her eyes. "You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

"Just realistic," Hill countered.

"If Menosoro killed Uncle Anders, he would have found his research, found the location - and he'd be busy digging up the place. Instead, he's after me, trying to keep me from returning - permanently - so that he and his people will have the luxury of unlimited time to dig up everything in sight at their leisure."

"Won't your uncle protest?"

She gave a wan smile. "He would - and Menosoro would kill him in seconds. Uncle Anders is a brilliant scientist - and as trusting as the day is long. Menosoro would lie - and Uncle Anders would never even suspect it - even after Menosoro shot him." She shook her head. "I have nightmares about that, Mr. Hill; of Uncle Anders lying there, bleeding to death, a look of pure astonishment on his face and Menosoro stands over him, laughing.

"No; you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I'm the muscle in our team. Uncle Anders was smart enough to leave the weapons and defenses to me - and his friends aren't going to let him out of their sight until I return. Unfortunately, Menosoro knows that too; if I'm dead, the site will be his for the taking."

"And it was Menosoro who killed Big Tony is the alley?"

"More likely one of his men - Menosoro wouldn't dirty his hands on something like a routine killing," she said.

"So why didn't they stay to finish us off?"

"Because occasionally, Mr. Hill, the gods smile upon me," she said with a smile. "Menosoro isn't going to kill me until he knows everything I know. I suspect his goons were under orders to kidnap me and bring me back to Menosoro after they killed Big Tony - and you - but those police sirens were getting close - and fast - and the last thing Menosoro needed was to have the police capture his goons - and confiscate his passport and exit visa. The treasure isn't going to do him a fuck of a lot of good if he's here and it's there."

Hill cringed slightly at the vulgarity, finding it painfully incongruous to hear the crass obscenity coming from someone who was otherwise so deliciously feminine.

She must have seen the reaction, for she glared at him. "You don't think women should swear, do you?" she asked angrily.

"I find it somewhat... indelicate," he admitted.

"Grow up, Mr. Hill; it's 1939, not 1839 - and the times are changing. If you don't like the way I act - or speak - then you can kiss my ass," she retorted.

He met her gaze. "In _your_ dreams, Miss Solderholm."

To his surprise, however, she didn't back down; her gaze stayed on him, studying him intently, her eyes focusing on his face, then slowly traveling down, studying his body with unabashed interest. "Indeed, Mr. Hill," she murmured softly. "And fine dreams they would be, too," she added, her eyes slowly rising to his face once again. "Or is a woman who's aware of her own sexuality too 'indelicate' for you as well, Mr. Hill?" she asked in a sultry tone.

He stepped to the desk, moving close to her, so close that he could smell the scent of her body, the fragrance of her hair... He raised his hand to the upswept black locks that framed her delicate features, the heel of his hand coming to rest on the beautifully carved angle of her high cheekbones, the flesh soft and delicate beneath it, watching as she closed her eyes at the touch, a soft sound escaping her lips as she yielded to the embrace...

He moved closer to her, lowering his face to hers...

A crack of glass breaking shattered the still of the air, and in one lightning-fast move, Hill swept the woman from the desk, pushing her to the floor, covering her with his body as shattering glass rained down upon them, the sound of a machine gun echoing through the deserted street that ran before his office building, the noise of dozens of bullets puncturing the far wall filling the office with a cacophony of noise and the air with plaster dust.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the noise ended - and Hill, his hands braced on both sides of his client, slowly raised himself to look at the shattered remains of his office before looking down at the beautiful woman sprawled beneath him.

There was a witty remark he knew he should make now; an acknowledgement that, with the destruction of his office, his few reasons for declining her offer were no longer valid, and that he would accept her offer to escort her back to Guatemala - and collect his share of the earnings she and her uncle would earn there - but, at that moment, words were the last thing on Dixon Hill's mind.

He stared at the woman beneath him, her body, delicate yet strong, thin yet deliciously curvaceous lying beneath his - and lowered his head to hers.

The kiss was delicious, deep and satisfying as his lips met hers, soft, firm, warm, yielding...

Jean-Luc pulled back, staring down at Andile in amazement, in stunned astonishment - then lowered himself back to the kiss once more.

She met the kiss with equal ardor, her lips pressing to his hungrily, needfully, a soft moan of satisfaction and need slipping from her lips even as her hands begin to explore his body, his chest, his arms, his hands reaching to caress her face, to slide to her neck, her shoulder, her arm...

The kissed deepened, growing in intensity...

...then, as one, they pulled back, each studying the other intently.

"Why didn't we do this when we first met?" she asked softly. "Things would be so much different."

"I was only eighteen," he reminded her.

"And not interested in an 'older woman'...?" she teased, knowing full well how he had felt about her then.

He smiled, somewhat regretfully. "I've always been rather partial to 'older women'," he said. "And to be a teen-aged boy, 'educated' by a worldly-wise woman would have been... interesting," he teased back.

She smiled back. "I'm not sure how much 'educating' I could have done; I was a virgin."

"I know," he replied, adding, "as was I."

"I know." She grinned. "What we lacked in technique, however, we could have made up for with enthusiasm."

"Indeed," he replied, then slowly rolled off her, sitting up.

She pushed herself up, then settled in beside him. "We're a fine pair," she said softly, shaking her head as she gave a soft laugh, then lay her head against his arm, sighing.

He freed the appendage, then wrapped it around her, holding her against him.

"No regrets, I hope," she said, a hint of concern and uncertainty in her voice.

He smiled down at her, shaking his head. "None - except that it took me fifty years to finally kiss you," he confessed honestly.

"I hope it was worth the wait," she answered quietly.

He turned to look at her, their eyes meeting once more – then they moved closer until their lips met once again.

Chastely, this time; as the friends they were and would always be.

Or perhaps not entirely chastely; the kiss lingered a moment longer – then she pulled back. "Definitely worth the wait," she decided.

He held her a moment longer, then freed himself, rising to his feet. "Some wine?" he asked, posing the same question he had asked her after they had completed each chapter of their on-going holodeck fantasy.

To his surprise, however, she hesitated, staring emptily at the tattered remnants of the room for a long moment before looking back at him. "A short one," she informed him.

Picard smiled. "A short one it is," he smiled, enjoying her terminology almost as much as her presence. "Computer," he called out as he pulled the torn and blood-stained shirt on once again, "save program Hill Three and end; run program Picard omega one: Cool Down," he instructed the machine, waiting a moment for the office to change, regaining the appearance it had the first time Picard had seen it - still slightly run down, but without the air of destitution that had become the foundation of their latest holodeck adventure.

A couch, over-stuffed and overworn appeared, a low table before it adorned with two wine glasses - but the bottle that he now retrieved from the desk drawer was anything but replicated.

He opened it deftly, neatly pouring two glasses, then settled in on the couch, placing his feet on the table - then looked up at the woman who was watching him, then gestured at the couch, urging her to join him

He watched her, studying her as she moved across the room, a flash of exquisite flesh showing as the torn skirt revealed legs that were as magnificent to the starship captain as they had been to the San Francisco detective, the low-cut camisole that lay beneath her open suit jacket that suggested interesting curves that lay beneath the silver metal shirt that breathed for her.

Strange, he thought, how erotic a woman could appear in full dress, even when one already knew what lay beneath.

"Or perhaps especially when one knows what lies beneath," Andile added, reaching for the wine glass, easing herself into the couch.

"Dee..." he began to protest.

"I'm not complaining!" she countered. "You've helped me get dressed and undressed enough times in the last two months to know what I look like underneath all this," she reminded him, "even though you've been gentlemanly enough to always look the other way when possible. But still, there's no disguising the fact that I have only one breast, that I have no ribs on one side, that what little flesh I do have left is almost all scar tissue - and still, you were seriously thinking about copping a feel tonight. Or more," she added quietly.

"Dee..."

"Jean-Luc," she interrupted, smiling at him - but her lips trembling slightly as she did so, "don't you dare deny it - and by the gods, please don't apologize for it! Please!" she added, a bit desperately. "You know I've never been one to be concerned about outward appearances, but now, after all this, to think you would want to..." She hesitated, took a small sip of the wine, then set the glass down - and reached for his hand. "Thank you," she said softly, squeezing his hand gently. "I really needed that, especially..." Her voice trailed off as she suddenly looked away.

"Especially what?" Picard repeated cautiously - then felt a sudden wash of terror flood over him. "What's wrong?" he pressed.

For a moment she hesitated, then managed a wan smile. "I'm going to have the transplant... tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But..." he gaped at her, stunned. "Beverly said she couldn't perform the transplant for month at least!"

"We've run into some problems. The lung tissue is growing faster than anticipated," Andile explained.

"I don't understand," Picard admitted. "Isn't that what Beverly's been hoping for?"

"It is... and it isn't," she countered. "The lungs are growing - but the accelerated growing has been by stealing nutrients from other tissues, Jean-Luc. It's not an optimum situation - but Beverly was willing to let things progress as they were as long as I was able to continue to gain weight..."

"And you have!" he protested, remembering all too well how she was beginning to fill out her clothes - and how soft her body had become as she pressed against him during the night.

"I was," she countered. "But last week I lost half a kilo, Jean-Luc. In the last three days, I've lost another," she added grimly. "Beverly's concerned that if she doesn't perform the surgery in the next few days, I'll have lost so much ground that I won't have the strength to recover from the surgery."

"But the tissue isn't mature enough..." he protested, remembering Beverly's graphic depictions of everything that could go wrong during the process.

"No - but every day the tissue gains, I weaken," she informed him. "It's a gamble no matter how we go - but at this point, every day we wait, the odds of my making it drop. If we go tomorrow, Beverly can put me back on the ECMO while the tissue continues to mature - and force nutrients into my system so that, with a little luck, I can, in a week or so, make it on my own. But if we wait two or three days - and who knows if even the ECMO can pull me through," she said bluntly.

He stared at her for a long time - then finally nodded, accepting the decision.

"All right," he said. "What do I do?"

"Nothing," she said. "We've made all the arrangements. Surgery starts at nine tomorrow; I'll be in Sickbay for about two weeks after that. And after..."

He looked at her. "After?"

"After, if everything turns out all right, I won't need a caretaker, Jean-Luc," she told him softly. "I can return to my own quarters," she said softly. "You're going to need to find someone else to warm your bed."

"There will be an 'after', Dee," he countered instantly, emphatically. "Everything _will_ turn out all right."

"I hope so." She hesitated, lowering her eyes until they were locked on the fabric of her torn and filthy skirt, then raised her eyes to his once more, her gaze utterly serious. "If there isn't; if something goes wrong... Jean-Luc, would you promise me something - two things?"

"Yes. Of course," he agreed.

"Thank you," she said. "First, if I die... that is, if Beverly thinks I'm not going to make it... would you pray for me? Not for my ascension; I'm damned, and I accept that - but at death, an andile should speak the names of every soul she released so that they will be remembered into eternity; I won't be able to do that if things go bad - but maybe, if you ask, the gods forgive me this last sin, this last weakness, and will grant them all exemption, give them eternity if I can't," she begged.

"Dee," he began to argue.

"Please!" she whispered back. "It has to be when death is certain - but when Beverly knows that, I won't be able to start the final prayer. I can't go into tomorrow without trying to earn that absolution, that forgiveness for them."

Picard sighed - then set down his wine glass, the liquid suddenly souring in his mouth and his stomach.

"I'm not a religious man," he protested.

"It doesn't matter, Jean-Luc; you don't have to believe in the gods; they believe in you. Please?" she tried again. "I need to know that I'm forgiven for this sin, at least."

He sighed unhappily, finding the idea not only offensive - as thought this woman could somehow be damned by a quirk of genetics and birth and horrendous religious practice - but duplicitous as well, as though be promising her this act in which he did not believe, he was somehow giving her false hope.

But his belief was not important, he reminded himself; all that mattered for her was the knowledge that she had done what she had to do for the sake of her people; how, then could he, her captain - her friend - do any less for her?

"I promise," he answered solemnly.

"Before Beverly pronounces me dead," she insisted.

"She's not going to pronounce you anything!" he objected angrily - then added, "but if the situation does arise, I will do as I promised before Beverly does anything."

Infinitely relieved, Andile gave a great exhalation then leaned forward resting her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you. Thank you."

"And the other promise?"

She hesitated again - then raised her hand to his face, caressing it once. "If things don't work out, don't blame her."

He gave her a puzzled look.

"Beverly," she said - as though either of them truly had any doubt of whom she spoke. "She has done more to pull me through this you could have asked; if this doesn't work, it wasn't for her lack of trying or her lack of care. Don't blame her."

"I don't," he said. "I wouldn't."

She ran her hand along the length of his face once again, then pulled it away. "Then tell her," she said softly.

Andile hesitated a moment, then gave him a compassionate look. "I know that talking about your feelings isn't your strong suit, Jean-Luc; I know that what we've been going through in counseling - facing up to our feelings - has been as difficult for you as it has for me. But in a way, it's been easier for us both - because we didn't need to say the words to each other to share what we were feeling, what we were experiencing.

"Beverly doesn't have that privilege; you're going to have to say the words - all of them. Especially the most important ones: that you love her. That you have always loved her. She needs to know it - and you need to say it. So promise me that: promise me that you will tell her," she insisted.

He hesitated again - then gave a slow nod of consent. "I promise."

"Thank you," she said, then sighed, relieved. "And now, I suppose we should call it a night," she said. "I'm supposed to be in Sickbay in nine hours, and I should try to get some rest. And I think that now I can sleep," she added, rising to her feet, extending a hand to help him up.

He thought for a long time - then took the proffered hand and stood - but made no attempt to move toward the door. "Dee, there's something I'd like you to do - for me - before tomorrow."

She gave him a puzzled look - then nodded. "Of course."

"Go see him," he said.

Andile frowned, shaking her head. "No. I can't. You know I can't."

"You have to," he countered.

"You don't understand. I hurt him so badly..."

"I know," he countered. "And I know how heavy that weight has been on your shoulders. If you're going to rest well - tonight and tomorrow - then you need to apologize, to clear your conscience," he informed her.

"But what if he won't forgive me?" she asked softly.

"That doesn't matter - any more than whether the gods forgive you or not. All that matters is that you tried." He hesitated, the added, "I'll go with you, if you'd like..."

"No," she protested. "Thank you... but no. If I'm going to grovel, I'd rather do it where only one person needs to be witness to my humiliation," she said.

"You don't need to grovel, Dee," he countered. "And you don't need to humiliate yourself. And... "

She looked at him questioningly. "Yes, Jean-Luc?"

He looked at her tenderly. "If he can't find it in himself to forgive you, Dee," he said softly, "know that you will always be... others... who will forgive you. And care for you. And love you," he added softly.

She stared at him for a long time - then leaned forward, her hand reaching up to caress one cheek even as she kissed the other one. "Thank you, Jean-Luc," she murmured in his ear, "but your heart belongs to her. It always has. I think it always will," she added. "But if that ever changes..."

He pressed his lips to her cheek - then felt her pull away, rise from the couch and walk to the office door.

It closed behind her a moment later, followed by the faint whush of sound that marked the opening and closing of the holodeck doors.

He watched the closed door for a long time, the glass in his hand growing warm - then set it down on the table and made his way to the office door himself.

He looked back, studying the room, suspecting he would never see it this way again - then murmured, "Computer, end program," then strode through the holodeck doors.


	167. Chapter 167

**Chapter 167**

For a moment there was silence in the corridor of the ship, then an upraised hand moved to knock at the door.

Moved - then stopped.

No. No hesitancy now; no avoiding the truth this time; no obfuscation, no denial; this time, of no other, I have to face the truth. Face it, say the words - and accept the consequences once and for all.

A touch of the annuciator - and the door opened a moment later, a face, so long missed, so long ached for, appeared.

"Hello."

Data stared at his visitor for a moment, then answered, "Are you injured?"

It took the woman a moment to understand the question; following Data's gaze, she looked down at herself, realizing she was still in the torn and filthy suit she ahd been wearing and gave an embarrassed smile. "Oh. No, no, I'm fine. Sorry about this; I must look a sight. No, we were playing on the holodeck and I guess I got too involved in the scene..."

"One of the captain's Dixon Hill stories, I presume?" Data asked curiously.

" 'Treasure Hunt'," she answered. "It's a new one - about Dixon and this archaeologist..." Her voice trailed off. "I'm sorry; I'm sure you don't really want to hear all this. You probably were in the middle of something..."

"I was," he agreed.

"Then I can come back..." she said, starting to turn away - but a soft mewling and a delicate brush of soft and warm fur stopped her.

"Spot!" she cried delightedly, reaching down to scoop up the cat and pull her against her chest. "It's so good to see you! I've missed you," she added, raising the cat to face level, nuzzling her soft fur with her face.

Spot replied with a soft bat of her paw - then allowed Andile to nuzzle her again.

"I know," Andile murmured, "I've been a bad mommy; I haven't come to see you in a long time. Forgive me," she begged the feline.

"Spot does not hold a grudge," Data replied. "Perhaps... perhaps you would care to come in and visit with Spot?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, knowing the invitation was less for the cat's sake than the android's - then nodded. There was something Data wanted, she realized... and there's something I need.

"Thank you," she said - then looked at the cat resting contentedly in her arms. "That is," she added, "if it's alright with you, Spot."

Spot gave a long thrill of a purr, then nestled against Andile's chest.

"I think that means 'yes'," she told Data, then glanced past the android, into the quarters they had once shared.

Nodding, Data stepped back, gesturing her into the room.

It's changed, Andile thought as she followed him, idling stroking Spot's soft fur as she walked, looking at the surroundings that had, for so short a time, been hers: the easel holding the painting Data had been working on was gone - finished? she wondered; abandoned? - the sculptures rearranged, the computer desk enlarged... all so different than it had been the last time she was here.

The realization startled her - then she reminded herself, it's been eight months since I was here last. Why wouldn't it have changed? He may not be human - but he's an evolving creature, growing and changing - why wouldn't his quarters have changed as well?

She glanced at the computer desk - then looked back at the android, smiling. "Taking up a new hobby?" she asked.

He raised a questioning brow.

Andile moved to the desk, fingering the mound of folded fabric she had spied there. Settling Spot into the crook of one arm, she lifted the piece, then smiled back at Data. "I hadn't taken you for a seamstress," she said, displaying the garment - a loosely constructed tunic of a thick soft fabric in shimmering sapphire blue, delicate embroidery decorating the neck, narrow ribbons forming fasteners at the neck and sleeve. "Not exactly butch," she added, then glanced at the android, comparing the size of the garment to the size of the android. "And a bit of a tight fit," she added.

"The garments are not for me," Data replied.

"No," Andile scoffed. "Let me write that down," she added - then set the garment back down.

For someone else then, she realized - and judging by the style and decoration, for a woman.

Another woman, she added, the pain surging through her heart once more - then she forced it away.

I came to apologize - not to rekindle old flames. He's moved on; time for me to do the same.

Still, though, her mouth failed to form the words she had intended to say.

"Spot seems well," she murmured. "Gained a little weight, I think," she added, running her fingers along the cat's long golden stripes.

"She has been less active of late," Data confirmed. "She is beginning to feel her age, I believe."

Andile looked up, startled by the hint of pain in the android's voice.

"She's not that old, Data; she's got a lot of years ahead of her..."

"She is almost fifteen years, Ginger," he countered. "That means she is approaching the end of her expected lifespan," he replied.

Andile looked at the tabby - and for the first time saw the hints of fading color in the cat's face, then faint thinning of fur on her tail.

She was aging, Andile realized - and Data was facing the fact that someday - perhaps someday soon - this creature who was so dear to him would die.

"I'm sorry," she whispered back. "That must be hard for you. You love Spot very much; realizing that her time with you is limited must be difficult."

"No," Data countered. "It would be difficult if my emotion chip was engaged - but I chose to terminate that portion of my exploration of humanity. But the absence of the familiar stimuli of Spot's presence in my life will be troublesome; I will miss her," he stated flatly.

Andile's head shot up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up there, Data: what do you mean, 'you terminated your exploration into emotions'?" she gaped.

"I felt I had learned as much as I was capable of processing - for the time being," he added. "Once I have finished my cognitive 'digestion' of these emotions, I may opt to resume my studies," he explained.

She stared at him, dumbstruck - then shook her head. "Data, I don't believe you," she replied. "Learning what it is to be human -becoming human! - has been your goal ever since you went online! To abandon that now, when you're finally beginning to experience those emotions..." She stopped, then closed her eyes, her head sinking in pure grief. "Oh, gods, Data; it's because of me, isn't it? Because of what I did to you," she said miserably.

"No," he countered.

"Data..." she began.

"_You_ did nothing to me," he explained.

"I lied to you; I lied to you and hurt you... That's why you broke up with me," she said flatly, almost as unemotional as her lover was - then looked at him, her eyes bright with feeling once again. "I deserved that, Data - but you shouldn't punish yourself for what I did! Gods, you're not to blame, Data!"

Data gave the woman a puzzled look. "Andile, you did nothing to me," he objected.

"I lied to you! I kept the truth of who I was, what I had done from you! Data, that's not something lovers do! They're honest, they're open with one another... I didn't do that!"

The android shook his head. "I did not terminate our relationship for those reasons," he protested.

"But... you said that you were breaking up with me because the relationship was based on false premises! And it was; I lied to you..."

"Andile... Ginger," he interrupted her gently. "There are certain inherent realities in relationships that develop among Starfleet personnel - and one of those realities is that there may be certain facts, certain events, that cannot be revealed. That you could not divulge some aspects of your personal history did not distress me; indeed, I respected - even admired - you for your discretion in the light of your personal struggle between your professional obligations - and your own desires."

"Data, there was more - so much more! Things I've done..."

"Ginger," he continued gently, "no relationship begins with complete honesty; to do would most likely terminate the relationship immediately. To establish mutual trust requires time - and in that time, I believe we might both have come to trust one another sufficiently to be as open as the limitations of our positions permit. No, your reticence - of which I was cognizant - was not the cause of my decision to end our relationship," he replied.

"Then what?" she asked. "What 'false premise' was there?"

He hesitated for a moment, then continued, hesitantly. "There are certain expectations in human relationships; that while they are mutually beneficial, ultimately, they must also be beneficial to human society at large," he explained. "Ultimately, our relationship could not be beneficial - and thus I chose to end it."

She stared at him, perplexed. "What are you talking about, Data?"

"It is something that Tar Zumell told me..."

"At the reception?" Andile interrupted. "Gods, Data, you're not going to blame her for our break up, are you?" she gasped, appalled.

"No - but our discussion forced me to confront the basic rationale of all relationships. Tar Zumell informed me that it is the ultimate goal of all relationships to sustain and further the species as a whole; that it was our responsibility, as a couple, to participate in that end by adding to the population of our species..."

"She told you to break up with me because you couldn't father a child?!" Andile raged. "Gods, Data, I can't have children! I never could! And even if I could have once, I'm too old now! You knew that!"

The android nodded. "I presumed as much - but Tar Zumell's words caused me to think about other topics, about the role of relationships in a society - and I came to realize that, as I am not human, I could not assist you in fulfilling those societal imperatives. To continue our affair, knowing what I did, was to perpetuate a false premise - and I could not do that.

"Ginger, the fault was not yours; it was mine," he informed her quietly, "and I would ask your forgiveness for having harmed you," he added softly.

"You... want me to forgive you?" she stammered.

He gave a nod.

Andile gave a short, painful laugh. "Gods, oh gods! You're asking me to forgive you - and I came here to do the same!" Gently disengaging the now sleeping cat from her arm, she lowered her to the couch, then sank her head into her hand, shaking it slowly.

"You wished me to forgive you?" Data echoed, cocking his head to one side. "For what reason?"

"For hurting you! For lying to you! For betraying your trust!" she raged, turning away, balling her fists as she stared at the ceiling in fury - then whipped around to face him once again. "You're a right bastard, you know? A bastard and a coward! You let me go through six kinds of hell thinking I had wronged you - when all along you thought you were to blame. Gods, Data, why didn't you just say something? You had to know what I was putting myself through - but you couldn't summon up the courage to say it was your fault all along? By the gods, Data, how could I have been so wrong?!" she cried out. "How could I have missed all the signs? You know, I thought I was pretty fucking good at reading the signs about people," she reminded him, "about assessing their character, learning about them, who they are, what makes them tick... How could I have been so wrong about you?! How could I have fallen in love with someone who was such a jerk?!" She spun on her heel, and raced toward the door.

But the hand was on her arm long before she reached it, the steel vise of the android's grip unyielding. "Andile..."

"Let me go!" she roared.

"No!" he roared back, equally angry.

The intensity of his words stunned her, hitting her almost as hard as a physical blow. She stared at him, then began to smile caustically. "I thought your emotion chip was disengaged. Another lie, I see," she sneered.

"I did not lie," he replied.

"Ah, yes, I forgot; you are the master of the thesaurus, king of the prevarication by clinging to the precise meaning of words. What then? Your chip was... what? disabled? Disconnected? Turned off? How are you going to dance around this one, Data?" she asked contemptuously.

"I am not 'dancing', Ginger. My emotion chip is not functioning," he replied, his voice calm and steady now.

"Then..." Her voice trailed off as understanding sudden registered. "Oh, gods, Data... you're feeling, aren't you? I mean really feeling! The emotions... they're yours!" she gasped. "That's why you broke up with me, isn't it?"

He nodded unhappily. "When Tar Zumell spoke to me of the need for children, I began to contemplate ways in which I could fulfill that societal obligation with you. It was not rational, I knew - and yet it consumed me for milliseconds on end."

Despite her tumultuous emotions, Andile smiled, empathizing with the relatively vast period of time the android had suffered. "And...? Did you find a solution?"

"We would adopt," he answered bluntly.

"I would have liked that," she replied. "My parents died when I was young - and I would not wish the life I had on anyone. But Data, if you found a solution, why did you break up with me?"

"It occurred to me that though the solution was both reasonable and logical, it might not suit you; indeed, you might not even wish to pursue the relationship to the extent where we would be contemplating life altering decision. It occurred to me that, thought I loved you, you might not love me in return - or if you did, perhaps not to the extent of my emotional commitment. In time, you might even choose to terminate the relationship... and I realized, I could not bear that hurt. Indeed, with each passing nanosecond, I came to understand that my feelings for you were taxing my emotional control; I realized I could not withstand the additional emotional burden should you be the one to terminate the relationship." He glanced back at the cat sleeping on the couch. "As I have realized that Spot is aging, I have come to believe I may not be able to endure her loss. To lose you would have been equally unbearable."

He looked back to her once again. "But in coming to that realization, I also realized that I would not be able to fulfill my promise to you; I realized I would never be able to willingly erase the memories of how I felt. To allow our relationship to continue with you assuming that I would be able to honor my original promise was inappropriate - and should you come to recognize that truth, you, too would have been injured. I could not tolerate that possibility."

"But to allow yourself to be hurt?" Andile whispered.

"That was not my intention," he conceded. "Having loved you, having experienced love in its greatest glory..."

"Data..." Andile said, trying to interrupt him.

"... I was content to disengage my emotion chip, and subsist on the memory of what once was."

"That's not much of a life, dearest," she offered.

"Without you, nothing is much of a life," he answered.

Andile closed her eyes against the gentle wretchedness of his answer - and knew it to be true. Without him... She shook her head - then looked at Data once again.

"But... if your chip is off, how can you still feel?" she asked curiously.

"I have discussed this with Geordi, and he agrees with my conjecture..."

"It's your learning program, isn't it?" she interrupted, amazed. "You do something long enough, and the ancillary program becomes integrated into your basic functions! You had emotions for years - and now they are part of you!"

He looked at her, sadness and joy mixing in his expression. "I believe I have missed your perspicacity as well as your presence, Ginger; yes, we reached the same conclusion. The residual emotions are neither as diverse nor as subtle as before - anger, sadness... fear," he added quietly.

"And love?"

"Yes," he whispered. "Above all, love."

She stepped toward him, reaching up to his face, running her thumb along his jawline, then cradled his face in her hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry you couldn't come to me in the first place, to let me help you work through everything that was hurting you."

"I could not allow that, Andile; you would have been injured in the process," he countered.

"But that's what love's about, dear heart," she replied. "Not just for the good times - but for the bad as well. Love divided is love multiplied; but fear divided is just that: divided, lessened geometrically, until it approaches nothingness. I wish I could have been there for you, dear... as you were there for me," she added, pulling back, one hand moving to finger the silvery shirt that lay beneath her lace camisole. "You created this, didn't you? You tried to give me back my life - and never said a word."

"I felt it inappropriate; I did not want a false sense of obligation to exist between us, Ginger," he explained.

"Love gives and receives openly, dear, without thought of reciprocity. But I do thank you," she added. "You gave me hope when I was running out of it," she explained.

Data studied her for a long time - then reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "For what did you hope, Ginger?" he asked softly.

"Data..." she began, then shook her head. "Oh, Data, if I tell you, I'll just hurt you."

"Tell me," he insisted.

She raised her eyes to his. "I wanted to die, Data; it all hurt too much and I just wanted it to end."

"Because I terminated our relationship?" he asked.

"No!" she roared.

"Ginger..."

"Yes," she conceded softly. "It wasn't just that - but when we were together everything was so much better. Without you... without you, everything was empty..."

"As was my existence," Data agreed softly. "I love you, Ginger," he said, then kissed her.

"Oh, Fred," she murmured as she returned the kiss, feeling herself melt into his embrace - then pulled back. "We can't do this, Fred. We can't start this up again - not now," she begged.

"You do not love me?" he asked.

"You know I do; I've always loved you - even when I denied it, I loved you. But... we can't start this again. Not tonight," she added hastily.

"Because you are facing surgery tomorrow?" he asked.

Andile paled. "How... how did you know?! Even Jean-Luc... even the captain didn't know! Beverly swore she'd keep it a secret!"

"Dr. Crusher did not reveal her intentions directly, Ginger - but as Chief Operations Officer, it is my responsibility to oversee the allocation of resources. Utilization of power for the surgical bay must be given priority over other ship's operations; as COO, it falls to me to ensure that the prioritization is correctly enforced. And as you are the only patient that Dr. Crusher is treating who might be subject to such a complex procedure, the conclusion was obvious. But is it not premature?" he added worriedly. "Dr. Crusher's research indicated that the tissue would not be ready for at least several weeks - perhaps even two months?"

Andile smiled. "You can add worry to your list of emotions, Data," she informed him.

"I placed worry in a subcategory under 'fear'," he informed her. "But you are avoiding the question."

"I'm not... or maybe I am," she conceded. "I'm worried, too. The lung tissue is developing much faster than the doc anticipated; she says it's a good thing - a sign that my innate healing abilities have recovered - but that healing is doing so by robbing nutrients from the rest of my body. I can't eat enough to compensate - and I've begun to lose weight. The doc's worried that if we don't go now, I won't be able to recover.

"And technically, the tissue will have a better chance of engrafting because it is immature... but it also means I'll be on life support while Beverly tries to force the tissue into completing the maturation - or at least bring it to a point where I can survive off the machines. But it's going to be hard; the lungs might not engraft - and even if they do, the pressure of forcing the healing process could damage the rest of my organs..." She turned away, her voice fading as she did so, growing so faint that even he could barely hear it.

"I'm scared."

"Ginger," Data began softly.

"I've never been scared before," she continued, ignoring his gentle protest. "It's never mattered to me - whether I made it through the surgeries, the procedures, all the treatments and the therapies... I didn't care whether I lived or died... because there was nothing to live for." She stopped - then looked back at him. "Until now," she added quietly.

He reached for her once again, pulling her close. "But now there is something to live for?"

She stared at him, a response on her lips - then pulled back again. "Gods, Data, that's so unfair of me! To burden you with my fears..."

" 'But that is what love is about'," he repeated, drawing her close once again. " 'Not just for the good times - but for the bad as well. Love divided is love multiplied; but fear divided is just that: divided, lessened geometrically, until it approaches nothingness'." He looked at her, their eyes meeting. "If it is true for me, then it must be true for you as well," he said.

"But... dealing with fear and pain - and perhaps grief and loss - are new for you," she protested.

"I will learn to deal with them," he assured her. "I must - for these emotions are mine forever. But I would ask your assistance in learning how to do so - and to that end, I must ask you to promise that you will recover from your surgery."

Andile smiled. "Ah. The psychological approach. Emotional blackmail - so I feel obliged to recover."

Data considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. "It is a proven technique," he replied. "Give the patient a reason to survive - and more often they do." He thought a moment longer - then kissed her once again - then breaking the embrace, reached for her hand and began to lead her toward the alcove where his bed stood.

"Data, I can't..." she started to protest - but again, he silenced her with a kiss, then pushed her back to the bed, his hands reaching for the front of her jacket, unfastening the antique buttons.

"I am aware of the limitations of your physical condition, Ginger. I do not intend to cause you injury," he added, slipping the jacket from her arms, dropped it on the floor beside the bed, then eased her back until she was lying on the bed.

"Then what are you doing?" she asked as his hands moved to her skirt, deftly unzipping it.

"I love you," he said, "but I am aware that emotional love is not always a sufficient motivator to stimulate actions," he continued, coaxing the narrow skirt from her slim hips. "Indeed, we both used our affection for one another as an excuse to avoid doing what we wished to do. I thought..." he began - then stopped as he finished easing the skirt from her hips, and stared at what he found. "Andile? These garments...?"

She glanced down at herself - and smiled. "A garter belt and stockings. Appropriate for the time period - if a little sedate. They'd be a lot more interesting if they were black lace."

"Black lace?"

"Classic naughty underwear," she replied.

"Undergarments can have inappropriate behavior?" the android queried.

"Underwear is underwear, Fred - but when one wears it, it can elicit the most delicious, inappropriate behavior in others. Someday - if the gods will it - I'll show you," she promised. "But... I can't do this," she added, her hand reaching down to still his as it began to unfasten one of the garters. "Not 'I don't want to do this'," she clarified. "I _can't_."

"Ginger, I stated I was cognizant of your condition - and your limitations. However, I am equally aware that your recovery will be affected by your attitude and outlook. I therefore intend to affect those variables," he informed her.

"Affect them... how?"

He stopped, his hands halfway down her leg, her stocking neatly bundled in his fingers.

"I had intended to affect them by providing you with those," he gestured at the folded shirts she had seen when she entered the room.

"They're for me?" she said.

"Yes. I was aware of your abnormally sensitivity to the cold and sought to provide you - and Dr. Crusher - with an adequate solution. The gowns are for your stay in Sickbay, made from a fabric that will provide a constant temperature and positive skin contact..."

"You mean they are soft and warm," she said with a smile.

"I attempted to find colors and designs that would complement you coloration," he added.

"Soft and warm... and pretty," she summarized.

"I felt these factors would be welcome during your recovery," the android agreed.

"Thank you, dear. It's very sweet of you," she murmured. "And I know I will feel better wearing them - if only because I know they are from you. Thank you."

"You are welcome," he said - then returned to his earlier efforts.

"Data?" she said.

He removed the first stocking, then started to repeat his efforts on the second stocking.

"There are, however, other factors that can affect one's attitude - and one's subsequent recovery," he murmured as he freed the stocking, dropping it to the floor. "Beyond the knowledge that one is safe, and warm... and loved. The knowledge that there is joy - and pleasure - awaiting one's return, has been shown to positively affect the outcome of any hazardous event. I wish for you to be fully cognizant of that fact, Ginger," he said, unfastening the garter belt.

"Data, what are you doing?"

"Your surgery is not scheduled for eight hours and thirty-six minutes. That should allow an ample margin of time for you to dress and report to Sickbay."

"Margin of time?"

He smiled at her, his eyes bright with genuine emotion. "I once informed you that I required eight hours to proper assess your needs and responses. If, in that time, I cannot provide you with the added re-affirmation of the physical pleasures of life, then I will know it was not for lack of trying." He slid his hands beneath the waistband of the lace panties, then slid them over her hips and, with a rather mechanical abandon, tossed them over his shoulder.

"Fred?" she said as he lowered himself to her. "Fred?! Oh, Fred."


	168. Chapter 168

**Chapter 168**

For a moment there was silence in the corridor of the ship, then an upraised hand moved to knock at the door.

Moved - then stopped.

No. No hesitancy now; no avoiding the truth this time; no obfuscation, no denial; this time, of no other, I have to face the truth. Face it, say the words - and accept the consequences once and for all.

A touch of the annuciator - and the door opened a moment later, a face, so long missed, so long ached for, appeared.

For a moment, Beverly stared at Picard, startled by the unexpected appearance - then leaned against the door jamb, effectively barring the man's entrance to the room.

"Jean-Luc," she sighed wearily. "I'm sorry, but I really don't have time for a..." she began - then stopped and, frowning, leaned forward and gave an audible sniff.

Pulling back, she looked at him, aghast. "Have you been drinking?!" she gaped.

Taken aback by the question, Picard shook his head. "Half a glass of wine," he said - then gave a sniff as the scent of cheap Scotch reached his nose. "Damn," he muttered to himself - then looked at Beverly in apology. "The bottle must have broken when Menosoro shot out the window," he explained.

"Menosoro?" Beverly repeated.

He nodded. "Dee and I were playing on the holodeck..."

"Dixon Hill again?" she asked.

Picard nodded again. "A new story. You see, there's a Central American gang leader named Jorge Menosore, who is pursuing an archaeologist..."

"Biji," Beverly said.

"Yes - and when we were in my office, he shot out the window," he continued. "Dee had left the bottle of Scotch on my desk after she bandaged my arm..."

"Your arm? What happened to your arm?" she interrupted, suddenly concerned.

"Nothing. I was shot, but I'm..."

"Shot?" she replied, horrified, then grabbed his arm and pulled him into her quarters. "Where?" she continued, then saw the dark stain on his suit coat. "Take that off," she ordered, then spun away, quickly retrieving her medkit and returning to his side, frowning at the dried blood on the white shirt.

"Come on; your shirt too," she ordered, give a disappointed shake of her head. "You and your holodeck games. Whatever happened to the safeties?" she added as she watched him gingerly slide his arm out of the stained shirt.

"The safeties were engaged - but they only prevent life-threatening injuries," he reminded her. "And Dee treated the wound," he added watching as Beverly began to unwrap the bandage Andile had applied. "I'm really fine."

"I'll be the judge of that, Jean-Luc. The last time I looked, I was the CMO around here," she reminded him sharply.

The bandage removed, she studied the wound for a moment, gently prodding the surrounding flesh, then took out her scanner.

"The bullet took out a slice across the muscle," she murmured. "Fortunately, it's fairly shallow; it'll heal - in time; the scar won't be too bad. Just don't use it for a few weeks," she informed him - then, at his startled look, added, "That is, if you prefer twentieth century medicine. If you want it healed instantly, check in with Greg in Sickbay; five minutes of regen and you'll be fine: it'll be tender for a day or two - but the muscle will be intact, and no scar. Your choice."

"I'll take modern medicine, thank you," he replied, reaching for the bloody and torn shirt. "But I'd rather wait until you or Alyssa is on duty, if you don't mind," he added.

"Actually, I do mind," Beverly countered testily.

Startled, Picard replied, "I didn't mean to impugn Dr. Matthew's abilities..."

"I didn't say you were," she interrupted. "I just meant that Alyssa and I will have our hands full the next few days." She hesitated. "Have you read your status reports yet tonight?"

He shook his head. "No... but Dee told me," he answered quietly.

She nodded back. "I see. And that's why you're here? To tell me... what? That if something goes wrong that you'll bring me up on charges?" she asked bitterly.

He gaped, stunned - then sighed. "I deserve that, Beverly. What I said that day - in all the days that followed that disaster - was inappropriate. And yes, that is why I'm here - not to threaten you, but rather to apologize for being an ass. I was wrong; what I did was wrong. I've damaged our relationship in ways that I can't begin to imagine," he added repentantly.

"Yes, you have," she replied, her voice low, tense, the anger and hurt barely concealed.

"I know," Picard answered. "But..."

"But what?" she snapped back, the pain beginning to seep past her controls. "It wasn't your fault? It was that... merge, that melding of minds that Jemat did on the Breen ship? You were under control by Andile's personality? 'But' what?" she raged.

"But," he replied calmly, gently, "but this isn't the time for this conversation," he told her - then gestured around the room at all the padds littering the area. "You're busy - and it was inappropriate for me to bother you right now - at least about this. Right now, my apology would only appease my conscience and not ease the pain I caused you; given the circumstances, I think it may only serve to distract you from... all this," he said, he said gesturing at the mounds of her work. "I owe you a proper apology, Beverly - but I'll give it to you at your convenience, not mine," he said - then, looked around the room once more and frowned. "Not to change the topic, Bev - but what _is_ all this?" he added.

She looked back at the room, then back at him, the anger still visible in her eyes.

"References, review of surgical approaches, adjutant chemotherapies... Lung transplantation isn't a new surgery - but a simultaneous autologous/allogeneic tissue graft is new. In theory, this should be pretty straightforward - after all, she's not rejecting the tissue in situ - but due to the immaturity of the tissue, I'm not entirely sure that the lungs are going to be functional. Hell, I'm not even sure they are going to engraft at all.

"You need to understand, Jean-Luc, I'm going to remove what's left of her lung - and from that point, there's no going back. If the new tissue doesn't engraft, she's going to be back on ECMO. If the new lungs engraft, but fail to mature, I'll have to remove them as well - and she's back on ECMO. If the lungs engraft and mature, her diaphragm could still fail - and that's assuming the muscle enervation of the diaphragm wasn't too severe during her first surgeries - and she's back on ECMO." Beverly shook her head, her anger and frustration growing evident. "There are a thousand things that could go wrong, Jean-Luc - and only a few result in Andile walking out of Sickbay, alive and getting well. Most of them end with her being confined to a bed the rest of her life - or worse, if there is such a thing for someone like her," she added dourly.

"Couldn't she just resume using the lung Data created?" he asked, confused. "She could go back to the way she is now..."

"No. For one thing, she needs a least some lung tissue to serve as donor material for the lung. Once we excise the remaining tissue, we lose out current source. For a time we could rely on Jemat and his cloning techniques, but in time, even that would fail. And it won't allow her to speak. Data's lung - or any extracorporeal membrane oxygenator - will keep her tissues properly perfused, but you need to move air past the vocal chords to speak. There are devices, of course, that can replace her vocal chords, that can speak for her - but it's just one more step depriving her of her humanity, Jean-Luc, isolating her even further from her own people," she continued, her voice gentling, growing sympathetic. "Artificial heart, artificial lungs, artificial bones, artificial voice..."

"She'd still be human, Beverly," he replied gently.

"To us - but she wouldn't be with us, Jean-Luc," she protested. "If this surgery doesn't go exactly right, if everything that is to follow doesn't work exactly as it has to, Starfleet will have no choice but to remove her from the duty roster. Depending on her abilities, they may even discharge her entirely. Oh, they'll take care of her," she added, "in a hospital, or a care facility - but she won't be in space Jean-Luc. She won't be with those of us who care for her. And that's not what I - or you, or anyone who cares for her - wants, either."

"And that's why you're going through all this?" he asked, glancing at padds once again.

"Of course. What? Do you think I know everything there is to know about transplant surgery off the top of my head?" she asked caustically.

Picard studied the red-haired surgeon for a moment, glanced at the disorganized office - then looked back at her and nodded somewhat sheepishly. "Honestly? Yes," he admitted. "You are one of the most intelligent and talented people I know, Beverly; your knowledge and abilities have never failed to astound me - and yet do everything so easily, so matter-of-factly, and with such grace and ease..." He shook his head. "Realistically, I know you couldn't know everything about medicine - and yet, somehow I've always assumed that you did. If that sounds belittling, please accept my apology," he added.

She stared at him for a moment - then allowed herself a smile. "If you don't mind, I'll accept the compliment instead. But no, I probably spend as many lonely evenings studying my work as you do yours." She gave a soft laugh. "My God, we're a pair, aren't we?"

He smiled in agreement. "I suppose that if either of us were able to draw the line between work and our lives, we wouldn't be in Starfleet."

"Certainly not as captain and CMO," she agreed.

The two stared at each other for a few moments, uncertainly - then Picard said, "I should be going."

Beverly nodded. "A good idea. It's not a good idea for Biji to be alone too long tonight; I don't want her dwelling on tomorrow..." She stopped in mid-sentence at Picard's frown. "What?"

"She's not waiting for me," he said. "She... had an errand she needed to fulfill before tomorrow."

"And that would be...?

He hesitated, wondering if telling Beverly would be a breach of Andile's trust - but of things went badly for her tonight, Beverly would need to know.

"She went to see Data - to apologize," he explained.

"To apologize? To Data?! For what?!" she gaped, astounded.

"For what happened," Picard replied.

"For what happened?" Beverly gasped. "Jean-Luc, if there is any apologizing to do, it's on Data's part!" she growled. "He dumped her!"

"Yes - but Dee believes that she was the cause of the breakup. There were things she didn't tell him..."

"Data knows that part of life in Starfleet," Beverly protested.

"I think Dee does as well," Picard replied. "Nonetheless..." His voice trailed off.

Beverly stared at him for a long moment - then she sighed, nodding sympathetically. "I think I understand; Andile's just coming to terms with what happened on Cardassia. Until she does, she's not going to allow herself to accept the fact that she is worthy of being loved as Data loved her."

Picard nodded, then hesitated, uncertain. "Bev... I believe he still does... love her," he said, the words unfamiliar, uncomfortable on his lips. "Indeed, I don't think he ever stopped."

She gave him a puzzled and confused look. "Then why did he do it? Why did he break up with her?" she asked. "If he really loved her..."

Picard hesitated again, his mind running over the question once more, just as it had for the last several months.

Perhaps Dee wasn't beautiful, he thought; time and tragedy had changed the stunning physical beauty she had once possessed into something average, even unattractive - but there was so much more to her - indeed, to most women - than their mere outward appearance, things that a being... no, he corrected himself, a man... like Data could and should appreciate.

Dee was brilliant, she was compassionate, she was witty, she was bold... she was everything that a man could want - and yet Data had sent her away.

He paused for a moment - then looked at Beverly, their eyes meeting, searching deeply into each other as they had not done in so long.

"Love is a powerful emotion, Beverly," he answered her, his voice, low, intense, rich... and she knew at once that he was not speaking solely of the android and the engineer. "Powerful, and compelling, and so utterly, utterly fulfilling that the thought of losing that love can be terrifying," he told her.

"Jean-Luc..." she began softly.

"But out of fear," he continued quietly, "out of the dread that that love, that wonderful, exquisite feeling that transcends all other emotions, that makes one's very life worth living, might someday be taken from them... men do foolish things. They turn away from the very thing they have always sought, trying to protect themselves against the pain they fear by pushing away the very love they could have," he told her.

Beverly drew a deep breath, stepping closer to the man. "But why would he think that?" she asked huskily. "Why would he think he would lose her?"

"Maybe..." He hesitated again, his hazel eyes locked on her sapphire ones, "Maybe he knew that the requirements of command might force him to put her in danger - and the knowledge that he might be responsible for her being harmed - or killed - was more than he could bear."

"Or maybe," Beverly offered, "he knew that death was never that far away for any of us. He's lost friends before," she reminded him. "Tasha, Walker..."

"Or maybe," he answered, "he was no different than Dee, afraid that he was not worthy of her love; maybe he was afraid that she might find someone else, someone who was better than he was, someone she could truly love..."

"How could he think that?" she replied, her eyes glinting brightly as the tears began to well up in them. "Doesn't he know what a kind and gentle and generous man he is? How worthy he is of being loved - truly loved - and how much she cares for him? How important he is to her? Doesn't he know that?"

"Perhaps..." Picard countered gently, "Perhaps he thinks she is too good for him. That he doesn't deserve her."

She studied him for a moment. "Then he's a fool. But then," she added softly, "maybe he's not alone. Maybe she was a fool as well," she said.

"She did something foolish?" he echoed.

"Maybe," Beverly said. "Maybe she was scared. Maybe she had been hurt before - maybe she lost someone... many someones... who she loved dearly. Maybe she was too afraid to lose another person she loved to face being hurt once again," she offered. "And so she rejected love when it was offered."

Picard considered, nodding slowly. "And now?"

"And now... Now, she's still scared," she said softly. "But maybe she's beginning to realize a life spent hiding in fear is no life. Maybe she's beginning to realize a chance at love is worth the risks," she said.

Picard stared at her for a long time, then reached for her hand. "I hope they find a way to work out their problems."

"I hope so, too," she replied, squeezing his hand in response.

"Maybe... maybe we could talk about their situation tomorrow... over dinner?" he suggested. "And I would like a chance to apologize properly for my behavior," he added.

Beverly's smile faded. "I'd like that - but I'll be in intensive care with Andile until she's out of danger, Jean-Luc. It'll be several days at least."

"Then, when she has recovered," he insisted.

Beverly shook her head. "If she recovers," she reminded him.

"She will," he objected. "She has everything to live for now," he said - then stepped forward, his hand reaching up to cup the angle of her jaw, tilting it up just enough so her eyes met his once again. "I'd like to think she's not alone," he added softly.

Beverly stared at him for a long time - then smiled. "I'd like to think so as well." Her eyes stayed locked on his for a moment, then released his hands and stepped back. "Duty calls, Jean-Luc - and your faith in me notwithstanding, I have a lot of papers I want to review one last time before tomorrow."

"Of course," he said, pulling on the war-torn shirt and jacket, not bothering to fasten either, soft curls of grey hair escaping from unfastened front. "I'll leave you to your work, then."

"Thank you," she answered. "And thank you for stopping by."

He nodded, smiling, then stepped to the door.

Before it could open however, Beverly called out to him. "Jean-Luc?"

He turned, a brow upraised in question.

"You can... 'hear' her, can't you?" she asked. "Telepathically. I mean."

He considered, then nodded. "Sometimes. After a fashion."

"Then tomorrow... for the next few days... listen for her. I'm not certain how present she'll be telepathically, but if she is... be there. Give her someone, something to hold on to... just in case love isn't quite enough," she asked.

He nodded. "I will," he agreed - then added, "but it will be. Of that, I no longer have any doubts."


	169. Chapter 169

**Chapter 169**

"I'm an empath, Will," Deanna reminded her fiancé as they strode done the hall together, "not a telepath - and not a psychic. I'm as much in the dark about why the captain called an unplanned afternoon staff meeting as you are," she added.

"Yes, but you are aware of his moods, his feelings," Will reminded her. "You even know when he has a headache! Can't you sense anything?"

She hesitated for a moment, trying to focus her thought - then shook her head. "No," she admitted, "though I have to admit that I've had a harder and harder time reading the captain's feelings of late. He's been spending so much time off the bridge," she explained, "working on the negotiations with the Breen and the Cardassians and Romulans... the longer he works away from me, the harder it is to read him," she added.

There was a touch of disappointment in her tone, Will thought, and stopping in the middle of the hall, he drew his lover to a stop as well.

Drawing his hands up the lengths of her arms, he studied her carefully, appraising her not just as his lover, his _imzadi_, his soon-to-be wife - but also as the trained counselor that she was. "I know you don't want to hear this, Imzadi, but it might be for the best. You're going to have to make a break with him - with the Enterprise - in the not-too-distant future, you know," Will told her softly. "Maybe it's better that it happens now, like this, than trying to do so when we get back to Earth." He smiled gently, lovingly, at her. "I wouldn't want you getting upset over separating from him once we're back home. After all, you're going to have plenty to keep your hands - and your emotions - busy with the wedding and honeymoon - and with transferring over to the Titan," he added.

She nodded - but there was a hesitation in her expression that spoke volumes.

"You haven't told him yet, have you," he said.

Deanna bit her lip, then looked down and shook his head. "I know he already knows; I mean, he must have taken it as given... that we're marrying, that I'll go with you as your ship's counselor... but telling him, Will - actually having to tell him to his face that I'm leaving the ship, leaving him... it's hard, Will," she whispered. "He's not just my commanding officer; he's..."

"He's family," Will agreed softly. "He's been a father figure for us both, Deanna," he consoled her. "But there comes a time in the life of every 'child' when he - or she - has to leave the fold, to start out on their own life's course. And he knows that, Imzadi." He smiled again.

"There's a wonderful irony in this, you know: the captain, the man who never made time for a family of his own, ends up being father to a thousand crewmen."

Deanna sniffled, then nodded as she looked up at her betrothed. "And a wonderful father at that. But I've already faced losing one father, Will, losing a second one - and by choice, this time..."

"You're not losing a father, Deanna," he countered. "Not now. There was a time when the captain might have seen us off the ship and out into the world - then gone ahead with his life with only a passing thought for his former first officer and counselor - but the man he's become, the family we've become, will never allow us to completely sever the bonds that tie us all together."

"I hope you're right," she agreed skeptically.

"You know I am," he laughed softly, pulling her into his arms. "Why else would Worf keep turning up on our doorstep every few years? Now if a tough, war-hardened Klingon can't make a clean break, why do you imagine we could?!" he laughed merrily.

Deanna managed a laugh, then wrapped her arms around her lover, soaking in the warmth of his embrace and the comfort of his certainty - then pulled back. "Nonetheless, Commander, he _is_ our captain, at least for the time being, and family or no, he's not going to appreciate our being late to the meeting."

Will smiled, pulled her next to him, planting a kiss on the top of her head, then grabbed her hand as they began to walk down the hall once more.

"Which brings us back to the original question, Counselor: why did he call this meeting?" Will asked - then felt a sense of heart-stopping dread wash over him. "My God, Deanna, you don't think something happened to Biji, do you?" he asked worriedly, his pace being to increase as he hurried toward the conference room.

Startled by the idea, Deanna stopped again, then hastily shook her head. "No. I can clearly sense Beverly's emotions - and while they're worried, there's no untoward pain or grief," she said. "Whatever's going on, Biji's not the cause."

"Well, Beverly has every right to be worried. I thought you said she promised Biji she's only be unconscious for a week at the most," Will said. "And it's been what now... two weeks?"

"Nine days," Deanna protested.

"Nine days, two weeks - whatever. Beej is going to be mad enough to chew neutronium when she finally does wake up and realizes how long she's been under!" he protested.

"Will," Deanna soothed. "Beverly made that promise assuming everything went well with the surgery and the engraftment."

"And it did!" he argued.

"No," she corrected him. "It did not go 'well'; it went 'spectacularly'. Not only did the lungs engraft with minimal problems, but Beverly was able to maintain the increased metabolic rate - and the increased healing rate - throughout Andile's recovery period with only minimal problems."

"Which means she could have brought her out of the coma days ago!" he reminded her.

"Or she could have kept Biji unconscious while she performed the first of the reconstructive surgeries - which is what she - and I - agreed would be the best thing for Andile. Now, when she's comes out of the induced coma, she'll find that she has ribs, chest and back muscles... Jemat and his surgical team were able to do the same things for Andile's chest and back that they did for her hands, regenerating real flesh and nerves... almost every outward sign of the injury has been addressed, Will. She's still going to have to deal with the remaining psychological trauma, but she can finally, finally, move ahead with her life - and without having to dread the thirty-plus surgeries that were scheduled in the months to come. Instead, she only has a few to face," Deanna replied.

"Yeah," he murmured, smiling a little, "the good ones."

Deanna raised an indignant brow. "The 'good ones'?"

"Yeah. You know." He clapped his cupped hands on his chest. "Rebuilding her breast. Hell, Beverly could more than just rebuild the missing one - she could make them better! You know, give her a really big pair this time..."

"Will Riker!" Deanna snapped, slapping him hard on his arm. "That is the most sexist thing..." she began to say - then stopped as she realized he was smiling at him, grinning in triumph at having teased her successfully.

"Gotcha," he said softly.

"Hmpf!" she countered. "And in any case, what were you doing looking at Biji's breasts in the first place?" she asked. "You're an engaged man - and don't you forget that!"

He grinned. "I'm engaged, Imzadi; I'm not dead. I'm going to look."

"Fine - but if you do more than just look, you won't be engaged - and you will be dead," she informed him.

He grinned again. "I love it when you're jealous."

Deanna sniffed haughtily - but her hand reached for his as they hurried down the last few feet of the corridor.

Their hands were comfortably entwined by the time they reached the conference room and the door slip open...

... and revealed another pair of equally entwined hands.

"Don't sell yourself short, Beverly," Picard was saying quietly, his thumb running slowly across the back of her hand as he spoke.

"I'm not selling myself short, Jean-Luc, but neither am I deluding myself," she replied. "Whatever progress Biji is making, it's due in far greater part to her innate ability to heal, rather than anything I've done."

"It's not entirely her _ability_ to heal," Picard demurred. "There's more than bit of desire to heal as well."

"Oh?" she purred softly.

"Indeed," he confirmed, then added, "I'm not sure if I should tell you this, but..."

"Err... Captain," Will managed, interrupting the man before he could confess... whatever, Will thought, deciding that, based on the expression on Picard's face, he did not want to know what it was that had sparked Andile's subconscious motivation to recover.

There are just some things that needed to remain secret, he thought - a thought with which Deanna apparently agreed.

Deanna added, "I'm sorry, sir. We didn't mean to interrupt."

"We could come back..." Will began.

"No need, Number One, Counselor," Picard replied easily - almost casually, Will, thought, as though the man were used to being caught in such an intimate moment.

Or, he amended, as though holding hands was not an intimate act, he realized, quickly flashing a questioning look at the woman beside him.

Deanna shook her head in reply, equally at a loss for understanding the scene before them.

Neither of the two seated at the table seemed about to explain it either; instead, Picard rose to his feet, slowly, even reluctantly, releasing his hold on Beverly's hand, before gesturing for the two newcomers to find their places.

Wordlessly, the two took their chairs, too stunned to say anything... for a moment.

Hastening to change the topic from the uncomfortable obvious... except, Will thought to himself, neither of the two seemed uncomfortable... the first officer spoke. "May I ask what this meeting's about, sir? You don't usually convene afternoon meetings," he offered , "except in emergencies," he added, glancing at Deanna once again.

"It's not Biji, is it?" Deanna asked Beverly worriedly. "She is all right, isn't she?"

Beverly smiled at the empath, the light in her eyes helping to mask the dark circles and fatigue that marked her fast. "She's fine, Deanna. Barring any last-minute issues, I'll be bringing her out of the coma tomorrow morning; she'll be back in her quarters if a day or two. That's not to say she's completely recovered: even with the accelerated healing, her lungs are still underdeveloped and operating at reduced capacity. She'll need therapy, and we've still some reconstructive surgery to address, but we can do that on a out-patient basis. With any luck at all, Andile's seen the last of her nights in Sickbay," she said happily.

"And no further attempts on her life?" Will asked concernedly.

"There haven't been any opportunities, Will," Beverly replied. "I've made sure that someone I trust has been with her at all time - and every surgery, treatment, drug - even her bandage changes - have been overseen by myself, Alyssa, or Jemat. Data and Worf have been spending their off-duty hours standing guard..."

"But how do we protect her once she's out of Sickbay and back on duty?" Will asked.

"The question, Will, is not 'how', but rather, "do we'?" Picard interrupted, his tone thoughtful.

"I don't understand, Captain," the first officer answered.

"Will," he explained, "while not every position in Starfleet carries an inherent level of danger, the nature of our work is such that there is often the possibility for an officer or crewman to earn the enmity of another person. I am well aware that there are those who would prefer to see me dead - as revenge for the deaths I have caused, or for the demotions, the arrests and incarcerations that have ultimately been my responsibility. If we were to recognize that personal danger for the potential it carries, then I should be as closely guarded as the lieutenant has been these last few days - and yet, I am not," the captain pointed out.

"Something that both Worf and I have argued about with you on more than a few occasions, I might point out," Will reminded him.

"Argued - and lost. In circumstances where that danger is exacerbated or enhanced, I have permitted those efforts, Will - but for the most part, it is my responsibility, as it is the responsibility of every Starfleet officer and crewmember, to maintain a degree of care for themselves. I do not feel that the lieutenant will disagree with that contention - and indeed, when she has recovered sufficiently to protect herself, I believe she will insist upon doing so," he added firmly.

"And," he added a moment later, the conviction in his voice slipping, fatigue and worry taking its place, "we cannot continue to protect her against an enemy we can not identify, and for a cause we do not understand. Yes," he continued, raising his hands to still the unspoken protests, "I know we have good reason to believe that someone in the Admiralty would prefer that she not make it back from this mission alive - but our 'gut instincts' and unreasoned feelings are not a basis for long term action, ladies and gentlemen.

"More importantly, however," he continued, "may be the fact that once whoever it is who would wish the lieutenant killed realizes that she poses no immediate threat, he may back off."

"That's not very likely, is it?" Will countered. "I mean, he's gone to some fairly extreme levels to make sure she doesn't make it back; why stop if she does get back to Earth? Wouldn't that increase the danger to him?"

"Yes - but if also increase the possibility of his exposure. Whatever happens out here could always end up being classed as human or computer error due to the equipment problems and sabotage we've faced; back on Earth, that's not an excuse that's easily used - and because of the higher levels of security and monitoring, it's far harder for anyone - even someone from the Admiralty or Section 31 - to act easily or openly.

"This is not to say the lieutenant is not going to be observed by those who might wish her harm - but she should, in all reality, be safer. I'm sure Mr. Data will see to that," he added, smiling up at the android as he and Geordi walked through the opening doors.

"See to what, sir?" Data asked, looking at the other curiously.

"Keeping Biji safe," Will said.

Data stared at the first officer, his head cocked to the side. "That would go without saying, Commander."

"I imagine you're looking forward to having her back home," Deanna said.

"Yes - although I would have liked to have secured larger quarters during the interim," the android replied as he took the chair next to Beverly's.

"Logistically, merging two quarters together aren't a problem," Geordi began to protest. "However..."

"However," Data continued for his friend, silencing the unnecessary while still unspoken, "I am fully cognizant that Starfleet regulations do not readily permit the changing of quarters to facilitate cohabiting couples without indicators of the durability of the relationship. As Andile and I have only resided together for a brief percentage of our time on board, I believe the captain's decision - to delay the proposed expansion of our domicile size until our return to Earth - was a wise one - though we may be somewhat constrained in our activities until that return."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, followed by a few reddened cheeks, downcasts looks and throat clearings, then Beverly lay a hand on his arm. "Data, as a rule, one doesn't generally discuss one's... 'activities'... quite so openly, even among close friends."

Data stared at her, confused. "But... we will have no option, Doctor," he protested. "Even Geordi could not find a solution that would remedy our mutual needs. My computer desk is designed so that only one operator can readily use the terminal at one time."

Beverly stared at the android for a moment, then smiled. "Yes. Your computer. Of course. My mistake, Data."

Clearly lost at her demurrer, Data stared at the physician for a moment, then looked to the other humans who were also clearly relieved by the android's innocent explanation - then gave a soft exclamation. "Oh! I see! You thought I that when I referred to being constrained, I meant in our sexual behaviors. I understand!" He gave a short bark of clearly artificial laughter, then managed a nearly-human smile. "An embarrassing gaffe, Doctor - but one at which I am not offended. I referred only to the logistical issues facing the lieutenant and myself, as we both require access to and utilization of similar pieces of equipment which a larger living space would readily facilitate, but which we now will have to share."

Beverly nodded, relieved.

"There is still ample space on the bed, floor, shower and dining table to accommodate our sexual explorations," he added. "Not to mention the Jeffries tubes."

The profound silence that had filled the room a moment before returned, doubled - until the android met the doctor's eyes once again.

"I believe the term, Doctor, is 'got you'," he said - and smiled.

Will gave a hearty laugh, then nodded approvingly. "Data, it's damned good to see you - and your emotions - back again."

"Yeah, Data," Geordi agreed. "It's good to see you smiling again - even if your sense of humor still needs some work," he added.

"Andile promised that she would assist me in those efforts... when she recovers," Data said.

Deanna smiled. "I like that, too, Data. I'm glad you and Beej decided to give it another try - but I'm even happier that you decided to try using your emotions again."

To her surprise, however, the android gave a brief shake of his head. "You misunderstand, Counselor. I did not decide to resume my emotional explorations; rather I have come to realize they are inextricably connected to my relationship with Ginger. As long as she is in my life, I will have emotions; without her... without her, there is no point to having them," he said with quiet resolution.

"Excuse me, Data," Picard interrupted. "Ginger?"

"Andile," Data explained. "I utilize the nickname of 'Ginger' for her."

"Good choice, Data," Will said approvingly. "Ginger - spicy, fiery... though it's usually reserved for redheads," he added glancing at Beverly. "With her black hair," he mused, "why not 'Pepper'?"

"The name is not a reference to her persona, Commander," Data interrupted.

"No?"

"I call her Ginger for Ginger Rogers. As in Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. The dancers?" he continued at their blank stares.

When no one responded, he continued. "They were dance partners on Earth in the early twentieth century entertainment productions. Andile is very partial to dance, and to their dancing style and partnership in particular; as we have been dancing together for some time, she had taken to calling me Fred."

"And in return, you call her Ginger," Deanna said. "That's so sweet, Data - and so romantic!"

"Initially, I had thought it to be so, but I have come to learn that it is also a term of respect," the android said.

"Respect?" Geordi interjected.

"Yes, Geordi. While Mr. Astaire was deemed to be a magnificent dancer, it was pointed out that 'everything Fred did, Ginger did as well - but backwards and in high heels'. It was her actions that made Fred and Ginger more than just Fred... and Ginger.

"In that way, I believe that Andile is not only capable of matching my actions, indeed any actions - but also transcending them in such a way to make us - as a couple, and in a greater aspect, we as a whole of the crew - appear as more than the sum of parts; as a greater, more cohesive whole. She is, therefore, in my mind and in my heart, Ginger," Data explained.

Deanna gave a soft sigh, while Picard gave a louder, if inaudible one.

Lovely, he thought to himself; one more name. Andile, Hahndeela, Garave, Biji, Beej, Ginger, Dee... at some point, we're going to have to come up with a name - one name, one inoffensive name - and everyone is going to have to stick to it.

Including me, he told himself. The days... and nights... of my 'Dee' are over, he thought, a hint of sadness filling his thoughts - then glanced back at the red-haired physician sitting in the chair at his left side - and smiled.

She smiled back, then glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table.

"Let's get this meeting started," he said, taking the cue, seating himself in his usual position.

"Shouldn't we wait for Worf?" Will asked.

"Mr. Worf is performing an errand at my request," Picard replied, smiling.

Will nodded - then frowned. "But If Worf's on an errand, and Data and Beverly are here... who's with Biji? Jemat?"

Picard's smile widened. "Jemat and his team have returned to their vessel for a well deserved rest. No, the lieutenant is being well taken care of - by Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell. They'll stay with her until the end of Data's duty shift," he added.

Will nodded at the news - then stopped. "But Data's shift runs through your afternoon negotiations..." He stopped, suddenly understanding, a massive grin splitting his face. "Oh, my God! You've done it, haven't you, Captain? You've reached an accord with the Cardassians and the Romulans!"

Picard nodded, smiling widely, relievedly - and, he admitted, more than a little proudly. "We concluded our discussions this morning - and each government has been notified of the terms. It will be some time, of course, before we know whether the terms are accepted... but I believe that we were able to 'sweeten' the deal sufficiently to be reasonable certain that the essence, if not the specifics, will be accepted."

" 'Sweeten' the deal, Captain?" Deanna asked.

Beverly nodded. "As you know, Jemat has offered Starfleet the option of an officer exchange program with his people. At the Captain's suggestion, Jemat and I discussed the possibility that the Breen to extend that same option to any ally of the Federation - as well as any exchange program with their medical staff. With both the Cardassians and Romulans reeling from the last war - and both seeing the Breen as a real threat - the chance to get an intimate view of their ships and their people may be enough to sway any uncertain Romulan or Cardassian to vote in favor of the alliance with the Federation."

"Let's just hope their experience on the Breen vessel is less... dramatic... than ours," Will said quietly.

Picard nodded. "Indeed - though such a 'dramatic' experience might help to drive home the true nature of their - and our position - with the Breen. For all we have learned from them and about them in the last few months, they are still greatly unknown to us," he said, his voice sinking in shame and regret.

"Captain, you can't blame yourself for what happened with Jay Tillerman," Deanna interjected quickly. "The Breen are not the first species to suborn a disaffected individual - and, assuming your conjecture about the Admiralty is correct, it is not the first time a government official has been induced into cooperating with a foreign government. Those attributes are not unique to the Breen," she reminded him.

"Nor is the fact that they won't let him face trial for his actions atypical, sir," Will added. "The Federation itself has sheltered more than a few individuals whose governments would have put them up on charges for what they did on our behalf on their home worlds."

Picard nodded. "I know, Will. I can accept that. But harder to accept is the realization that what he did - killing the computer technicians and Commander James - was done not at the behest of a foreign or malevolent power, but rather under the direction of our own people. How do I tell the parents, the families, the wives and husbands and children of those people that they died at the hands of one of their own and at the direction of the very individuals who they were taught to trust?" he asked quietly.

"You don't, Jean-Luc," Beverly said softly. "You can't."

"I know," he agreed. "I can't. Too much is at risk, even for the truth." He rose, turning to the conference room windows for a moment, staring at the stars beyond, then looked back to his people. "All the more reason, then, to try to break down the walls between our peoples, to unify us - Federation, Klingon, Cardassian, Romulan - even Breen - so that such deception becomes harder."

"But not impossible," Geordi pointed out.

"It will never be impossible, Geordi, as long as people are motivated by personal greed - for material possessions, for power," Picard agreed.

"And as long as that's so," Will added, "the Federation will be vulnerable."

"You can't change human nature," Deanna reminded them.

Picard raised a brow, a small smile crossing his lips. "No?" he mused. "Perhaps not easily, Counselor, and perhaps not quickly - but given time... A few hundred years, perhaps..."

"Captain?" Deanna said as the man's voice trailed off, a small smile crossing his face.

"Hmm?" he murmured, then brought himself back to the present. "Something Jemat said," he explained - then nodded. "Something that we had never thought to consider. Something outside our way of thinking. And _that_, ladies and gentlemen, is why I called this meeting. In order to remind our potential allies of the realities of the unknowns awaiting us all, alone or united, I have suggested to Tar Zumell and Ambassador Tiron that rather than having their courier vessels retrieve them en route, as they delivered them, that rather they have their courier vessels to meet us here, so that they can take back images and information about the Breen to their people.

"As it will be offered to our other allies. Indeed, that is why Mr. Worf is not with us; I've asked him to do the same with the Klingon homeworld, to offer them, as our allies, the same opportunity the Breen are granting the Cardassians and the Romulans - a chance to see the very unknown we are out here to confront."

He glanced out the window once again, focusing on the distant but omnipresent tendril-shrouded ship that had been their constant companion for the last six months.

"The tip of the iceberg," he murmured. "For all we do know, for everything we have learned, and studied and encountered, there are a hundred, a thousand, a million species out there, just like the Breen - utterly beyond our comprehension. And we - or the Cardassians, the Romulans, the Klingons - any of us! - would be fools to believe we can or should face them alone."

"Yes, sir," Geordi agreed. "But what will _they_ think?"

"That, Mr. LaForge, is the question," Picard agreed, "and only the future can give us the answer. But at least we've have given ourselves, and our people, a chance at that future. For now, we need to address the immediate days to come. Based on our current communications, we should expect responses from the respective governments in ten days - and we should anticipate that ships will be sent concurrently with those messages - including an ambassadorial ship from the Federation. Which means..."

"We're going home," Geordi said softly.

Picard nodded. "That is my surmise. Not immediately," he hastily added at the joyous expressions on the faces of those seated at the table. "I suspect that we'll be requisitioned into performing a few ambassadorial functions first - probably a fair number, to be blunt - but yes. We're going home - and fairly soon.

"Even if we are wrong about the involvement of individuals from the Admiralty in the events leading to our current position, there are going to be countless questions about what happened here, and Starfleet and the Federation are going to want answers before they vote on whether to accept the peace accord we reached. But whatever the day and time of our departure, I would like to be prepared. Geordi, in light of the changes to the engines, I'd like to review engine performance specifications..."

"We're going to need to make a few test runs, sir," the engineer said instantly. "The engines are fully installed, and I've taken Biji's suggestions regarding engine optimization and implemented them - but it'll still take at least a week - maybe several - to make sure we're back at full warp capabilities."

"Understood. Let the Breen vessel know out intentions; I'd not want to damage their ship at this point," Picard replied, then turned to the second officer. "Data, prepare a reports on ship's operations," he added. "With our recent history of replicator issues, if we're in need of supplies or materials for our return journey, I'd like to let Starfleet know as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"Doctor, the same for your department; if there are any emergency supplies we may need..."

"I doubt there is anything we couldn't find for ourselves - or get from the Breen," she said, "but I'll have the status report ready first thing tomorrow."

"Counselor, a report on crew morale and any potential issues we may be facing after this prolonged mission..."

"Yes, sir," she agreed.

"Commander, if you will have Mr. Worf prepare a report on the ship's security status?" he asked the first officer.

"Yes, sir," Will replied.

"Then you are all dismissed," he informed then, hastily adding, "Beverly? Mr. Data? Would you stay for a just moment?"

The two officers nodded, even as Will, Deanna and Geordi rose and made their way to the doors.

As they walked out, Picard watched over them - and felt a pang of sorrow.

This is how it will be, he thought to himself; returning to Earth, welcome as it would be, would signal the end of their days, he knew, the true separation of what he had come to think of as his family. Just as they were now leaving the conference room, in a few weeks or months, Will and Deanna would be leaving the ship, first to prepare for their wedding, then their honeymoon, and then to take their places on the Titan.

Worf, too, he knew, would soon be taking another step away from his former home, his former family, returning, most likely, to the Klingon Empire to resume his place at Martok's side.

As for Geordi... Well, Geordi would likely remain where he was, Picard thought, suspecting that barring any unforeseen events, the man would be satisfied to remain as the ship's Chief Engineer for the balance of his life - not an ignoble way to spend one's existence, he thought, and yet he found himself disapproving the idea. There needs to be something more in one's life than one's work he told the man silently - then barked an equally silent laugh.

As though I had any idea about what a life beyond commanding a Starfleet vessel would be like, he reminded himself - but, he added, glancing at the redhead seated beside him, I think I'm going to learn.

He waited a moment for the other officers to leave, then turned to the physician.

"Join me for dinner, Beverly?" he asked quietly.

She smiled back. "I'd love to, Jean-Luc. Let me check on Dee first..."

"Of course," he agreed. "My quarters? Nineteen hundred hours?"

She nodded, then rose smoothly from her chair. "Nineteen hundred," she agreed - then looked at Data. "Will you be sitting with Andile tonight, Data - or should I prepare the staff for another evening of Klingon love poems?" she asked.

"Worf has requested this night with Ginger, Doctor; after tomorrow, I am hopeful that the remainder of her days - and nights - will be spent in my company. I can sacrifice this one evening to accommodate Mr. Worf's request," the android said.

"Data," she sighed, "you are, without a doubt, the most romantic man I have ever met."

Data nodded. "Worf has been coaching me," he admitted.

Beverly raised a brow in surprise, then lowered it, not about to question the android further. After all, she admitted, whatever she might think about Klingons and romance, it was patently obvious that Data's abilities were flourishing under the man's tutelage. Of course, what Andile thought about those lessons was yet to be seen - but, Beverly sighed, it was hard to argue with a man who would do anything - from designing an artificial organ to restore the lifestyle of his lover to creating a special fabric just so she wouldn't feel a chill while recovering from surgery - for the woman he loved.

What passion does to us, she sighed - then looked at the human male beside her, and gave another sigh.

What passion does to us, indeed.

"Nineteen hundred," she repeated softly, then left the room.

Picard smiled - then turned to face the android.

"Mr. Data," he said quietly.

"Captain," Data replied.

"I wanted to take a few moments to explain why I decided against approving your request for an expansion of your current quarters..."

"Sir," Data interrupted, "no explanation is needed. Starfleet regulations are quite clear, and your decision was in conformity with those regulations. Andile and I will be able to 'make do' with what we have for the interim, until we meet the necessary time requirements."

Picard nodded. "Thank you. I'm grateful for your understanding. But I didn't turn down the request because of regulations."

Data cocked his head to one side, confused. "Sir? Then why...?"

"Because such an expansion is not necessary," Picard replied. "There are larger quarters already available on the ship."

"Yes, sir," Data agreed. "The ship's guest quarters, of course, as well as your quarters, Commander Riker's and Dr. Crusher's quarters - all are larger - as befits your respective ranks."

Picard nodded. "Quite. But Commander Riker's quarters are soon to be available. I believe that you - and the lieutenant - would be well suited by taking that space when it becomes available."

Data gave the man a troubled look. "That is an interesting idea, sir - but would that space not usually fall to the next first officer of the Enterprise?"

"It would, indeed," Picard agreed, smiling. "And I intend that it will. That is, of course, if you'll accept the position."

Data stared at Picard for several moments, comprehension dancing at the edges of his mind - then he said, "Captain? You wish... _me_ to serve as first officer?" he managed in a slightly strangled tone.

Picard's smile broadened. "I can think of no man better, Data," he said.

"Captain, I am flattered," Data replied after a moment, "but... my behavior in the last few months has been inexcusable. I have behaved erratically, unpredictably..."

"You have behaved as a human, Data," Picard countered.

"But... such unpredictability is unacceptable in a first officer!" the android protested.

"On the contrary, Data; it was Will's unpredictability that first drew me to consider him as my first officer on this ship. If a first officer's only job was to offer the obvious, the predictable, then a computer would serve as well as a man - and if all a captain wants is someone to parrot the ideas and decisions he has already made, then a mirror would serve as well.

"No, Data, a good first officer needs to be more; he needs to complement his captain by providing ideas, opinions, approaches that the captain may or may not have considered - and not be limited by reason, logic or history - though he must possess those as well. I have no doubts you are infinitely capable of finding ideas outside the norms, beyond those I might imagine or consider.

"But a good first officer must be more than a mere counterpoint to his captain," the captain continued, then hesitated for a moment, thinking, then turned to face his friend.

"Until this mission, Data, I have had no doubts about your loyalty or intellectual abilities - but a good first officer - a good commanding officer - needs more than just the intellectual knowledge of a ship. He needs an emotional understanding of the ship's crew.

"As captain, it is my responsibility to identify and maintain a firm focus on the goals of the ship and of Starfleet - and often this is done at the sacrifice of the needs of the crew. It falls to the ship's first officer to fulfill the second half of that equation: to identify what the crew needs and wants, and to remind me of that need as well as to help determine ways that both aims can be met.

"I've served with you for fifteen years, Data, and in that time, I have seen you advance in your grasp of the concept of human nature, of what it means to be a person - but as to whether you could translate those still developing skills to those needed by the ship's first officer...? I had my doubts," Picard admitted.

"Agreed, sir," Data replied. "My behavior of late in regard to my emotions has been..."

"Exactly what I needed to see," Picard finished for him.

Data stared at the man, dumb-founded. "But... I ran away, Captain! I failed. I chased away Ginger rather than suffer the pain of losing her - then, when I realized I could not continue without her, I opted to turn off my emotions! That is cowardice, sir - certainly not an attribute you would find desirable in a first officer!" he protested.

Picard studied the android for a moment. "You don't sound unemotional at the moment, Data," he pointed out.

"No, sir," he protested. "Upon consideration, I determined that my behavior was incorrect, sir, and amended it, but nonetheless..."

Picard interrupted with a shake of his head. "Not 'nonetheless', Data; indeed, anything _but_ 'nonetheless'." He studied the android for a moment, then took his seat once again.

"Data, the hardest lesson humans learn - and we learn many hard lessons - is not that we make mistakes, but rather, that we must face up to making those mistakes. I will admit I was disappointed when you chose to terminate your emotions - I felt that you were giving up on something you had pursued for so long just as you were beginning to fully grasp the nature of the topic - but, as with many things, it was not my place, either as your captain or as your friend, to interfere. However, your decision - _your_ decision - to admit that choice was wrong, and to face your emotions once again, brought you closer to humanity than you have ever been before.

"Seeing that, watching as you dealt with a personal, emotional issue, watching you as you realized you had made a poor decision, admitted it and began to correct it - that, Data, was the first time I have seen you truly act as a developing human - and as I would have my first officer act. For the first time, I am confident that you will be able to understand and empathize with the emotional needs of your crew.

"I don't seek perfection, Data; a first officer is not here to be perfect. A first officer is here to learn - about the ship and the crew - but most importantly, about himself, so that he can, in time, become the master of his own vessels.

"Seeing your behavior over the last few years - and specifically over the last few weeks and months... Data, I believe that that is the future that awaits - a crew of your own, a ship of your won - a command of your own. And I cannot imagine a finer captain than the one you will be."

The android studied the man for a long time, then gave a slow inclination of his head. "I am..." He hesitated, then managed an almost genuine smile. "I am not sure what I am, sir," he admitted. "What I am feeling is not an emotion I have encountered before - but from what I know of human feelings, I believe I am... honored. Your faith in me, and in my abilities, at a time when I, myself, am less than sanguine about those abilities - and your belief that I can use that same uncertainty to enhance the condition of both the ship and the Federation is... most appreciated sir.

"Thank you, Captain; I accept," he said, proffering his hand to the man.

Picard took it, shaking it welcomely and gratefully - but a bit hesitantly as well. "I would have thought you would have wanted to discuss this with the lieutenant first," he admitted.

"There is no need, sir," Data countered.

"Dee might not agree with that," Picard pointed out warningly.

"No, sir; she would want me to do what is best for Starfleet, for my ship, my crew and my career; she would wish me to accept," he pointed out.

"And you, Data? Are you sure this is what _you_ want?"

The android considered solemnly for a time - then nodded. "I cannot say that I have yet to understand the emotions that underlie personal competition and pride of success in achieving promotion, but..." He looked at Picard solemnly. "This," he said quietly, "is where I wish to be. On this ship, with these people, serving with you... and sharing my life with Ginger."

Picard nodding, accepting the android's reasoning as sound.

And, he admitted, troubling.

"That may not always be the case, Data," he reminded his friend soberly. "While the lieutenant's transfer here was made as a permanent one, the reality is that there is no such thing as a permanent transfer. Starfleet may transfer her to another ship or back to Utopia, or if Starfleet Medical determines that she can not return to active duty - or merits a medical discharge..." he pointed out.

Data inclined his head. "Thank you for your concern, Captain - but that should not be a concern. I believe I have a solution that will address those possibilities." He proffered his hand once again. "Thank you again, sir, for your show of faith in me. As your first officer, I will endeavor to fulfill that faith and serve you as best I can."

"I can ask nothing more of anyone, Data," Picard countered, accepting the hand once again. "And now I expect you'll want to share the good news with the lieutenant...?" he asked, a brow raised in expectation.

Data frowned. "She is still unconscious, sir," he pointed out.

The captain shook his head. "Data, I may not be as well versed in relationships as you are, but there's one thing I do know: she will not forgive you if she isn't the first person you tell about this - conscious or not."

The android considered for several moments. "That is not logical, Captain," he said, "but upon reflection, I believe you are quite correct. If you will excuse me...?"

Picard inclined his head. "Of course. This..." he gestured at the room around him, "can wait one more day. Tomorrow. Oh eight hundred."

"Yes, sir." Data considered once more - then looked at his captain and smiled. "I am looking forward to it," he said, then turned and left the room, leaving the man alone.

Picard studied the closed door for a moment - then smiled.

"As am I, Mr. Data," he said softly. "As am I."


	170. Chapter 170

**Chapter 170**

The two humans and the Breen moved down the hallway slowly, the fatigue obvious in the expressions and movement of the two physicians, while polite confusion reigned in the demeanor of the ship's captain.

"Human physiology is rather more intricate than I had thought, Doctor," Jemat murmured. "I will admit I was confused when you indicated that my surgical team would not be able to restructure Garave's breast... breast?" he repeated worriedly, glancing at the woman beside him.

Beverly nodded. "Breast," she confirmed.

"I was confused when you said we could not simply restructure her breast as we had her hands and torso. Our research had shown the breast to be a collection of underlying muscle support with a pad of thick fat above. Aside from the necessary vascular support interlaced in the fat and what appeared to be dormant sweat ducts, it appeared as nothing more than superfluous tissue - nothing more intricate than we have seen before; indeed, far less so, as it appeared to serve little function.

"Of course, the coloration and textural variation of the aereola and nipple would have presented a challenge to our skin artists - but nothing untoward, of course. Except that it is not so simple, is it?" he asked, still astounded at the intricacy of the small piece of human flesh.

"In many ways, it _is_ simple, Jemat," Beverly demurred. "You're quite correct; for most of a woman's life, it is little more than a pad of fat - though the nipple and areola are not just texturally and cosmetically different," she countered. "They are functionally different as well."

"Indeed," Jemat murmured - then turned to Picard. "Captain, are you

aware that the flesh of the nipple contracts and hardens in response to change in stimuli?" he asked the man. "A change in temperature, or by being touched?"

Picard reddened. "Er..."

"The captain is aware of that effect, Jemat," Beverly volunteered.

"Indeed! The nature of the nerve complexes is remarkable! Do you not find it so, Captain? Or is structure and function of the breast different in human males?" he continued, turning back to Beverly. "I have noted that there is a remarkable difference in outward appearance."

"Structurally, males and female tissues are inherently the same," she informed him, "but female hormonal secretions at puberty and again in pregnancy affect the development in women's breasts significantly. The size of the breast usually increases, and specialized sweat glands capable of producing and secreting milk develop."

"And this is how you feed your young, yes?" Jemat asked, fascinated.

Beverly nodded. "It's one reason I wanted to make sure that Andile's breast was reconstructed not just for appearance but for function as well; while a woman can successfully nurse a child with only one breast, having two makes it easier."

"Did you find this to be true?" Jemat asked.

Beverly smiled, part in memory of her time with her infant son - and part at the growing discomfiture of the man walking beside her. "I did."

Jemat managed a human smile of understanding. "You seem to recall that time with great fondness, Beverly; is this, then, why you have insisted on restoring the functionality of Garave's breast?"

"No," the physician replied thoughtfully. "While breast-feeding a baby is a very fulfilling act for many women, it neither defines us as women or as parents; many people successfully and happily raise children without nursing them."

"Then why such insistence?" Jemat asked, perplexed. "It has taken us five surgical procedures over as many days to recreate a breast that is identical in appearance and function to the one Garave already has; if its functionality is not critical to her life experience, why did you not allow my surgeons to simply craft one that would have been identical in appearance? It would have saved Garave much discomfort," he added.

Beverly smiled. "In human females, a breast isn't just a device for nurturing a child; it's part of our sexuality. You remarked on how the tissue externally responds to touch - but there is an internal response as well."

"It is pleasurable, then, I presume?"

"Yes - and sexually stimulating as well," Beverly explained. "Many women enjoy being touched in that way as part of the sex act - and men enjoy touching them. I wanted to ensure that Andile is given this aspect of her sexuality back as well as restoring her physical appearance."

"Excuse me: you said human _males_ are sexually stimulated by touching the female's breasts?" Jemat interjected, confused. He turned to Picard. "Is this correct? You are stimulated by touching someone's breasts?"

The captain reddened further. "Er..."

"It's not quite that simple, Jemat," Beverly offered smoothly. "Unlike the response to external stimuli you saw in today's surgery, arousal from touching one's partner is indirect - and to a great extent, psychological. Some men - and women for that matter - are aroused by touching their partners, others only when they are touched - while some need only think about another person to become aroused.

"But in recreating Biji's breast, I wanted to ensure her the greatest possible result; I tried to ensure that the sensitivity and response of her new breast was similar to that of her other one, to restore at least that degree of normalcy to her life," she concluded.

Jemat nodded, contemplating the idea for several moments as the three continued their journey. "But... if sexual pleasure is related to stimulation of the breasts, why did you not make them larger? Would that not have been more pleasurable - for both Garave and her partner?" he asked. "Tell me, Captain, would you not prefer a partner with large breasts over one with small breasts?"

"Er..." he managed weakly.

Beverly grinned, thoroughly enjoying watching Picard's growing discomfort, then answered, "Breast size is only one aspect of sexuality and sexual attraction - for both men and women, Jemat. Andile's breasts are in proportion to her body size and weight - now. If she regains some additional weight, that may change..." She turned to Picard, a wicked light in her eyes. "You knew her back in your Academy days, Jean-Luc. What did she look like then?"

He glared back at her. "It was quite some time ago, Doctor - and I was a cadet. It would have been inappropriate to have noted such personal aspects concerning one of my professors - just as it is inappropriate to make such observations about one of my crew," he added gruffly.

Beverly grinned.

"Ah, your crew," Jemat continued, oblivious to the two. "I must admit I do not understand why you are allowing her to perform her duties for two hours per day. A Breen would complete his recuperation before returning to duty - and a Breen captain would not permit him to return he had fully recovered," he pointed out.

"The circumstances are quite different, Jemat," Picard countered. "Among your people, your telepathic contact prevents - or at least diminishes - issues of self-worth; you know what others think of your actions and behaviors. Among humans, we do not have such a support system. The lieutenant's sense of self-worth is strongly affected by her perception of her ability to do her job; granting her even a few hours of work time each day has bolstered her confidence..."

"... and that increased confidence and sense of self-worth is reflected in her recuperation," Beverly continued. "When she's on duty, even the limited duty she now has, she heals more quickly and her perception of residual pain is markedly decreased; off duty, she has little to distract her from her pain, and that becomes a focal point of her existence."

Jemat frowned. "My people would be more than willing to provide a support team to assist her in pain reduction techniques," he pointed out.

Beverly smiled, reaching for the Breen's arm and squeezing it affectionately. "That's very kind of you and your people, Jemat - but I don't think Andile could tolerate the knowledge that she was harming others."

"My people are trained..."

"But she isn't," Beverly objected. "She's still having difficulty just discussing the more traumatic events of her life; the concept of actually allowing another person to suffer physically because of her would cause her as much - if not more - psychological damage as your techniques would spare her.

"No, for now, the ideal for Beej is to let her work when she can," she concluded.

Jemat sighed, gave a jerk of his head in frustration, then came to a stop as the three reached the transporter room doors which slid open to allow them entrance.

"I must say I do not understand - but I accept that you do," he conceded.

"Thank you," Beverly replied.

"Now, concerning tomorrow's surgery..."

Beverly blanched slightly, then shook her head. "There's no reconstruction tomorrow, Jemat. We'll give the tissue a day to heal, then finish in two days," she pointed out.

"But..." Jemat began to protest, "I saw the schedule; the suite is being prepared for her for tomorrow."

Beverly hesitated, looked at Picard, who glanced at the transporter room tech.

"Chief?" he said to the Ballorian technician. "A moment?"

The man nodded, touched the control panel, then quickly hurried from the room, leaving the three alone.

Picard looked back at Beverly and nodded.

"Tomorrow's surgery is not for the reconstruction, Jemat. At least, not of Biji's breast."

Jemat frowned. "I don't understand. Her lungs are engrafting well with no signs of rejection, we've corrected the damage to her diaphragm, the rib frames have been molded and implanted, the calcium substrate is forming on the lattice work, we've overlaid muscle, nerve and skin, strengthened the muscular and neural connections to her right arm... all that remains before she is returned to her normal condition is the maturation of the milk ducts and nerve endings to the nipple and areola."

Beverly hesitated - then shook her head. "Not quite, Jemat. There was some... damage... from before this incident that needs to be repaired."

"Damage? What type of damage?" he pressed.

"Jemat..." Picard began hesitantly, "the lieutenant was... assaulted several years ago. The damage was never repaired as it was believed she wouldn't survive her other injuries - but now that we know she will be with us for some time, she has asked to have the injuries corrected. It is, however, a personal issue, and she requested that Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi be the only ones with her."

"It's minor surgery," Beverly added. "She won't even need general anaesthesia, just a local."

Jemat shook his head, confused. "I do not understand. How was she injured?"

Picard frowned. "Jemat, you have access to Garave's memories, don't you?"

"Yes - but they are so detailed and so vast that we have only now completed the documentation of her people's first - and only - interstellar trip." He studied the two, his eyes widening at the recollection of the woman's memories. "Did you know that the planet on which their vessel crashed was D'Brun?" he asked, amazed. "The common belief, that the D'Brun were the first space-faring race of this epoch, must now be brought into question; if Garave's people landed there, did they inspire the D'Brun? Did Garave share her technology with them - or did D'Brun's space travel evolve independently?

"With the D'Brun people long gone, we may never know," he sighed. "All we have now are her memories of that race - and it will be some time before we have studied them in sufficient depth to fully grasp the role she and her people - technically your people, Captain, Beverly - played in the development of space travel.

"How wonderfully ironic, is it not? That your people, one of the last to develop space travel, may have also been the first?" he laughed softly. "But I digress; we were speaking of an assault?"

Picard nodded. "In time, you are going to reach one of the lieutenant's more recent memories - of time she spent on Cardassia Prime."

Beverly nodded. "When she was there, Jemat, she was... assaulted."

The Breen frowned. "You both have used that word as though it has a significant meaning. I thought 'assault' meant 'attack' or 'infliction of injury'," he objected.

"It does," Picard agreed.

"But it also has another connotation," Beverly continued. "It refers to a specific type of attack - a sexual attack."

"Sexual attack," Jemat echoed - then wrinkled his nose in confusion. "I don't understand. How can one be 'sexually attacked'?"

"Rape, Jemat," Picard explained. "Rape, sodomy..."

The Breen shook his head. "I do not understand. What is rape?"

The two humans looked at one another - then Picard turned back to the Breen. "Two of the horrors that humans – and other species - can inflict upon one another, Jemat."

"Ones that I'm happy to realize your people have never endured." Beverly added.

"Yes, but..." Jemat protested, then stopped, closed his eyes - and reeled backwards, gasping as he pulled the images from the two humans minds.

"Your people..." he whispered, "they can... they _do_ this... to one another?" he gasped, horrified.

"It is not something of which we are proud, Jemat," Picard said quietly.

"And they... they did _this_ to our beloved?" the Breen wheezed.

"I'm sorry, Jemat," Beverly said softly. "We would like to think of ourselves as civilized... but things like this happen. Fortunately, we can repair the physical damage..."

"But her heart, her soul..." Jemat gasped, stricken, heart-sick.

"In time, Jemat, with care and love and understanding, we can help heal even that wound," she insisted gently.

"No..." he protested, reeling away. "No! This is unacceptable! I cannot allow her to remain here, on this ship, within reach of people who could do such violence to another! Captain," he added angrily, "I insist that you return her to my ship, to my people, where she can come to understand that such violence will never be done to her again - where she will be safe!"

"She is safe, here," Picard protested quietly. "More importantly, here she can receive the help - the psychological and physical help she needs to overcome what was done to her."

"We can provide that!" the _outo_ protested angrily.

"Perhaps," the captain countered. "But you cannot give her the one thing she has here."

"And that is...?"

"Love," he said softly.

"We will love her - we do love her - as completely and unconditionally as possible - in ways your people could never understand!" Jemat raged. "You must return her to us!"

"Jemat..." Picard began in quiet frustration.

"Jemat," Beverly said at the same time, "there is more than one type of love. There is agape - the type of spiritual love you can offer..."

"And there is eros," the captain added. "Passion - romantic love - physical love."

"Physical love? After what was done to her?" the Breen seethed. "How can you imagine that she would want that? How can you think she could ever bear that again?!"

"There is," Picard answered slowly, a passion growing in his voice, "in physical passion, in physical love, a healing that she will find nowhere else, Jemat. A strange truth, I know, to think that what can torture us can also heal us - but perhaps that contradiction is not so strange after all. To realize that the true source of pain - and of pleasure - is not the physical body, but rather the person, the people who would use us, abuse us... or love us.

"Right now," he continued gently, "she is where she needs to be - and with the person she needs to be with."

The Breen stared at the human for a long time, then gave a lengthy sigh. "I will yield to your understanding of your own people, Captain; I do not understand it, but I yield to nonetheless." He looked back at Beverly - and managed a smile. "If your captain is as understanding of your physical needs as he is of my Garave's then you are, indeed, most fortunate, Beverly. The day after tomorrow, then," he said, and stepped onto the transporter platform.

Taking G'Sef's place behind the console, Picard touched the communicator button, calling to the Breen ship to transport their officer back - then watched as, several moments later, the mysterious shimmer enveloped the being's body and slowly dissolved it.

A moment later, the two were alone, Picard still staring at the empty platform. "Their technology is so different from ours," he sighed. "If for no other reason than to understand how different our approaches to physics are, I would hope that the Federation sees its way clear to approving an alliance, if not an outright treaty with the Breen."

"I don't know," Beverly murmured, reaching for his arm, pulling him gently toward the doors. "I don't think we're really that different."

The doors slid open, allowing the G'Sef to exchange places with his superiors, and leaving the two to finish their journey through the corridor.

"Hmm? Not different - how?" the captain replied a moment later.

"He might not quite understand the dichotomy of how one can be hurt and healed in the same manner - but he seemed to have a firm grasp on physical needs," she said softly, then tightened her grip on his arm. "As do you, my dear captain, she added quietly. "At least, you seemed to have quite a grasp on Biji's needs."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just an observation," she purred gently, teasingly. "But... maybe there is something to that observation, Jean-Luc. Tell me, is there something I should know about - about all those months she spent in your bed?"

He cast a sideways glance at the woman. "Beverly, a gentleman does not discuss the details of his sleeping arrangements."

"Jean-Luc, if all they were were 'sleeping arrangements', there'd be nothing to discuss, now would there?" she said sweetly as they came to a pair of lift doors.

Picard turned to the woman, studying her, saying nothing - then gently escorted her through the doors as they opened.

"Deck ten," he informed the computer - then fell silent.

"Well?" Beverly pressed.

"Well, what?" he replied.

"What happened?"

He shook his head. "Beverly, I've told you: we slept together. Just slept. Nothing... _else_," he added firmly.

She gave him a skeptical look. "Jean-Luc," she began with a shake of her head.

"Beverly," he sighed, "why do you insist that something 'happened'? You're her physician; you above all should _know_ that she... I mean I... I mean neither of us... _we_ didn't _do_ anything!" he said emphatically.

The physician smiled. "On the contrary, Jean-Luc, something did happen. You've changed, Captain; you are not the same person you were when this mission began," she reminded him.

He raised a brow. "I thought that was fairly obvious, Beverly; indeed, I thought that was the crux of our problem over the last few months," he countered regretfully.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," she answered. "So give, Jean-Luc: what happened between the two of you?"

He sighed, then fell silent as the door opened, and the two exited.

For several moments, they walked in silence, then stopped as they reached the doors to the captain's quarters.

Stopping once again, he turned to the woman. "Care to come in?"

"I don't know," she demurred. "Are you going to tell me what happened with Biji?" she pressed.

"No," he answered.

Beverly sighed, then gave a reluctant nod. "Well, if I can't get the real story, maybe I can get a drink," she said.

"Play your cards right, my dear doctor, and there might even be dinner in it for you," he agreed with a smile, then motioned her into the room.

As he followed, she turned to confront him. "See? That's what I mean, Jean-Luc. You've changed."

"Changed?"

"You have sense of humor now,"

He frowned at her. "I have always had a sense of humor, Beverly."

"Yes," she agreed, "and you showed it at least, what... once a year? Jean-Luc, you know you could be positively grim. But lately..."

"Lately, what?" he asked.

"Lately, you've started to take yourself less seriously. Not your work," she quickly amended. "I don't think you would ever not take your work seriously - nor should you - but..." Beverly hesitated, then smiled. "Do you remember what you asked me this morning? About when Biji could return to the holodeck with you?"

"Yes," he replied. "I asked when we could resume playing the Dixon Hill scenario..."

"Precisely!" she interrupted. "You called it 'playing'. Until Biji came along, you would barely admit to visiting the holodecks, let alone admit you were enjoying yourself when you were there; if any one asked, you rationalized and justified what you were doing more ways than I could imagine - but never once permitted anyone to think you were simply having a good time! Now, two months after you and Biji start sleeping together, you're calling it 'playing', you've got a sense of humor, you're defending the Biji's right to sexual pleasure..."

"I was not defending her right to sexual pleasure!" he protested instantly. "I mean I was... I mean, I was defending the rights of all of my crew - not just hers!" he continued, flustered.

Beverly smiled. "I know, Jean-Luc - but a few months ago, you wouldn't have defended anyone's right to it; you would have deferred this issue to me or to Deanna - and gotten out the room as quickly as you could. Instead, not only did you argue Biji's case, but you even stayed with us all the way through a fairly graphic description of Biji's breast and human sexuality in general," she added with a smile. "I must say, I'm proud of you, my dear captain - but you have to admit that you have changed in the last few months, and the only variable I see around here is Biji.

"So tell me: what happened?" she pressed.

He looked at the woman - then turned away. "Tea? Wine? Something stronger?"

"Wine would be lovely," she answered, then smiled. "But don't think you're getting out of this that easily, Jean-Luc."

Declining to respond, Picard moved to the replicator - then looked back a Beverly, and seemed to think.

A moment later, he stepped away, crouching before a low cabinet then withdrawing a bottle from his private store.

"The good stuff?" Beverly asked. "You must have some serious confessing to do," she teased - though the humorous edge of her tone seemed to have faded a little.

"I do," he replied.

For several minutes there was silence as he opened the bottle, carefully pouring two glasses of the vintage then handing one to Beverly.

"To..." he began.

"To friendship," she concluded for him.

"To friendship," he agreed.

They touched glasses, sipped the wine - then at his gesture, Beverly took a seat on the couch.

"So tell me," she urged him softly.

"Bev..." he replied, shaking his head - then gave a sigh. "Beverly, I don't want to hurt you," he said.

She stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the wine.

Real wine, she reminded herself, a bottle of his precious family vintage, saved for the most important of times - when he wanted to share the good things... and the bad.

When he wanted to soften the blow, she thought in stunned silence.

She stared at it a moment, the awful, inescapable truth filling her mind - then raised her eyes to his, hating the question she had to ask - but needing to know the answer nonetheless.

"Jean-Luc... you love Dee, don't you?" she finally managed.

He stared back, surprised by the question - or perhaps, she realized, surprised by the necessity of the question, since the answer was so clearly obvious.

"Yes," he replied quietly.

"Oh," she murmured quietly - then set down her glass and began to rise from the couch.

Began - then stopped as his hand reached out for her. "Bev..."

She shook her head, trying to pull her arm away. "Jean-Luc, you don't have to explain. Not to me. I... we've never made any claims on one another's affections..."

"No, we haven't," he agreed. "But before you leave, I think you need to know something."

"And that is...?"

"I do love Dee," he replied quietly. "I also love Deanna. And Will. And Worf and Geordi and Data and Wesley. And you. You are all my family, Beverly, and I love you all. It's taken me a long time to come to grips with those feelings - but I have. I know now that I love you all.

"That said, however, I think the question you need to be asking isn't, 'Do you love Dee?'" he continued, "but rather, 'Are you in love with her?'"

Beverly studied him for a long moment, then grimly echoed, "All right. Jean-Luc, are you in love with Dee?"

He smiled, then shook his head. "No. In retrospect, I don't that I was ever 'in love' with her; infatuated, yes; in lust, certainly - but I was eighteen at the time, and lust was a fairly common emotion for me at that time. But after the last few months, spending time with her as I have, I've come to understand that she, like you, like the others, are important to me - and that I do, indeed, love you all.

"But despite all the women who have been in my life, whom I have loved, or been infatuated with, or simply been in lust, there's only one woman in my life with whom I've ever been 'in love', Beverly," he added softly, reaching for her hand.

She let him take her hand, savoring the warmth of his touch, then met his eyes. "Maybe you should have told her," she said quietly.

"I'm trying to do that right now," he replied, then raised her hand to his lips, kissing the tender flesh gently, then looked back into the sapphire blue eyes that had haunted his dreams, his fantasies and his hopes for so much of his life.

"Beverly," he said softly, "I love you."


	171. Chapter 171

**Chapter 171**

"Jean-Luc..." Beverly began softly - but he silenced her with a touch.

"You don't have to say anything, Beverly," he informed her gently. "I know you've loved others before - and it's always ended in pain for you. Your parents, Jack, Odan, Wesley..." He shook his head. "I know you're scared - but I'm not asking for anything in return. I just wanted to let you know - really know, once and for all, that I do love you. And when - _if_ - you can ever say that back to me, I'll be here." He looked at her hand, safely enveloped in his, then ran his thumb across the back of it, caressing the tender flesh, before raising it to his lips and kissing it gently.

Just as he had done once before.

And just as she had done once before, Beverly pulled her hand free of the embrace, raising her hand to caress the strong lines of his face, then drew close to kiss him.

Dread surged through his soul in that instant, history and aching memory filling him, reminding him of that night so long ago when he had reached out to her, defying his own sanctions against revealing his true feelings - and was struck down.

For a moment he held his breath as she moved close to him, the tension in her body unmistakable as she, too, must have recalled the evening - then pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was as it had been, tender, gentle... uncertain - and then she pulled back, the same look of uncertainty in her eyes.

Uncertainty - and shame.

"You must think me a terrible tease," she whispered.

"You are," he replied, a hint of humor, forced and awkward, in his tone.

Beverly blushed. "You're right; I am. I think Jemat is as well; he may well have been surprised about the nature of the human breast, but he knows damned well about the subtle intricacies of human sexuality - and about you. I think he enjoyed seeing just how far he could push you," she added. " 'Tell me, Captain'," she repeated, aping Jemat's deep voice, " 'wouldn't you prefer a partner with large breasts'?"

"I don't remember you stopping him," he reminded her.

"Maybe I was curious what the answer would be," she replied.

"I think you already know the answer, Beverly," he replied, growing serious once again.

"And that is...?"

"That what matters - truly matters - between a man and a woman has little to do with the physical attributes..." He hesitated for a moment, then risked a look down the length of her body before returning to meet her eyes, "magnificent as they may be, but rather the heart, the soul - the spirit - of the person."

Beverly declined to blush at the compliment, savoring it instead - then nodded. "I don't think Data's gives a fig about what Biji looks like: one breast, no breasts... I'm not entirely sure he cares that she's female!" she added emphatically. "I just know he loves her: truly, deeply, passionately."

"And she feels the same way about him," Picard countered.

Beverly studied the man for a long moment. "You can still hear her thoughts, can't you?" she asked in a soft voice, curiosity - and a touch of pain - filling her words.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "It's easier when we're physically close to one another - but yes, I am always aware of her in my mind."

"Like when we were on Kes/Prytt?" Beverly asked.

He shook his head. "No. There, I was aware - very aware - of your conscious thoughts - though, shortly after you had injected Dee with the neurotransmitter supplements, it was at that level; I could hear her conscious thoughts; she could hear mine.

"But after we were taken to the Breen ship, that communication changed. It became less of a conscious awareness, and more of a... familiarity."

"Familiarity?" she repeated.

He hesitated, considering for a moment. "It's as though you're in a crowded, but noisy, room, and you see someone you know. You're aware they are there - but unless they actually come close to where you are, there's no real communication. When she's closer, I'm more aware of her presence - but even so, unless one of us initiates contact, there's no... conversation; nothing like we had on Kes/Prytt. Except..." He hesitated again, his cheeks turning pink.

"Jean-Luc?"

The pink turned to red. "Umm... strong emotion can transcend the limitations of distance," he informed her.

She gave him a perplexed look. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated again - then met her eyes, a desperate plea for discretion filling them. "Do you remember what I was saying in the conference room the other day - about why I believed she had a stronger motivation to heal than just wanting to get better?"

Beverly nodded.

"Apparently... Beverly," he interrupted himself, "you cannot let Dee know I told you this - she's not even aware it happened! - but... apparently, strong emotions, strong _physical_ sensations, transcend the limitation of distance."

The physician studied him for a moment, utterly confused - then shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Er... Dee... and Data... they were... ummm..."

Beverly stared at him blankly for a moment longer, watching as he turned crimson - then felt her mouth drop open. "Oh, my... They were... But they couldn't have been!" she protested insistently. "I've examined her, and there was no sign of... anything," she demurred quickly, watching as the man's face flamed red.

"Well, they were doing _something_!" Picard countered.

Beverly considered the matter for a be moment, then gave a smile. "Well, there's quite a bit they could do without actual penetration - and it certainly would have added to Dee's determination to make it through the surgery," she added, the smile turning to a grin.

"Indeed," Picard harrumphed uncomfortably.

Beverly looked at him, smiling sympathetically at his discomfort. "Poor captain," she murmured, patting his hand gently. "That must have been... very uncomfortable... for you."

"You cannot imagine," he conceded. "The hardest part, however, is going to be finding a way to prevent it from happening again."

Beverly raised a brow. "Ask her," she said simply. "I'm sure she could help you build a mental barrier..." she said, then stopped, her voice trailing off as Picard shook his head miserably.

"I'd have to tell her first," he pointed out.

Beverly looked at him for a moment – then nodded understanding – and smiling. "That would be an interesting conversation: I'd like to see which one of you would be the more embarrassed," she chuckled.

" 'Mortified' would be more accurate," he countered.

Beverly grinned, imaging the encounter. "You could ask Deanna for her assistance in developing those barriers – though I look forward to hearing how you're going to explain just why you need them," she said.

Picard sighed. "I've given that option due consideration in the last few days as well – but the obvious aside, I'd have to inform her about Dee's telepathy, and I've agreed not to do that unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Well, you're going to have to do _something_," Beverly said, "and soon. After tomorrow's surgery and a few days for recovery, she's and Data are going to be able to..."

"Yes, yes," he interrupted grimly. "I am fully aware of what they are going to be able to do, Beverly! I just don't want to be involved in it!"

Beverly smiled, empathizing at the man's discomfort. "My, poor, poor captain," she purred, patting his hand once again. "I do have a question for you, though: how do you know it was Data?"

Picard raised a brow, seeming not to have considered that question before. "I assumed..." he began - then stopped. "No, it wasn't an assumption," he realized aloud. "There was an unmistakable emotional quality to the sensations, beyond just the physical. A sense of well-being, safety, of emotional involvement... of trust..." He considered a moment longer. "I can't say for certain that it was Data, Beverly; certainly, concerning the physical aspect, it could have been anyone - or no one - and yet, I _know_ it was him. There was simply a sensation of complete peace and contentment within her that I knew it had to be him," he explained softly.

She nodded. "And that was when you decided to come to me?" she asked, her voice equally low.

Picard raised a brow in surprise. "You think that it took seeing another couple..."

"More than seeing, Jean-Luc," she interrupted. "Much more than seeing."

"You think it took feeling Dee's love for Data to get me to act on my own feelings for you?" he asked.

Beverly paused for a moment - then nodded. "Perhaps," she admitted.

"That I was envious - perhaps even jealous - of what they had - and it was those feelings which drove me to finally come to you?" he asked.

She looked at him, somewhat shamed at needing to ask - but knowing she needed the answer nonetheless.

She nodded.

"My feelings for you are genuine, I assure you," he assured her.

"I don't doubt your sincerity, Jena-Luc," she protested - then paused again. "But it does seem a bit coincidental - your relationship with Dee, your 'walking in' on her and Data... I have to wonder if what you think you feel is truly for me, or...

"Or..." She hesitated again, staring at her wine glass, then plunging ahead, "if you're transposing your feelings for Andile onto me."

He turned to her, studying her intently in the low lights of the room, then nodded. "And we did share a bed," he echoed. "And you need to know, once and for all, that that was all there was to it," he finished for her.

She nodded slowly. "Put yourself in my place, Jean-Luc; if I shared a bed with a handsome man for two months, would you believe my protestations that nothing happened?" she asked.

He considered that question for a long moment - then nodded. "I take your point," he replied.

"Please understand, Jean-Luc; whatever happened in the past... happened. We've had no claims on one another, and I don't hold anything you've ever done against you - just as I expect my past to remain there. Whatever you and Biji did, is between you - but I have to know," she added emphatically, "that whatever you say, whatever your _think_ you feel for me, is genuine. I can accept that I'll always be your second love - but I don't think I could bear being third," she whispered.

"Second?" he replied, confused. "Beverly, you were never second..."

"No, Jean-Luc," she protested gently, "This ship - whatever ship you're on - will always be first in your heart, Jean-Luc," she told him. "Any woman who ever loves you will have to accept that - but I don't want to be second to another woman. I don't want to be a consolation prize, a rebound love."

He studied her a long time - then reached for her hand once again. "You're not. My God, Beverly, you have always been the first woman in my heart! I've loved and lusted after others - but they were just moments in my life, meaningful, important - but passing on in time. At that moment, I realized the only woman I could ever truly love was - and always will be - you.

"And if there was a consolation love in my life, it was my career - not the other way around."

She frowned. "Jean-Luc, you were dedicated to your career long before we met," she reminded him.

To her surprise, however, he grinned widely, shaking his head. "Oh, Beverly; what a single-minded zealot you must think me to be!"

"I prefer the term 'dedicated'," she demurred. "And you are - and there's nothing wrong with that," she admonished him.

"I don't disagree," he countered, "but... I didn't start my career in Starfleet with quite that level of dedication or intensity," he admitted. "In retrospect, I entered as much to free myself from the confines of the life my father would have chosen for me as I did because of my love of space. If I had been as dedicated, as determined as you suggest, I don't think I would have been tempted by the call of archaeology - or engineering," he reminded her. "No, I was no more - or less - determined than any other cadet. My record is no more stellar than that of a dozen others - and far less glorious than a dozen more.

"That I became a captain when I did was less because of my innate abilities and training than because circumstance placed me in the right position at that exact moment - and circumstance kept me there. But even then, I was still young, still uncertain if this was where life wished me to be.

"And then..." He paused, staring at the woman beside him, his love for her undisguised, obvious in his hazel eyes.

"Then I met Jack. And then you," he added softly, staring into her blue eyes once again, feeling himself drifting into their azure depths, as deep and mystifying and entrancing as they had been the first day he had seen them, so many years before, "and I realized that there was something more out there, something I truly wanted - something I could never have.

"There were other women," she reminded him. "Some of whom you felt very strongly attached."

"Yes," he agreed, "although, in time, I came to understand how little was love - and how much was simply raging hormones," he conceded with a touch of embarrassment. "Probably more of the latter: after all, I was certainly attracted to them - but not enough to act on my feelings; indeed, not attracted enough to even follow through on my own words and actions. Every time anything verging on commitment approached, I left - and quickly."

"Perhaps you were just scared," she offered.

"Perhaps - or perhaps I simply knew that it was not the life commitment I wanted," he replied. "And in any case, a man who is too cowardly to even manage to decently end a relationship? To run rather than say 'it's over, good-bye'..." He stopped abruptly, then turned and looked at her. "I'm beginning to sound like Jay Tillerman," he realized.

"Hardly," she replied gently. "Jay made a life of not living up to his commitments, Jean-Luc; you had a few youthful failures in judgment – failures you regret and are embarrassed about. I doubt Jay regretted anything – aside from being caught in his lies."

"Perhaps," Picard conceded, then fell silent for a few moments. "When I finally realized I was ready," he continued, "when I finally found the person with whom I thought I could commit... it was too late; she was married - and I loved her too much to ever damage the happiness she had found."

She tightened her grip on his hand. "Jean-Luc..."

"But that happiness ended... because of me," he continued softly. "How could I go to her now, now that I was responsible for the death of her husband, her lover, the father of her child?" He shook his head - then raised a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it tightly, trying to chase away the tears that threatened - but when he looked at her again, they were bright with tears.

"If I had truly loved her," he whispered, "I would have protected him. He wouldn't have died; he would have come back to her... to love her... to be with her, to be with their son..." A tear rolled down his face. "I'm so sorry, Beverly..." he whispered. "I tried to save him... I tried to save Jack..." He dropped his head into his hands, a sob escaping the muffling of his hands.

Beverly hastily set her wine glass down, her arms wrapping around the man beside her, easing him against her - but said nothing, only holding him in the dark silence, the only noise in the room, the sound of his soft sobs.

She let him cry, her uniform growing damp, then wet, from his tears.

_How long have you held this in?_ she asked him silently. _How long have you held this grief, this pain, this shame... Oh, Jean-Luc, why didn't you tell me? she thought - then felt her own shame surge as the answer rose in her mind,

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What?" he asked, lifting his tear-stained face to hers.

"I... All these years I've thought I loved you, I told myself I loved you - but every time the chance came to tell you, I couldn't. And when you finally came to me... I pushed you away."

"You've been hurt," he reminded her, startled by her self-recrimination. "You were scared..."

"I was angry!" she interrupted harshly. "You took my Jack away from me! I was hurt, and I was angry - and all these years, I've wanted to hurt you back! I wanted you to suffer - but you never did! You went ahead with your life, with your career - all the things that Jack lost, that you took away from him - from him and from me!"

"Beverly..." he started.

"I wanted you to be miserable! I wanted you to suffer the way you made me suffer!" she raged. "I wanted you to feel the torment I felt every day - but you never did you just went on, and on, as though nothing had happened..." She stopped suddenly - then spoke again, her voice a whisper, "... and I never knew. I never knew how badly you had been hurt, how much you had lost at Jack's death, how much more you had denied yourself since then - before then - because of me!"

She took his face in her hands, the tears beginning to stream down her cheeks now. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him. "Why didn't you tell me, Jean-Luc?"

"Tell you... what?"

"That you were hurting just as I was; that you were suffering - that losing Jack had hurt you as much as it hurt me... more, because you thought that even with him gone, you could never have what you truly wanted! But no, you had to be brave and strong and suffer in silence... Gods, Jean-Luc, why didn't you tell me?!" she railed, furious and crying all at the same time.

"And why didn't I tell you?" she added plaintively a moment later, the tears streaming down her cheeks as her rage turned against herself for words never spoken, deeds not performed.

"Tell me...?" he whispered, shaking his head in confusion.

"Why didn't I tell you how I felt," she replied - then pulled his face to hers, pressing her lips to his, and kissing him deeply, fervently...

Passionately.

And, a moment later, hungrily.

Her hands moved to his head, caressing his bald pate tenderly, her fingers stroking the short soft locks of grey fringe that surrounded the bare skin even as his hands moved to her neck, her shoulders, then broke the kiss, moving from her lips to her neck, to the tender spot at the base of her throat, his fingers moving to the front of her uniform... then pulled back.

"What's wrong?" she whispered huskily, worriedly.

"You have surgery in the morning," he reminded her.

She stared at him blankly, recognition slowly returning as her desire and need were pushed aside... for the moment - then nodded uncertainly.

"You wouldn't forgive yourself if anything happened," he told her, "and I won't be the cause of any more pain in your life," he said resolutely.

"But, if you'll have me," he added, his tone growing tender, "I'd like to try and be something else. Something more. Something... better."

Beverly studied him for a long moment before answering. "Such as...?"

He smiled, leaned forward to kiss her once again, softly this time, then answered, "Whatever you... no, whatever _we_ want it to be," he told her. "But whatever it is, I want to be right: if that means we wait until tomorrow - or next week - or next year - or however long it takes until we're both ready, it doesn't matter - as long as it's what's right - for both of us."

She nodded, kissed him again, then murmured, "No captainly stoicism this time - right?"

"And no holding back on anger - agreed?" he countered.

She shook her head. "No holding back - for either of us," she agreed, then leaned forward to kiss him again, unabashedly, unreservedly.

He responding in kind, pulling her to him, her body pressing against his, their mutual need becoming obvious to each other as the met in hungry embrace - then Picard pulled away. "I don't suppose you could delay her surgery..."

Beverly gasped for breath - then shook her head. "I could - but I won't. What would I tell her?" she added with a smile.

"The truth?" Picard suggested.

"No," Beverly said. "I love you for telling me how you feel, Jean-Luc - but you're not ready to tell the world yet," she told him.

"Dee's not the world," he reminded her.

"No - and if you two are still in contact with one another," Beverly added with a smile, "she's going to find this out for herself soon enough - but for now, at least, I think this should remain between us. We've waited a lifetime; we can wait a few days - or weeks or years - to share it with everyone else. For a little while at least, I'd like to keep you all to myself," she added.

Picard studied her for a long moment, wondering how much of her reticence was because of her own uncertainty - and how much was because of his.

And then, with dawning realization of the truth of the matter - that her love would allow him this reluctance, this shyness until his own love could overcome it - he kissed her again. "Thank you, Beverly. You are as considerate as you are beautiful," he said.

"Jean-Luc, if I were truly considerate, we would have had this talk years ago - and I might have spared us both so much pain," she said. "But I was selfish and angry and hurt..."

"And so was I," he countered, adding, "but the past is the past, Bev; we can't change it - and if I've learned anything over the years, it's that we shouldn't want to. For good or ill, it's shaped us into the people we are now. So let us enjoy that: who we are - and where we are,"

"Which is," Beverly replied, "together. Unfortunately," she added a moment later, "is not that going to be so simple. Shipboard relations are simple when both partners are crewmates - but we're not crewmates. You're my superior..."

"Technically," he reminded her.

"More than 'technically'," she objected. "The reality of the situation, Jean-Luc, is that the time may come when you have to order me into a dangerous situation - or worse. You've already run into that problem," she reminded him gently, "and you ended a relationship because of it. I don't want to be in that position - nor do I want to put you in it."

"What are you saying, Beverly?" he replied worriedly.

"I'm saying we're going to have to go slow, to figure out how we're going to work together - _and_ have a relationship outside of work," she replied.

He let out an exhalation of relief. "Thank God! For a moment, I thought..."

"You thought I was giving up on us so quickly?" she asked - then smiled. "Jean-Luc, after all these years, I'd have thought you would have known me better!"

"I do," he replied. "It's me I'm not so certain about," he admitted quietly.

She leaned close, planting a kiss on his cheek, then patted his hand. "It's going to be quite a change... for both of us, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "All the more reason to take slow; I want it to be right; I want this to last."

He stared at her, touched by the determination - and the fear - in her voice, then leaned toward her, returning the kiss, tender and soft this time.

"However long we need, Beverly; however long we need."

She sighed, relieved, then sagged against him, nestling her head on his shoulder with a feeling of contentment she had not experienced in years - then felt him relax against her in the same way.

"So?" she asked a moment later.

"So what?" he replied.

"You didn't answer my question," she reminded him.

"Your question?" he echoed, perplexed.

"What happened between you and Biji?" she asked.

Picard gave an exasperated sigh, then shook his head. "You are unbelievable!"

"Thank you - but if you think that's going to end this conversation, you are very wrong, my dear, dear captain," she replied.

He turned to look at her. "I like that," he told her. "I've always liked that. I've always liked it when you've called me 'my dear captain'."

"Don't try to change the topic," she replied tartly.

He sighed again, then gave her an unflinching look. "You really want to know what happened between us - how we spent those nights together?"

She nodded.

He hesitated, then looked down at their bodied pressed together, then met her eyes again. "We spent them - like this," he answered.

Beverly drew in a sharp breath. "You..."

"We slept together. Dee slept in my arms, Beverly," he told her. "Out of practicality at first, so she wouldn't put pressure on her damaged arm, or try to turn and accidentally tangle her lines... but later, when those dangers had passed, we stayed that way. Not from passion or sexual need - but out of loneliness and fear. It... it was comforting to us both, Beverly - the closeness, the warmth, the knowledge that we weren't alone. Most nights we talked - like this," he added, looking at the woman he loved, "speaking out on whatever was on our minds: work, people, worries, fears... and then we'd sleep. _Just sleep_," he added firmly.

"And that was all...?" Beverly countered, surprised. "You've changed so much..."

"Not so very much, Beverly," he answered her, "but where it counts, yes. A little at least. Fifty years of solitude - and fear and loneliness - doesn't disappear in a single night - or even two months of nights. But discovering I wasn't alone, that I wasn't the only one who felt they had made a mess of their lives... Talking with her, seeing so much of my own life, my own insecurities, my failures, my self-doubts echoed in hers... Knowing we weren't alone made it possible for us both to start to move on to where we should have been long ago."

"And now she's with Data," Beverly whispered.

"And you're here," Picard agreed, his voice ringing with disbelief, still incredulous at how unexpectedly - how wonderfully - the evening had turned out

"And gone," she replied, pulling free of his warm embrace, rising to her feet, closing the open neck of her uniform. "I need my rest if I'm going to be in surgery at oh six hundred hours."

"I understand," he said with a smile, rising to his feet as well, reaching for her arm, wrapping it in his own as he escorted her to the door.

Still, he hesitated as the neared the opening, not want to say 'goodnight' to her any earlier than absolutely necessary, and, he added, reminding himself of just how perceptive - and how right Beverly was - not wanting to say that 'goodnight' in an open doorway where anyone might overhear them.

Beverly seemed equally reluctant to let go quite so easily. She turned to face him, one hand reaching up to caress the angle of his cheek, her hand then being led to his lips, where he kissed her palm, sending a shiver of erotic potential and promise through her body.

"I... I should be going," she said reluctantly.

He kissed her palm again, enjoying the soft shudder of pleasure that ran over her as he did so. "It is getting late," he agreed, kissing the delicate skin once more, then pulled back.

She studied him for a moment, staring into the hazel eyes she had loved for so long - then pulled him back to her, kissing him as she had wanted to do for so long.

He savored the touch, the passion for as long as he could, then broke away from the touch, pulling her close, holding her tightly against his body, savoring her presence, her feel, her scent - everything about her - and gave a soft sigh of...

"What was that?" Beverly asked quietly.

"What was what?" he replied.

"That sound."

"That was the sound of contentment, Beverly," he told her. "Of joy. I never thought that I could feel this... happy," he said softly.

She looked at him for a long moment, then moved against him once more, kissed him quite thoroughly, then pulled herself free.

"I'll notify you when I'm through with Dee's surgery," she informed him. "Though I probably needn't bother; courtesy of your 'contact' with her, I think you'll know as soon as she's awake," she added.

"Er..." he began, turning pink.

"It's all right, Jean-Luc; I think I can learn to share you with her - but no others!" she teased gently. "Biji and ship is my limit!"

She gave her uniform one more tug, glanced down at herself to make sure she was presentable, then moved to the entryway, the doors sliding open at her approach, revealing an empty hall.

Glancing out, she started to leave - then stopped and faced him.

"Oh, there was something else I meant to tell you..." she began.

"Yes?"

"I love you, Jean-Luc Picard," she said - and left the room.

The doors slid shut between them, but for a moment, the two stood on their respective sides, hesitating, waiting uncertainly, just as they had done so many years before - then, with an air of absolute confidence about the days and weeks to come, they moved apart, each to his own world.

Each smiling.


	172. Chapter 172

**Chapter 172**

Andile started slightly as Beverly arranged her body on the examination table, lying on her side, one arm stretched forward both to help support her and to better expose the side of her chest - then started again as Beverly carefully pulled back the gown to expose her flesh.

She jumped a third time as the surgical drape was placed over her - then almost leapt from the table as Beverly placed her hand on her shoulder.

"Relax, Dee," the physician said, trying to sooth her edgy patient. "You've been through this a dozen times. I'm just going to excise one small alveolar cluster for examination," she added as she gently positioned Andile on her side, one arm stretched

"I know," Andile replied, uncertainty coloring her words.

Surprised, Beverly studied the woman for a moment. "I'll anaesthetize the area thoroughly - as always," she reminded her. "It'll be done so quickly that even your body won't be able to metabolize the medication before I'm done. You won't feel a thing," she assured her.

"I know."

"And the danger of rupturing the lung is minimal, as we've discussed," Beverly added. "Even if you didn't heal so quickly that the risk is virtually non-existent, I'm still going to put a molecular seal over the site - just to ensure patency of the lung. No chance of a collapsed lung, I promise," she vowed.

"I know," Andile agreed - but the hesitancy in her voice was unmistakable.

Beverly gave a soft sigh. "Dee, if this weren't necessary, I wouldn't do it - but I do need to make sure there's no indication of rejection - and the only way I can do that is to biopsy a few cells. We'll be done in a moment," she added reassuringly. "You'll be fine."

"I know," Andile whispered, her words tremulous, to the point that her body was beginning to shake.

So unfamiliar, so unexpected was the realization of what she was seeing, it took Beverly several seconds to process the sight - and several more before she could react. But then both professional and personal concern filled her, and she hurried around the table, lifting Andile upright, pulling her into her arms as the engineer began to cry.

"Oh, Dee, honey, what's wrong?" she asked as she coaxed the sobbing woman against her, her arms wrapping about her, easing Andile's head to her shoulder, gently stroking her back, just as she had done with a thousand other patients.

Except Dee was not just another patient, she knew. After so many months of working with this remarkable engineer, of seeing her face personal, professional and physical challenges that would have knocked any of them down, perhaps past the point of recovery - and watch her fight past them time and again - she had come not to see Andile as simply another patient, simply another crewman, but as someone more, and integral part of her life.

A friend.

It was strange to realize that, Beverly thought as she held the sobbing woman; there had been a time, not very long ago, when she had resented the engineer, knowing that she had established a level of relationship with Jean-Luc that she had wanted for so very long, yet had never achieved.

But that had not been Dee's fault, she had realized; whatever had failed to come into being between Jean-Luc and me... well, that was my problem, not hers.

One I'm going to have to deal with, she added silently, knowing that the bond between the two could never be fully broken; by genetics, by her own actions and by the unintentional interference of the Breen, Jean-Luc and Dee would always be, in some ways, connected in an intimate way she would never be able to duplicate.

And yet... It was all right; when all was said and done, she had been the one to whom Jean-Luc had said, "I love you."

A worried face appeared at the door, drawn by the unexpected sound of sadness. Looking at the tech, Beverly silently mouthed the word, "Blanket."

A moment later, the technician returned, helped to arrange the cover over Andile, then quickly backed out of the room, thumbing the door switch to close the door behind him, leaving the two alone.

Any need for professional decorum now gone, Beverly lifted herself onto the examination bed, pulling Andile against her as her cried, then gave the woman a firm hug. "What is it, Dee?' she asked softly. "Feeling overwhelmed? I know working four hours a day may not seem like much - but you are still recovering, and still undergoing tests and procedures, and you still have you still have your sessions with Deanna... If you think about it, that's actually quite a lot to be handling right now. Maybe a day off..."

Andile shook her head, b rushing at her eyes and nose with her hand. "No. It's just... I'm scared," she admitted miserably.

"Of...?" Beverly coaxed. "Of the procedure?" she added in sudden amazement. "But you've been through this a dozen times," she repeated.

"Nothing's ever gone wrong! You'll be fine!" she assured the woman - or so she thought.

But at the reassurance, Andile sobbed again. "But what if I'm not?!" she cried, then buried her head against Beverly once more.

"The anaesthesia, the molecular patch..." Beverly began - then stopped as Andile shook her head.

"No. I mean... What if the tests come out... bad?" she cried.

Beverly stopped, then turned, coaxing Andile away from her so that she could face the teary woman. "You mean, what if there are signs of rejection?" she asked quietly.

Andile nodded, red-rimmed eyes filled with fear.

"Dee, we'll face that when we come to it - but so far the results are excellent. There's enough genetic compatibility between you and Jean-Luc to be reasonably sure we'll not see any rejection..."

"But if there is..."

Beverly stared at the woman, surprised by the sudden outburst of worry. "Dee, we've been over this a dozen times. If the lung tissue is rejected... well, we have some options..."

"ECMO, forever," Dee replied.

"For a while," Beverly conceded. "In time, we'd find another answer," she said, praying she was right - then shook her head, realizing her growing sense of fear had more to do with her companion than with reality. The reality was, she reminded herself firmly, chasing back Andile's projected worry, that her patient was recovering beautifully, and that her lungs were growing into place with no signs of rejection at all.

"Dee, what's really bothering you?" she added softly, easing herself from the table to face her patient, her friend. "You have been through this procedure before - and through the results. Why this sudden worry... now?" she asked – then suddenly understood.

"It's Data, isn't it?" she said softly.

Andile nodded, her face screwed up in a grimace as she admitted the fact. "I didn't know I could feel this way, Doc... He's such a good man... So kind, so gentle..."

Beverly gaped at the woman, stunned by the sudden realization - then placed her hand beneath Andile's chin, lifting it until the woman was looking directly at her.

"You made love with him, didn't you?" she asked gently.

Andile eyes met the doctor's, hesitation and fear filling them - then her inner strength returned, and she nodded slowly, bracing herself for Beverly's recriminations.

The doctor, however, merely gave a sigh. "Dee, I thought we agreed: you and Data and Deanna and I were going to talk before you and Data resumed your sexual relationships," she chided gently.

Andile stared back at the physician, then bit her lip. "We didn't plan to. I mean, we had decided to talk with you - soon - about everything... but we were working at the computer console in our quarters, trying to figure out how to improve the efficiency rating in the dilithium chamber... but there's only one chair, and we both needed to use the computer, so I was sitting on his lap, and..."

A flash of insight filled Beverly: Andile reaching for a key, beginning to topple over, Data grabbing her to stop the fall, his hand brushing against her breast, an erotic thrill filling them both - a thrill, a need, a burning hunger... and then they were on the chair, on the floor, on the bed...

Beverly shook her head, chasing off the surprisingly vivid images, silently chiding herself for indulging in the fantasy; this was neither the time nor the place - nor the people, she added.

Reproving herself, she nodded, understanding, as a woman, what the two had done - but disapproving - slightly - as a physician.

But what was done was done, she reminded herself.

"And...?"

Andile stared at her blankly.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Beverly!" Andile replied indignantly.

"I'm asking as your physician, Dee, not as a voyeur. I tried to make sure the repairs I made to your vagina and anus would leave you with normal sensitivity and elasticity - but what the surgeon tries to do and what results aren't always the same. As your doctor, I want to know if there is a problem - and if there is, let's address it so that you can have normal sexual function.

"And," she added quietly, "as your friend, I want to make sure that it was good. Sex can be joyful, Dee; I want to know you're happy."

"I... he..." Andile hesitated, rapidly reddening, then whispered. "I'm happy."

Beverly smiled. "So am I - as your friend. But as your doctor, I have to ask about the specifics: did you have normal feeling in your breast? Your nipple? Any abnormal sensitivity? Pain? Numbness?"

Andile reddened, but shook her head.

"What about the intercourse itself?" Beverly pressed. "Any pain; discomfort?"

The engineer hesitated, obviously uncomfortable - but finally shook her head. "A little. At first," she admitted. "But not for very long. He was so gentle, so patient, not like..." she began, then stopped and looked up at Beverly. "Doc..." She hesitated again. "Doc, I didn't know it could be like that. What happened on Cardassia... Doc... Beverly..." she whispered, "What happened on Cardassia... that was my first time. I'd never been with anyone before... It hurt so much... I thought... I was so afraid it would be like that with him..."

Beverly's eyes widened at the woman's words. "You were a virgin on Cardassia?" she echoed, horrified.

Andile nodded.

"Oh, my God..." Beverly whispered, shocked by the realization of what Andile's introduction to sex must have been like. She lay her hand on Andile's arm. "I didn't know, Dee. I thought... I assumed..."

"I've been alive thousands of years - but as andile," the engineer reminded her coldly. "Andile aren't entitled to human contact, let alone have sex. And it wasn't sex; it was commerce," she added bitterly. "I sold myself."

"To save your children, to feed them, to clothe them," Beverly protested for her. "Dee, what you did..." she continued softly, then shook her head, unable to imagine being able to offer herself as her friend had done - or being able to endure the repeated assaults. "I don't think I could have done that. That was a sacrifice that no one could have expected or asked..."

"Sacrifice?" Andile snapped, suddenly furious. "There was no sacrifice! I was andile! I was filth! Selling myself, whoring out my body so that my Varel, my children could eat and stay warm one more night was nothing! It was nothing! Less than nothing! I was nothing in comparison to them!" she railed, her fury raging.

Beverly refused to flinch at the sudden verbal assault, having grown, if not used to, then at least inured to Andile's sudden mood swings. "It was a sacrifice, Dee," she reminded the woman, "a difficult and painful one - whether you'll acknowledge it or not. And I'm very proud of you," she added quietly.

"For being a whore?!"

"No," Beverly replied. "I'm proud - because for the first time, I'm hearing you talk about yourself in the past tense. 'I _was_ andile. I _was_ filth.' All past tense, Dee."

Andile looked startled at the observation, then hung her head.

"Dee?"

"I hadn't realized," the engineer answered softly - then looked at her physician once more, managing an uncertain smile. "I guess Deanna's counseling is working; I must not see myself as andile anymore," she admitted.

"But... if I'm not andile... who am I?" she added softly.

Beverly shook her head. "That, Dee, is the question we each ask ourselves everyday - and one we each spend our lives seeking to answer."

Andile gave a sigh of frustration - and returning good mood. "I was hoping for something a little easier, Doc: you know: Lt. Andile, Andile the engineer; Andile, Data's lover."

Beverly smiled back. "No defining yourself in terms of career or work or others, Dee," she reminded her. "No easy answers this time around, dear."

"Damn."

"And there's one more hard question as well," Beverly said, looking at her patient. "When you and Data made love, did you have an orgasm?"

"Doc!" Andile gasped, outraged.

"I need to know, Dee; not only to ensure that normal nerve function was restored - but to know if there's any psychological ramifications Deanna needs to address," Beverly explained.

"You're not going to talk to her about this, are you?!" Andile exclaimed.

The doctor sighed. "If need be, yes. Deanna is as determined to help you recover as I am, dear; if you are having issues with reaching sexual fulfillment - and those problems aren't physical - then yes, I will talk to her. But put your mind at ease for the time being; your sexual habits aren't the topic of our everyday conversation."

Andile nodded, accepting the pronouncement - but offering nothing further.

"So?"

The woman faced the physician. "So... what?" she asked innocently.

"Dee, you're not going to get out of it that easily. Did you have an orgasm?"

Andile's ruddy face turned crimson; looking down, Beverly saw her lips move, heard the faint movement of air - but the response was lost.

"I didn't hear you, Dee," she said. "Say it again."

"Yes."

The voice was so tiny, so weak that, for a moment, Beverly wasn't sure she had heard it - the she saw the miniscule nod that accompanied the humiliated response.

"Good. More than one?" she pressed.

Andile looked up, outraged, her indignation pushed beyond her bearing. "By the gods! I wasn't counting! I was busy!"

Beverly grinned, knowing the obfuscation was as good as a definitive answer; if it had only been the once, Andile would have quickly confirmed it, just to end the questioning. "That's a good enough answer - for now. But if you have any problems, you need to see me right away. Okay?"

Andile hesitated, then gave a single nod of her head. "Okay," she agreed. "Now, can we better get this over with?" she added, looking at the examination table.

"You're in a hurry to get out of here," Beverly replied as she helped the woman stretch out on the table once again. "I thought Data had the alpha shift today," she teased. "He won't be off duty for another few hours."

Andile reddened once more, but said nothing.

Instead, she stared at the arm stretched out before her, at the hand that splayed out, steadying her body as Beverly opened the gown once again and arranged a new surgical drape over the site, focusing on the dark red nails that ended each delicate finger as she tried to ignore the gentle warmth of the sterile field cover her side and the soft hiss of the hypo delivering the dosage of anaesthetic needed to numb the tissue, studying instead on the chipped edges as she felt the cold metal of the excision unit press against her ribs.

"You know the routine, Dee. Take a nice deep breath; I need to find a cluster of cells..." Beverly murmured.

Andile drew a deep breath, then turned her attention to her hands again.

I'll need to make an appointment at the salon again, she thought to herself - then silently shook her head.

What am I doing getting manicures? she asked herself harshly. I don't care what Deanna says about exploring my femininity - getting my nails done is stupid! It's pointless! It's a waste of time! I'm an engineer! Paint them again - and they'll just chip again - if they don't break while I'm prying some panel off, or scrambling through some conduit or accessway, or resetting the dilithium crystals...

But Data had loved them, she reminded herself, remembering how she had startled him with that simple touch of cosmetics, how he had admired their glossy red hardness, how he had run his fingers along the length of hers, the look of erotic curiosity in his eyes as he looked at her, the sensation of his lips pressing against the sensitive flesh of her palm, the warmth of his hands on her body, slowly exciting her, inflaming her needs - and his own, she remembered, the sensation of his hands leading hers down to caress him, the image of his watching her intently as she played those dark-red-tipped nails playing against the light color of his flesh, the soft groan of his pleasure as his need, his delight, grew more and more intense, building moment upon moment until he could contain himself no longer...

She drew in her hand, curling her nails into her hand, hiding the broken edges, resolving to waste the few minutes it would take to fix them - then realized that Beverly had fallen oddly silent, the equipment which usually played along the length of her side having stopping moving.

Risking the physician's wrath at moving, she looked back at the doctor - and was startled to see the woman staring at her, an expression of shocked pleasure covering her face.

"Doc?" Andile murmured worriedly.

For a moment, Beverly said nothing, did nothing - then with obvious effort, shook her head, clearing it - then looked at her patient.

"Dee..." she started, somewhat breathlessly, "Dear, either I've taken leave of my senses - or you're projecting yours."

"What... Oh, gods, no!" Andile gasped, shocked. "I didn't..."

Beverly lay a hand on her patient, calming her. "No harm done, Dee," she replied. "I've had those sorts of feelings before - though," she added with a smile, "I've never indulged in fantasizing about Data," she added with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"You reserve your fantasizing for Jean-Luc... I mean the captain," Andile said with a small smile.

Beverly gave a small laugh. "I think you're entitled to call him Jean-Luc, Dee - at least around me. However..."

"You're not going to admit to fantasizing about anyone, are you?" Andile said.

The physician shook her head.

"You know, you two are meant for each other," she sighed. "You both hold it in so tight - but one day - one night..." she began - then stopped. "I'm sorry," Andile said contritely.

"And I'm jealous," Beverly countered, fanning herself. "However, from what Jean-Luc has said, your projections are proximity dependent - correct?"

Andile nodded.

"Then you may need to work on strengthening you controls. I doubt the crew, at large, will be affected - but you may have a longer range effect on Jean-Luc. I hate to imagine what might happen to Jean-Luc is he were in the middle of some delicate negotiation with an alien species when you and Data..."

"Oh, gods!" Andile gasped, horrified. "Last night ...! You don't think he...?"

Beverly gave an uncertain shrug. "I doubt it. Certainly he made no mention of it at breakfast this morning. Maybe you were far enough apart - or he may have been pre-occupied with something else - or he may have even been asleep. In either case, he didn't say anything to me," she said, then added "but then, he's far too reserved to discuss something like that with his physician, Dee."

That was true - as far as it went, Beverly thought; Jean-Luc hadn't mentioned sensing the two the night before - but there was no question he had sensed them the night before the surgery.

Andile, however, didn't need to know about that, she added.

"Doc, you're more than his physician, you know," the engineer informed her quietly.

"I know," Beverly agreed, "but we're not yet at a level of intimacy where he's going to discuss errant sexual fantasies. However, you are going to have to address the issue with him - and help him learn how to block them."

"Me? Wouldn't Counselor Troi be better suited to...?" Andile began to protest.

"Dee, if he's not comfortable discussing any emotions or peripheral sensations he's sensing from you with me, then he certainly won't go to Deanna to ask for help in learning how to block your feelings," she reminded the engineer.

"He'd be mortified," Andile agreed reluctantly.

"More than that; he'd have to reveal your telepathy in doing so - and he's promised not to do so - not until you're comfortable with people knowing you're a telepath," Beverly said, neatly dancing around the truth.

Andile shook her head, suddenly growing sober. "I can't do that, Doc," she whispered. "Not yet. I know humans - your humans - don't see telepathy as my people did - but for me, it's still an abomination."

Beverly lay her hand on the woman's arm, calming her with the gentle touch. "It'll take time, Dee, for you to accept that telepathy is no more an abomination - or a blessing - than any other talent or ability; it's what you do with that ability that matters; but for now, I'm pleased that you don't see yourself as that abomination.

"But you can't let Jean-Luc walk around, subject to your - and Data's - feelings. It's unfair... not that he might not benefit from the occasional vicarious thrill," she added with a mischievous grin, "but the timing could be disastrous. No, someone's going to have to help him learn how to block it," she added, "and if it's not Deanna, that leaves you."

"I think that might embarrass him just as much as talking with Counselor Troi, Doc," Andile replied.

Beverly considered - then nodded. "Then teach me - and I'll teach him," she suggested.

Andile studied the woman for a moment. "That might not be a good idea, Doc; it can get pretty... intimate," she advised the woman cautiously.

Beverly smiled self-assuredly. "I think we can handle it, dear," she said.

The engineer studied the woman for a long moment - then allowed herself a small smile of indulgence. It might be better for you both, she thought her mind racing over the possibilities, if you can't - and, she added, a hell of a lot more fun.

Giving a soft laugh, she stretched out on the bed once again, studying the chipped nails, making a silent resolution to find the time to have them repaired before she returned to their quarters...

"You can sit up now, Dee," Beverly said a few moments later.

Startled, Andile looked back at the physician. "No cells?" she replied worriedly, the procedure seeming to have gone too quickly for the doctor to have found and retrieved any cells.

"Plenty of cells," Beverly replied, holding up the collection vial. "No problem harvesting a cluster today," she added, remembering the difficulty they had had in gathering a tissue sample in the first few weeks after the transplant. "The growth rate seems to be running true to prediction. If the biopsy indicates the cellular health is at an equivalent level, I might even consider increasing your shift to five hours a day," she continued.

Beverly turned away, setting down the vial, picking up Andile's chart, reviewing it, nodding at the notes she had made, then turned back to her patient - and stopped.

Andile was staring at her breasts, studying the intently - and frowning.

"Dee?"

"They're kind of small, aren't they?" she asked.

"They're appropriately sized for your frame and weight, dear," Beverly countered. "Jemat and I reconstructed your right breast to be an accurate reflection of your left breast."

She studied them again. "Do you think Data would like them bigger? I know he's an android - but he's a man, too; would he want me to have larger breasts?" she asked worriedly.

Beverly smiled. "Data loves you, dear - not your breasts. And, as you gain weight and develop the muscles of your chest and back once again, they will enlarge. I can't say how large they'll become; your low body fat has inhibited some hormone production, and your metabolism in the last few years has definitely affected their size. But as your adrenal glands continue to reduce in size, as your body fat level moves toward normal, and as your hormone levels approach their norm, they will change. How much, though, I can't say," she added. "If, after a year or two, you - you, dear, not Data," she admonished her patient, "if you decide you would like to enhance their size, we can do so. But not until your body has had a chance to heal and recover completely," she added.

"Which brings me to my last topic," she added, retrieving a hypo from the table. "I want to start you on long-term birth control. You're well enough to start being sexually active - but a pregnancy right now would kill you; I don't want to take any chances. Standard Starfleet contraceptives have a one year period of efficacy - but I would like you to consider repeating it again next year; two years should give your body sufficient time to recuperate and regenerate to the extent needed to consider conceiving and bearing a child," she told the woman.

Andile gaped at the woman, too stunned - and too enraged - to reply. Finally, she managed a angrily hissed, "That's not funny, Doc!"

"I'm not joking, Dee," Beverly replied. "Data may not be capable of fathering a child - but there are other men on this ship - and while you may love Data, feelings do change..."

"I will never stop loving him," Andile shot back, "but even if I did...Doc, I can't have children!"

Beverly frowned. "What do you mean, 'you can't have children'?" she countered.

"My people... When I was a child... Doc, they sterilized us!" she retorted angrily. "They told us we were andile, that no one would ever touch us - but if they did, we could not be allowed to have children, to perpetuate ourselves. They... did something to us," she repeated, the memory vague, remembering only being placed on a surgical bed, consciousness fading - and the dull pain in her abdomen when she woke.

Instantly worried, Beverly coaxed Andile back onto the bed, quickly running the scanner over her abdomen - then allowing her frown to redouble. "Dee... There's nothing wrong here. No indication your people - or anyone - ever did anything to affect your reproductive organs. Your ovaries, your uterus - everything is normal!" she replied.

Or rather, she added silently, as normal as could be, reaffirming what her earlier blood tests had discovered. But that was something for another day; something she and Dee and Deanna would discuss when Andile had come to terms with the balance of her life.

Aiding Andile back to a seated position, she helped the woman close her gown, then pulled a chair close to the table.

"Dee, you are as fertile as any woman of your apparent age. Credit your strange DNA for that; you to produce a fertile egg every month, and secrete it, just as most health women do. That means you can get pregnant," she said firmly.

"But... what my people told me..." Andile protested.

Beverly hesitated. "I don't know what they told you - or what they did. Perhaps they attempted to sterilize you - and it didn't work; certainly with your healing ability, a basic tubal ligation would have been completely ineffective. Whatever the case, you _are_ fertile; you can get pregnant."

"But... I've never had a period," she reported, shaken.

"That's not atypical in a woman with as little body fat as you have, dear," Beverly soothed. "Amenorrhea is linked to low body fat - but usually it's also connected to the cessation of egg secretion - something that's not happening in your case. You are producing and secreting eggs; the lining of the uterus is thickening every twenty-eight days. The difference is that your body reabsorbs the tissue and the egg if pregnancy doesn't occur, so you never shed the lining - you never bleed," she informed the engineer. "That may be part of the genetic manipulation imposed on your people - it may be a natural genetic change unique to your family - or just to you. We may never know," she continued, "but we do know that you can have a child... but not now," she added firmly, hefting the hypo once again.

Andile stared at the hypo - then at the woman - the gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Gods, all these years, these millennia... I thought I couldn't be a mother... I accepted that, Doc; I accepted it as the gods' punishment because I was andile... and now you tell me I can have children - except the man I love can't! Oh, how the gods must hate me!" she cried out, heart-sick and stricken. "I must be andile for them to be so cruel - but I've tried to be good, Doc," she cried again, the pain giving way to tears and grief. "I've tried to follow the teachings, to do what I was taught... But still they hate me... I must truly be andile..." she sobbed.

The sound a sharp slap echoed through the small room. Stunned, Andile raised a hand to her face, staring at the woman before her, her face red with anger.

"Don't ever say that again!" Beverly raged. "You are not andile! You have _never_ been andile! You are a good and gentle and honorable person who never deserved any of what has happened to you - and I never want to hear you call yourself that word again!" she said, furious.

Andile stared at the woman, then slowly lowered her hand, a red imprint marking her cheek. "Yes, ma'am," she replied meekly.

Beverly stared at the mark for a moment - then felt herself deflate, stricken by what she had done. "Oh, Dee..." she began.

"It's okay, Doc," Andile replied, shaken.

"No, it's not okay," the physician countered. "It is most definitely not okay. To have hit you..." She shook her head, contrite, chagrined. "My God, Dee, I'm no better than your people," she said.

Andile reached out, grabbing the physician's hand. "Doc, don't compare yourself to them. You are most definitely not the same as my people."

Beverly stared at the woman for a long moment, then let go the breath she had been holding. "I'm sorry," she said.

"It's okay - it really is," Andile replied. "I was getting a little hysterical, I guess – I guess a little of it rubbed off on you. But it is ironic; I thought I couldn't have children - and I learn I can - but the man I love cannot - and _that_ is not going to change."

"Data is not the only man on the ship," Beverly reminded her.

"Yes, but..."

"And you are both exploring your relationships," the doctor continued. "You may break up, you may decide to explore your options, you may decide an 'open' relationship is what you want... Whatever the reason, you may find yourself with another lover, Dee - and I don't want that decision to result in a pregnancy your body can't handle," she reminded.

Andile studied the woman for a long time. "That's not going to be a problem, Doc; look at me. Data doesn't understand human standards of beauty - but other men do. I'm not pretty..."

"Men don't judge women just on their outward appearance, Dee," Beverly countered. "They're attracted by intelligence, personality, behavior - bravery," she added - then smiled. "What happened on the ship - and on the Breen ship after that... "She smiled again. "Let's just say there are a lot of men - and some women - who have been asking after you," she informed the engineer. "If Data's not careful, he's going to have some stiff competition," she added with a smile.

"He doesn't have anything to worry about, Doc... But I don't want to take any chances," she added.

"Good choice," Beverly said, pressing the hypo to Andile's upper arm, then removed it again. Facing her patient once again, she said, "Now, why don't you get dressed," she said.

Andile slid from the table - then stopped. "In what?" she asked, teasingly. "Civvies - or uniform?"

Beverly smiled back. "Civvies," she countered - then added, at Andile's frown, "I'm going to inform the captain that you can resume a five-hour a day shift - starting tomorrow. Today, however, you have another appointment," she said.

Andile frowned. "Another appointment?" she asked, shaking her head. "I don't have counseling until tomorrow..."

Beverly shook her head in agreement. "No, not counseling. The captain asked me to have you report to him after your appointment with me," she explained.

Andile's worried expression disappeared. "I assume that means you're going to let us start playing on the holodeck again," she said happily.

Beverly smiled back. "Under modified conditions," she said. "I don't want you to overdo it - what with your added hours... and your extra-curricular activities," she added with a smile.

Andile reddened. "Err... "

"Get dressed, Beej," Beverly ordered gently. "Worf will be here in a few minutes to escort you," she said.

"Worf? What for? I thought we agreed that I'm not in any danger any more," she protested.

"Another topic for you and the captain to discuss," Beverly replied. "Get dressed."


	173. Chapter 173

**Chapter 173**

"You're certain you did the right thing?" Picard asked, reaching for the tea pot, filling the two porcelain cups on the coffee table.

"Certain?" Beverly replied, shaking her head as she placed the plate of croissants between them - then placed one on her plate before settling onto the couch. "No, of course I'm not certain. Damn it, Jean-Luc, she has a right to know - but how could I tell her?" she asked. "In the first breath, she's grieving over the fact she can't have children - or that she believes she can't have children, then she's exultant at the knowledge she can - then devastated again because Data can't father those children? At which point in that emotional roller coaster do I tell her that her blood work and her physical both indicate she was pregnant, courtesy of one of those assaults on Cardassia - and when do I tell her she lost that child? She'll be devastated, Jean-Luc," Beverly told him.

He eased back into the chair next to the couch, took a croissant for himself, then looked at Beverly. "She has a right to know, Bev," he reminded her.

"She does - and I have every intention of telling her - when she can better handle the news. But right now, she is emotionally fragile..."

"Too fragile?" he interrupted, instantly concerned.

Beverly tore a piece off the pastry, popped it into her mouth - then shook her head. "Fragile doesn't mean unstable, Jean-Luc. You were fragile after the incident with the Borg, after Celtris III, even after Kataan. You needed time to re-establish your emotional solidity - just as Dee has needed it lately. But there's only so much even the strongest ego can handle at any one time - and this, the knowledge that was both pregnant and suffered a miscarriage - might be more than she can handle. In a week, or a month - or maybe a year, I'll tell her. But not now; now it would do nothing more than hurt her, make her question herself just as she did yesterday, make her think she is andile, in all of its worst connotations," she said.

Picard nodded. "Then your evaluation stands?"

"I'm a physician, not a psychologist - but I've no doubts that Dee is healing, physically and emotionally, and healing well. There will be setbacks, of course - but for the first time in her life, she knows she has the support of people who love her and care for her - and for the first time, she knows that. Yes, I stand by my evaluation; there is nothing in her condition that precludes her reassuming roles that demand responsibility. Limited hours, of course," she added firmly.

"Of course," he echoed, smiling - then tore a piece from his croissant, chewing it thoughtfully.

"And you?" Beverly asked, sipping from her tea cup. "Are you equally certain?"

Brows raised in question, she popped the last piece of croissant into her mouth, chewing the morsel with a glimmer of satisfied pleasure on her face - even as her eyes questioned her companion.

Picard smiled as he watched her. It was good - no, he amended, it was wonderful - to see his old friend sitting across the table from him once again, sharing breakfast - and sharing confidences, questions, worries - all the intimacies of a dear, dear friendship, he thought.

Beverly returned the smile - though her expression was somewhat less obvious, somewhat more beguiling - and Picard found himself intrigued.

"What's that smile for?" he asked her, reaching for the tea pot, refilling both of the tea cups

"I was going to ask you the same thing," she replied, taking the cup before settling back into her customary place, curled up in the corner of the couch.

He hesitated for a moment - but only a moment, reminding himself of their changing relationship - and his promise not to hold back on his thoughts and feelings. They both knew, of course, an almost impossible request, that such a thing was almost impossible: one does not change a life time of stoic silence for blatant openness in a single night - but here, with her... he would at least try.

"I was just thinking... how much I've missed having breakfast with you," he admitted.

"Dee isn't a good companion in the morning?" Beverly teased gently.

"She was a fine companion - once she was up," he demurred. "However, getting her out of bed was a challenge."

"Not a morning person?"

"On the contrary," Picard disagreed. "She woke early - but once she was awake, we had to change blood lines, get her lung back in place, get her dressed - and all so that she could attend to her morning ablutions. After that..."

"After that, there was the medications, the monitoring... Yes, yes, I know the routine quite well," Beverly agreed.

"And in order for me to facilitate her needs, I had to wake and dress before she got up."

"Hmm... I think Dee might have quite liked seeing you attending to her dressed in your pyjamas and robe," Beverly teased. "I know I would," she added quietly.

Picard raised a brow, not entirely sure if she were teasing or serious this time. "Indeed," he murmured, opting to drop that line where it lay... and perhaps pick it up again, at another time, in another place.

"Regardless of your preferences, my dear doctor, by the time she was ready to face the day, we were both exhausted. Breakfast was pleasant - but quiet... and despite her protestations to the contrary, she was still somewhat reticent to eat," he added.

"She still is," Beverly sighed. "She's gaining weight - but only an eighth of a kilo this week. I'd like to see her put on at least twice that."

Picard reddened slightly - evoking another questioning look from the physician. "What is it?"

"You might suggest to Dee that she and Data... well... um... reduce their extra-curricular activities," he said. "All that exercise..."

Beverly's eyes widened. "They were at it again last night?"

"Enthusiastically," he agreed uncomfortably.

Beverly chuckled softly. "Oh, my poor, poor captain, how you must be suffering!" she laughed.

"Laugh all you like, Beverly," he grumbled, "but it's quite... discomfiting. I was trying to finish my reports before the diplomatic courier ships arrive..."

"Which they won't for several more days, Jean-Luc; you have plenty of time!" she reminded him.

"Under other circumstances, I would agree - but we've lost so much of the computer's memory that I've been relegated to detailing reports from the notes I've made on padds," he reminded her, gesturing at his desk, covered with dozens of the devices. "And details are imperative; I have no doubt that we're going to face a board of inquiry..."

"Surely the Admiralty isn't going to charge you with any wrong-doing!" she gasped indignantly. "Not only did we complete our mission, but we've had a successful first contact with the Breen! What more could they want?!"

"Beverly," he replied calmly, "our ship was sabotaged from within, by agents working with a foreign, unallied power. That, in and of itself, calls for an inquiry; add to that the fact that Jay Tillerman and I were old friends..."

"Acquaintances," she corrected.

"Whichever," he conceded, "the Admiralty is going to want a full report on what happened. That we will exonerate ourselves and our actions is without doubt," he added reassuringly, "but the more detailed my reports, the more accurate the facts, the easier that hearing will be - and the sooner we can get on with our mission. All the more reason I need to complete these reports, undisturbed," he pointed out.

"Well, you could work on them during the day," she suggested. "Will's going to be captain soon enough; let him make the preparations for the rendezvous."

"I have - and we'll discuss that matter in detail at this morning's senior staff meeting..." He glanced at the chronometer, realized they still had ample time before they had to leave, then settled back in his chair, looked back as his companion.

"You're doing it again," he said.

"Doing what?"

"Smiling - as though you know something I don't," he said.

"Of course I do," she replied. "That's a woman's prerogative! But I'm smiling because... you're smiling," she explained.

"Oh?"

"I like it when you smile, Jean-Luc - not your official, captainly smile - but this smile," she said, straightening from her cat-like pose to draw her hand along the angle of his face. "This smile," she repeated softly, "the one that comes from your soul, the one that makes your whole face light up - the one that crinkles your eyes and your cheeks..."

"That's old age, Beverly," he objected gently.

"It's anything but old age, Jean-Luc; it is charming and heart-felt and terribly, terribly handsome - and more than a little sexy," she added.

He raised a brow, once more uncertain if she were teasing - then decided to find out.

Leaning forward, he caressed her face in the same way - then tightening his grip slightly, he drew her toward her, half expecting she would pull away - but hoping she wouldn't.

If the words were a tease, her response was not; she met the kiss, a little tentatively at first, then with a growing intensity that made him wonder if he should have pursued those other teasing questions and remarks of hers all along.

Probably not, he decided a moment later as they pulled apart, eyes locked upon one another; they had been teases meant to test the waters - but not meant as offers to swim in the depths they suggested.

Love had not been cruel to Beverly - to either of them - he thought - but neither had it been kind, and it had taken time and experimentation - and loss and discovery for them to both get to this place where they now found themselves.

And even now...

"Jean-Luc," she started softly, uncertainly.

"I won't rush you, Beverly," he said. "We'll take this in the time we need to do it right... but we will do this," he added firmly.

"Is that an order?" she teased.

He ignored the jibe, answering her as intently and seriously as he could. "It is my heart's desire, Beverly," he told her earnestly, "and I will do whatever I must to make it happen. But... if you ever decide this isn't what you want..."

"It's what I want," she assuredly him hurriedly. "But... slowly," she added, uncertainty and fear tingeing her words.

"As you wish," he agreed.

She smiled at him - then glanced at the chronometer. "We should be going," she pointed out.

"We should," he agreed.

Rising as one from their positions, they quickly cleared the table, then straightened their uniforms before moving toward the door.

Reaching it, though, Picard hesitated - and Beverly understood at once.

"It's all right, Jean-Luc," she assured him. "I have my reluctances - and you have yours. I don't need you to make a public acknowledgement of our relationship... yet," she added with a wicked grin.

He smiled - genuinely - once again - and to his surprise, watched as Beverly leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Maybe Dee's right; we are two of a kind - but at least we're two of a kind... together," she sighed. "Shall we?" she repeated - then stepped close to the door, activating the sensor.

The doors slid open and the two exited, completely unnoticed by a pair of passing ensigns.

"So much concern for your public image, my dear captain," she murmured as they began to move down the hall. "Everyone's gotten so used to us being together as shipmates, they don't even notice that we're something more."

"Indeed," he agreed. "though from my point of view, the change is so apparent we might as well be wearing signs."

Beverly chuckled softly. "That would make it easier, though, wouldn't it? An illuminated sign over each person's head stating their relationship to others, so no one has any doubts as to who is with who?"

"Why not go one further - and have the sign detail all their personal information - name, rank, fields of interest," he suggested. "It would eliminate the bother of having to get to know someone before you decide whether or not to make their acquaintance." he replied.

Beverly nodded. "But it would take out the fun as well - and, some of the adventure. After all, it's been rather delightful getting to know the stuffy captain of the Enterprise?" she reminded him.

"Stuffy?" he protested, hurt.

She inclined her head. "Pompous?" she offered. "Arrogant?"

"Beverly..." he sighed.

"You have to admit you can be all of those things, Jean-Luc - but you can also be very charming, very gracious, very generous... and maybe a little foolhardy as well," she added worriedly.

He raised a brow.

"I just want to be certain that you're certain..."

"I thought we had discussed this," he replied.

"We have," she agreed.

"And that, while there are risks involved, the potential gain far outweighed the potential harm," he continued.

"It does," she agreed.

"Then...?"

"It's still a risk - and..."

"And...?"

Beverly hesitated, then stopped and turned to face the man beside her. "I've seen you take risks before, Jean-Luc - and you haven't always come out of them well. I can patch you up in Sickbay - but if you damage your career doing this, there's nothing in Sickbay that can help!"

"Beverly," he said soberly, "this is Starfleet; risk is our business."

"Yes - when we're talking about saving worlds or species or ending wars..."

He shook his head. "No. Not just that. If we truly believe in what we say, if we truly feel that the Federation stands for is what we personally adhere to in our own lives - then we must follow that practice not just on the surface, but at its core levels as well. We must take risks, not just in the grand scheme of things - but in the minute ones as well. Bringing Data on as my first officer is a risk, yes; he's not an organic being - but didn't we all risk our careers to get his existence recognized, to fight for his acceptance as a full and equal officer - and for the rights - and responsibilities - that the rest of us took as granted?"

"But he's not human," she reminded him. "He does not have the same background of life experiences that the rest of us have - experiences that can guide us and direct us in our decision making processes. To put him in a position where he might have to make a difficult - or unbearable - decision..."

"He knows the possibilities, Beverly," Picard replied softly - then, after a quick glance down both sides of the corridor, took her hands in his. "We all know the possibilities," he added softly. "Bev, is this really about the changes in the bridge crew - or is this about us?"

She hesitated, biting at her lip - then gave a soft sigh. "Both. Oh, Jean-Luc, I've gone through nine kinds of hell serving with you, watching you come back to the ship in bits and pieces, your body broken - and sometimes not coming back," she added, stricken, "and each time, it was with the thought: what if I can't save him this time? Losing Jack was unbearable, Jean-Luc - but in a way, it was easy. It happened, it was done - and there was nothing I could have done to save him. Here, serving on this ship with you, watching you as you risk your life... What happens that one time when you come back - and there's nothing I can do? What happens when I can't save you? How do I go on?

"And what happens when you send me on a mission - and I don't come back? How can I ask you to live with that?" she added softly.

"Beverly..."

"How do you ask Data to live with that?" she reminded him.

Picard studied her for a long moment - then gave a nod. "I ask him, because while I - we - intellectually know the risks involved, we don't live our lives to be protected from all outside danger; we try to live our lives to the fullest - and that means broadening our horizons, expanding our universes - and learning. Learning to live with the consequences of our actions - for good or ill. Would you rather I rescind the promotions I've granted - and say that our emotions - love, fear, worry, hatred - are so much more important than the rest of our lives that we should live sheltered away from the possibility of danger? Or do I tell him that those emotions - and the wondrous world they grant us - depend on our being willing to risk our lives - and the lives of those around us - in order to maintain the society in which we believe?"

He gave a long sigh, then ran his hands up the length of her arms as if to reaffirm her presence before him - then to her astonishment and his own, pulled her to him. "But if that society is to have value to us as individuals, Beverly, it is only because it allows us to have this in return," he told her softly. "We live our lives in a precarious dance, risking our lives to save that in which we believe - because that belief allows us to have something worth risking. It's a difficult life we've chosen, Beverly - and it's a choice not many can make. But know this: I do what I do - so that I can love you, so that I can try to provide for you a universe that is safe and secure - and you do what you do - healing the injured, the sick, the broken, so that they can return to that mission - of saving the universe for those they love.

"We both run the risk that we will fail, Bev - but oh, if we succeed!" he said, turning his face up, looking at the dull metal corridor of the ship - but seeing a world, a glorious universe of wonders that transcended the metallic monotony - and knowing that the woman in his arms was a part of that unbearable wonder.

For a moment, Beverly said nothing, did nothing - then he felt her arms encompass him as well - but her arms trembled as she held him, their grasp was both uncertain and desperate.

He allowed it to continue, unquestioned, understanding her fear all too well - then gently pried himself away. "We'll talk more, Bev... later. For now, we have a meeting to attend," he reminded her.

She nodded - but the look of fear in her eyes was slow to fade.

"Seven receptions?" Picard echoed, astounded and appalled at once.

"Yes, sir," Will replied. "The Federation liaison has indicated that the representatives of the Cardassians, Romulans and Klingons have agreed to a six day meeting at this site to formally present and accept for presentation the proposed treaties."

"The treaties have already been transmitted by subspace to each government, Number One," Picard pointed out drolly.

Will shrugged light-heartedly. "Yes, sir - but if we kept things that simple, the diplomats would have to look for real jobs," he said with a smile. "Apparently, they representatives of each government - Cardassian, Romulan, Klingon and Federation have already been in discussion over the matter; they've agreed that there should be a formal presentation of the treaty to each party involved."

"And how does that equate to seven receptions, Will?" Picard asked.

"The decision was made that the Enterprise will host an opening reception, followed by a presentation of the proposed treaty on each of the representative ships on each subsequent day, followed by a presentation of the treaty to the Breen on their vessel..."

"Have they discussed that possibility with Jemat or his people?" Picard asked. "Maintaining their mystique has been a critical part of the Breen strategy for the last several centuries; I'm not sure they'll be sanguine about having a few dozen self-invited non-Breen roaming about on their vessel."

Will smiled knowingly, his eyes twinkling merrily. "The diplomats agree with you, sir - which is why they're leaving the arrangements to you, Captain," he informed the man.

"Lovely," Picard muttered, then added, "You said seven. I count five."

"Yes, sir; there will also be a formal closing reception aboard the Enterprise, after which the Federation and the Klingons will depart."

"That's six," the captain reminded him.

Will hesitated slightly - then plunged ahead. "Yes, sir. The seventh reception isn't exactly an official function, sir. Deanna and I thought..."

"Will and I wanted to celebrate our engagement with the crew before we return to Earth," Deanna interjected, "and before Tiron and Zumell leave," she added, somewhat shyly.

Picard nodded, understanding; after months aboard, the two had become more than visitors to the ship - they had become, if not members of the immediate family of the Enterprise, then at least distant cousins - ones whom, if the treaty was not accepted and passed, they might well never see again, he thought with a surprising degree of disquiet.

And even if it was passed...

He shook his head, knowing how turbulent the life of a Romulan Senator was - and how short lived the life of any Cardassian who disrupted the status quo could be.

They had shared months of difficulty with these people; a chance now to share the pleasures was not one they should easily dismiss.

And perhaps there was one other, he added silently.

"Agreed. Had you considered asking Jemat as well?" he inquired.

Deanna's eyes widened for a moment - then she looked to her fiancé.

"We had, sir, but we weren't sure how you - or Beej - might take it. We do owe them quite a lot for helping save Biji's life - but we were only put in this position because of them," he reminded the man.

"Your call, then, Number one - and yours, Counselor," he added hastily, looking at Deanna. "I do not believe the lieutenant would have any objections - but feel free to ask her.

"Seven receptions," he continued with a sigh - then gave a resigned shrug. "Perhaps it's for the best that we celebrate while we can; I doubt we'll see any welcome-home festivities at out return."

"The court of inquiry," Data offered.

Picard nodded, agreeing with the android. "Indeed - but even so, even considering the severity of the issue - the infiltration of a Federation ship by agents of a foreign power - I have reason to believe that the Admiralty will not pursue the matter aggressively."

"I doubt Adm. Czymszczak is any too anxious to have his complicity in this mess revealed," Beverly added sourly.

Picard shot her a sharp look. "We have no solid evidence that Admiral Czymszczak was the individual responsible, Doctor," he reminded her firmly.

Beverly gave a short nod of acknowledgement at the reproof.

"However, from what Jay Tillerman said, we do have adequate reason to believe that one of the serving admirals was unduly involved," he added a moment later, "and that - the potential for exposure of potentially treasonable activities - that alone should serve to keep this from progressing to a court-martial."

"To allow such an individual to remain in service to the Federation is dishonorable, Captain," Worf volunteered, his anger and passion evident on his face as well as in his voice. "If a court-martial is the only way to make public these actions..."

"From a point of honor, then making what has happened public may seem to be the right thing to do," Deanna pointed out calmly, "but it also could be very dangerous. Not only is the Federation is just coming out a war, but the dissolution of the Council - and the extended time needed to negotiate this agreement - will have created extreme tensions among the member worlds. To learn that Starfleet was involved, to its very core, in that situation, will not help to soothe frayed nerves - or to reassure the people."

"You would prefer they not know the truth?" Worf countered, growling.

"The truth? No, they should know the truth," Deanna replied. "Unfortunately, what they would get from a public revelation at this point is rumor, conjecture and theory - all without proof or substantiation."

Worf glared at her. "We put Lt. Andile through an interrogation with less evidence than that, Counselor; can we ask our Admirals to hold themselves to a different standard?" he pressed.

" 'Our Admirals', Worf?" Geordi asked, surprised at the use of the possessive. "Are you thinking of rejoining Starfleet?"

Worf's look darkened. "I never left, Geordi. My position with General Martok was as liaison to the Klingon High Command from Starfleet - not the opposite. And no, I am not considering leaving the General's service," he added firmly. "I have already done so."

There was a moment of stunned silence - then the table erupted in a mass of exclamations and questions.

Picard allowed the commotion to continue for several seconds, until it was obvious that the Klingon would not be able to answer all the questions that were being thrown at him with any semblance of order; raising his hands, he quieted the gathering, then spoke.

"Mr. Worf approached me several weeks ago, inquiring about resuming his role as a field officer in the Federation. I forwarded his request - with my full approval - to Starfleet; I have since been notified that his request has been granted, and, upon our return to Earth, he will be reinstated, with all the rank and responsibility due a lieutenant commander," he informed them with solemnity - and unmistakable pride.

"I guess that answers the question of who Captain Riker's first officer is going to be!" Geordi exclaimed.

"Unfortunately not," Will countered soberly. "Despite my earnest pleadings, Mr. Worf declined the position."

"You turned it down?" Geordi gaped, turning to the Klingon. "Why, Worf?"

Worf gave the engineer an unflinching look. "The first officer of a Federation vessel is responsible for establishing and maintaining the morale of its crew, Commander. After so long an absence from Starfleet and its predominantly human crews, I believe I would not be well suited for that role. Perhaps, after a year or two reacquainting myself with the peculiarities of the human ego, I would be able to fulfill that role - but not at this time," he announced with a grimness that defied determining if he was joking about his fellow officers - or being completely serious.

Whichever it was, however, there was no doubt that he had turned down the position.

"Well, At least we know who the captain's new second officer is then!" Geordi tried again, his enthusiasm a little lessened by his error.

Picard shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Geordi."

"But..." the engineer began to protest.

"Commander," Worf interrupted, "your protestation serves to remind us both of how different our peoples truly are. I am a Klingon; I am a warrior."

"We know, Worf," Geordi protested.

"Yes - but even though you proclaim to know this, you continue to attribute to me human cultural standards that do not apply. I am a warrior - but as I knew once, and as I have come to learn again, I am not a leader."

"I would argue that point, Mr. Worf," Picard interjected.

Worf gave a slight nod to the captain. "I stand corrected; yes, as a warrior - and as a Starfleet officer, I can lead as the situation demands - but I find that the role of a true leader - a captain, a general, even a first or second officer, is not a role that suits my personality. That I can act in that function as needed is beyond question - but to maintain that role... it is not something I willing choose to do," he informed them.

"Worf... I'm sorry," Geordi said, stunned.

"There is no need for commiseration, Commander," Worf countered. "Humans equate command with superiority - but a true warrior aspires not to a specific position, but rather to serve in the capacity to which he is best suited. My strength is not command - but rather, Security. Therefore, I have accepted, once again, at Captain Picard's request, the position of Chief Security Officer on the Enterprise," he said with obvious satisfaction.

"And I am delighted to have him back," Picard added.

"As are we all," Geordi concurred, a little stunned, "but if Data's is going to be your first officer, and Worf is staying on in Security - then who's taking Data's place?" Geordi asked.

Before Picard could reply, however, Will spoke up. "I'll begin drawing up a list of the candidates, sir..." he started - but Picard shook his head.

"Thank you, Will - but while that task is traditionally relegated to the first officer, I felt it inappropriate for the captain of another vessel to select my new second," he reminded the present first officer. "Commander Data has already prepared a list of the candidates who meet the requirements for the position..."

Will felt a surge of alarm wash over him as the fact that the most obvious candidate - Worf excluded - did not meet those same requirements.

But the requirements for promotion at Starfleet Command could be, if not ignored, then certainly altered, if the circumstances demanded it; otherwise, the captain himself might never have progressed from second officer to captain, he thought, remembering Picard's own precipitous promotion aboard the Stargazer.

And if it applied to him, then why not to another, who also merited a similar field promotion? Will asked himself.

"Sir," he interrupted a moment later, "in addition to those do meet the requirements for promotion, there may be others aboard who would should be considered - even if they don't meet the qualifications immediately," he said. "Given our circumstances, a field promotion would not exceed Starfleet's guidelines for rank elevation," he reminded the man.

Picard drew a long breath. "Under other circumstances, I would agree with you, Will - but the fact is that we do have a considerable number of qualified candidates already available; to disregard their rank and years of service - and their efforts during this mission - would be unfair. No, I believe that we had an ample number of candidates using the standard requirements."

The standard requirements, Will thought glumly; an individual holding at least the rank of lieutenant commander, who had completed at least sixty percent of the coursework for a bridge officer, with a minimum of ten years of active service... He smiled to himself: well, Beej met that qualification without questions. But as for the rest...

He sighed - then began to consider the options, mulling over the half dozen lieutenant commanders aboard, placed there by the strange circumstances that had left them with a crew of unknowns scattered among their usual compliment - then shook his head, unable to find one who was 'bridge material'.

But then, he added, who was 'bridge material' when they first joined the senior staff? It took time for anyone to make a good meld with that group - and all the more now, when he - or she - had to join with a team in transition.

Perhaps that was what made the captain the officer he was, Will added; knowing how to evaluate and assess individuals not only one the attributes they possessed - but on their potentials as well. No matter who the captain chose, there was always the chance the blend would fail... but that was a risk that came with the position - a risk that he would soon be having to take for his own ship.

No wonder Picard had not wanted him to be involved in the selection of the new second officer, Will thought; whoever the new second officer was, he - or she - was going to have to find a way to work with the captain and those who formed the new senior staff - and, he added as a wave of nostalgia washed over him, that new staff would not involve him.

No, these would be the captain's people, his to mold into a cohesive unit, just as he had brought this disparate group together so many years ago, just as he had done time and again across the years.

And just as I will do, he added soberly, another reality of his new position sinking in.

He looked up as Picard concluded the litany of qualified candidates, having given a brief recitation of their qualifications for the role - then continued, "Each candidate has been given a psychological review..."

Will glanced at his lover, then leaned close to her. "Did you talk with Beej?" he asked, a wash of hope coming over him.

She looked back, soberly shaking her head. "No," she whispered.

"Oh."

"As well as a full physical to assure that they met the physical demands of the position," Picard continued.

Which definitely let Biji out of the running, Will realized glumly. The last glimmer of hope fading away, he turned his full attention back to the captain.

"While several officers met the qualification, I felt that, in the end, there was only one choice," Picard said at last. He touched the communicator control on the desk. "Commander? Would you please join us in the conference room?" he asked, then touched the control again to terminate the call, and rose to his feet.

The call was obviously prearranged, Will thought as he rose to his feet to welcome the newcomer, an unusual touch of the theatric from a man not usually given to such dramatic gestures - but then, he added, how often did one get the opportunity to welcome a newcomer to this rather elite gathering?

After all, one could hardly have every new officer join the senior staff by having a portion of the staff kidnapped by the Q continuum, while the balance of the ship solved an interspecies mystery, Will thought... and that was just as well, he decided.

Steeling himself to face... whomever.. he gave his uniform tunic a tug down, turned toward the opening doors - and stared.

Awkwardly, Andile stepped into the room, self-consciously adjusting the crimson and black uniform, smiling at the others as Picard stepped to her side.

"May I present Lt. Cmdr. Handeela," Picard said, perfect sobriety competing with beaming pride in his voice and on his face, "second officer of the U.S.S Enterprise."

For a moment, stunned silence filled the room - then Will let out a whoop of joy. "Beej!" he exclaimed, even as Geordi raced to the engineer's side, lifting her up, spinning her around in obvious delight before setting her down - and hugging her again.

"Thanks, Geordi," she said a little bashfully.

"What's this?" Will scoffed. "Humility? Shyness? From our Beej?" he teased her - then embraced her just as Geordi has. Pulling her close, he murmured in her ear, "Damn fine work, Commander. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Commander," she replied. "Or should I say Captain?" she asked.

"Technically, it would still be Commander," Data clarified. "The utilization of a change in rank is only to be implemented _after_ such promotion has been officially granted, which, in the case of Commander Riker, will not be until after out return to Earth."

"So do I still call you Lieutenant?" Will replied.

"No," Picard offered. "Cmdr. Handeela's promotion was instituted seven months ago."

"Seven months...?"

"Long story, Commander," Andile said.

"And I want to hear every detail," he insisted.

"After," Deanna added as she pushed her way past the two men, "we give Biji her proper welcome." She stretched out her arms, opening them to the petite engineer, then hugging her tightly. "When the captain asked me to interview the candidates, I was a little surprised your name wasn't on the list," she informed the woman. "I didn't realize - until you walked in the door - that I'd been interviewing you for the last several months," she admitted.

"I guess the captain thought that while I'm not the most emotionally stable soul aboard, at least my instabilities are well documented," Andile replied.

"You are as stable as any other officer," Deanna countered firmly.

"That's a rather terrifying thought," Andile replied.

"You're just learning how to properly express those emotions," the counselor added. "That's going to take time - but you're progress has been excellent, Beej - and your determination to resolve your personal issues has been exceptional. I'm sure that factored heavily in your favor," she added, glancing at Picard, who nodded.

"As did your bravery - and your sense of honor," Worf added, pushing through to the woman.

The two stared at each other for a moment, awkward hostility threatening - then Andile offered a hand to the man. "I hope we can put our history behind us, Commander," she said.

The Klingon looked down at the hand - then back at the woman. "We cannot," he replied grimly.

Andile hesitated, taken aback by the man's proclamation - then gave a short nod. "Of course..."

"I impugned your honor, Commander," he said quietly.

"You were doing your job, sir," she replied.

"As were you," he said. "But you... you were prepared to face trial - and possible execution - in order to fulfill the responsibilities of your position," he pointed out.

"I have no doubts that you would have done the same in those circumstances, sir," she answered.

He stared at her, then added in a low voice, below the hearing of the others, "My wife died for that which she believed; through my own determination to cling to my duty, I almost condemned you to that same fate, Commander," he told her.

Andile studied him for a long time, feeling the near-overwhelming waves of shame and regret washing over the Klingon - then stepped forward, her hand extended once again.

This time, however, she took his giant hand in both of her tiny ones, and clutched them. "Your wife must have been a woman of great honor - and great courage," she said, then hesitated a moment. "Among my people, Mr. Worf, we believe that the dead never die - as long as we remember them. Perhaps you would honor me with her story some time, so that your Jadzia will live again, in memory as well as in Sto-Vo-Kor," she said softly.

He stared at her for a long moment - then gave a slight bow of his head, as much to honor the woman's offer as to conceal his own burgeoning emotions. Rising, he said, "I... we would be honored, Commander."

"Dee, Mr. Worf; my friends call me Dee," she informed him.

"We would be honored... Dee," he said.

The two separated - but as Beverly passed Worf to give the Andile a hug, the Klingon leaned close to the new first officer

"You have chosen your mate well, Commander," he informed the android. "Honor her as she deserves - and do not let her go," he added sagely.

"That is my intention," Data agreed.

The byplay did not escape the notice of Will Riker, who grinned at his replacement. "You knew about this, Data?" he asked.

"No, sir," the android demurred. "While, as the ship's future first officer, it was my duty to present the captain with a list of the best candidates to assume my role, I was not involved in the decision making process. Commander Handeela was, of course, uppermost in my mind - but it was not until I discussed the matter with the captain that I learned she had received a field promotion prior to our encounter with the Breen - and therefore met the qualifications for required," he said formally.

"Furthermore, I was unaware of the captain's final choice until last evening, when the Commander informed me that she had accepted the position. But I do approve his decision," he added.

"Your support is duly noted, Commander," Picard said drolly.

"But being a lieutenant commander is not the only qualification," Geordi countered. "Candidates are supposed to have completed at least sixty percent of the bridge officer training program."

"Which the commander has done," Picard interjected. "When I promoted the commander, it was with the understanding that she complete the bridge officer's training program."

"But she never came to me..." Will began to object, knowing that task was his responsibility - then looked at Picard. "You tutored her?" he asked, astounded.

The captain nodded. "We couldn't spend every evening playing on the holodeck, Will," he said.

"And I had to do _something_ all those days when I was in Sickbay," Andile added.

"So you studied," Deanna said.

"I studied," Andile agreed.

"And the test?" the counselor asked soberly, remembering her own traumatic attempts to face that ultimate decision.

Andile glanced at Picard, her joyous expression fading.

Nodding, the man stepped close, explaining, "The commander served at Wolf 359, Counselor; through her actions - and the difficult decisions she had to make - she was able to bring home many of the survivors of the ship's crew."

"But not all of them," Andile added quietly, the grief in her voice as vivid, as unmistakable, as if she had just made that same decision moments before.

"In light of her actions, I felt the test superfluous," Picard said soberly.

"I'm sorry, Dee," Deanna said, reaching out her hand to the woman, squeezing her hand sympathetically.

Andile nodded in commiseration - then forced a smile. "The only thing I haven't studied for the program is piloting." She gave a laugh. "Funny, isn't it? I've built these ships for decades - but I've never piloted one."

"And Dr. Crusher would not give medical clearance for the commander to begin that training until several days ago, when she also granted permission for the commander to accept the full responsibilities of her officer - if not the full hours."

"At the rate she's healing, though," Beverly volunteered, "I suspect you'll be back to a full shift before we reach Earth - but no extra shifts," she reminded the new second officer sternly.

"I will see to that, Doctor," Data assured her.

I'm sure you will, Beverly thought, so that you can keep her exhausted in other ways.

Overhearing the thought, Andile blazed red - and Picard quickly continued. "Now that Dr. Crusher has cleared the commander for duty, it will be your final responsibility as my first officer, Number One, to see to rectifying that deficiency. While I'm attending the meetings with the delegates, you'll be giving the commander an accelerated course in shuttlecraft piloting."

"I'd be honored," Will agreed.

Geordi chuckled. "You're just happy that you don't have to go to the diplomatic sessions, Commander," he said.

"In a few months, Geordi, I'm not going to have any way to avoid it - so let me enjoy this last moment of freedom," Will said - then gave Deanna a mortified look. "Deanna, I didn't mean..."

She gave him a glowering look. "I know what you meant, Commander, and I assure you, your freedom is yours anytime you want it," she informed him - then relented and smiled. "That is, until the ring is on your finger, and the judge says 'husband and wife'," she added.

"I can't wait, Imzadi," he assured her.

Watching the conversation quickly degrade into personal conversations, Picard cleared his throat, then gestured at the table, directing his team, both old and new, to take their places.

"Geordi, if we are able to arrange a meeting with the Breen, we'll need to be able to find a way to bypass their cryoformic tendrils and the field they generate in order to transport the delegates," Picard said.

"Yes, sir. We've been trying to find a solution since you and Beej were taken, and my team has come up with a few ideas. If we..."

As Geordi spoke, Picard looked over the faces of his crew, his friends - his family... he looked at Beverly - my family, he thought, and so much more - and smiled - then turned back to the business at hand.


	174. Chapter 174

**Chapter 174**

"Gorgeous dress," Beverly murmured as she looked into the holographic mirror that showed Deanna's image, "but... red?"

"It's such a festive color, Beverly," the empath protested. "And Will and I want our ceremony on Earth to be festive."

Beverly smiled. "Because the one on Betazed won't be?" she replied.

"How would I know?" Deanna replied. "Mother hasn't let me make one decision about the entire event!" she sighed in frustration, then took a sip of her espresso. "At least on Earth the wedding will be ours!" She smiled at her friend, then clapped a hand on Beverly's. "Thanks for doing this with me," she added.

"That's what friends are for," Beverly replied, smiling.

Deanna turned her attention back to the gown in the mirror as Beverly studied her friend.

There were times, she thought, when holodecks were truly wonderful inventions; it had been years since she had gone shopping like this, enjoying the intimate conversation of a dear friend, while being served coffee and dessert as the holographic mirrors presented the pair with dress upon dress, variation upon variation - all without having to move from their comfortable chairs.

Of course, they could have done this once they had returned to Earth - but with so many changes facing them, with Will and Deanna heading off to the Titan as soon as investigation was completed into the events of the last few months, both she and Deanna knew that time would get away from them before they could indulge themselves in a day of wedding planning and gown shopping.

But here, on their ship, with an evening unspoken for? she mused. What better way to spend it than by helping Deanna choose her trousseau?

Well, she admitted, there were a few other ways...

"I'm surprised you're not having dinner with the captain tonight," Deanna interjected, instantly sensing the image in the woman's mind.

Beverly reddened - but only for a moment, then pushed the man's face from her thoughts.

"Oh?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, 'oh'," Deanna countered. "You and he were finally getting back into your old - and I mean old, pre-Briar Patch, pre-Dominion War habits - breakfast together, dinners together... but tonight, the only night he doesn't have a diplomatic reception, the only night you two could share for a week - you're out with me? Please don't tell me you two are starting to go back to your old bad habits," she sighed.

"I'd prefer to think of them as new habits, Deanna," Beverly said. "Two people who enjoy each other's company - but enjoy the company of others as well. No, Jean-Luc and Dee are off on the holodeck, playing Dixon Hill and the Archaeologist, or some such nonsense," she said.

Deanna raised a brow. "Nonsense? I thought you enjoyed your Dixon Hill adventures."

Beverly pinked again - then smiled. "Oh, my adventures in San Francisco were certainly fun - but this time, they're off in the jungles of Guatemala, hunting for lost treasure - and if Jean-Luc and Dee are true to form, they've included all the appropriate insects, diseases, and so on. I'll probably be treating them both in Sickbay for dysentery before the night's out." She looked at her friend, a disapproving look in her eyes. "There is such a thing as being too realistic, you know - but try telling either of them that!"

The counselor gave her friend a studied appraisal, then said quietly, "And you're all right with them being together?" she asked.

"Are you all right with Dee and Will spending three hours a day in a shuttlecraft?" Beverly countered.

"It's not the same thing, Bev," Deanna countered firmly. "The captain's still very attracted to her, you know - and I know the feeling is reciprocated."

Beverly returned the look. "It's not my place to approve or disapprove of their relationship, Dee - but the Jean-Luc I know would do nothing to hurt his friends; whatever he may have felt - or still feel - for Dee, he would do nothing to hurt either her or Data."

"And Biji...?" Deanna pushed.

"Loves Data with all her heart," Beverly sighed with a quiet certainty that filled her soul. "And he loves her - and she knows it. No, whatever possibilities lie out there, I don't think either of them is willing to risk what they have for what might be."

"And what, exactly, does the _captain_ have, Beverly?" Deanna pressed with a curious smile.

"And good friend in his ship's CMO," the physician replied.

"That's all?" Deanna pressed.

"For now, that's enough," Beverly insisted.

The empath gave a skeptical look. "Really?

"Deanna..." Beverly sighed.

"Beverly, you've been dancing around your feelings for the captain - for every man in your life - since before I met you," Deanna protested. "I know you've been hurt - you lost your father, your grandfather, Jack, Odan..."

Beverly raised a hand. "Deanna, I thought we were going to have a nice 'girls' night out' tonight - not another 'psychoanalyze Beverly and her inability to commit' night. I've had more than enough of those, thank you very much!" she said firmly - then turned, gestured to the waiter, and raised her espresso cup.

Deanna nodded her order to the man as well, then looked back at her friend. "Fine. We'll drop the topic... for now. But one of these days..." She stopped in mid-sentence, a strange emotion emanating from her friend. "Beverly?" she asked worriedly. "What is it? I saw you chatting with that lieutenant commander from the Federation delegation; did he bring you some bad news?" she asked worriedly.

Beverly raised a brow. "Alan Hastings? No; we were just catching up on old times. I knew him back at Starfleet Medical."

"Starfleet Medical? What's he doing in the delegation?" Deanna asked, curious. "Is one of the delegates ill?"

Beverly shook her head. "No. He's left Starfleet Medical for the diplomatic corps; he's going to approach the Breen about being a medical liaison to their sphere."

"Is that all you talked about? You've been a little quiet ever since you talked with him," Deanna pressed.

"I guess I have," Beverly agreed. "He just got me to thinking - that's all."

"About...?"

"Nothing. That is, nothing I want to talk about tonight. Maybe later, after we're on our way back to Earth," the physician said. "For now, let's focus on the wedding. As I said," she continued, gesturing at the gown that was superimposed on the image of Deanna in the mirror, "the cut is stunning - the low scoop neckline flatters your bust, and the shirring emphasizes your waist - and I love the drape of the skirt and the flowers on the strap - but red? No," she said firmly. "Get it in red, and the dress will be wearing you, not the other way around."

"You're right, of course - but I can hardly wear white, Beverly," Deanna countered with a laugh.

Beverly laughed back, then shook her head. "It's been a long time since anyone assumed that a bride in white was automatically a virgin," she replied, "or that is was false advertising if she wasn't. It's just become a bit of a tradition: a first wedding - and the bride is entitled to a white dress."

"I grant you that - but," she touched a control, "you have to admit white is not my best color."

Beverly stared at the reflected image - then shook her head. "No. Definitely not white. Off white?"

Deanna wrinkled her nose. "Jewel tones are my best colors..."

"Wouldn't that be a bit intense for a wedding?"

"Let's see," Deanna said, touching another control, then watching as the gown began to display itself in a array of deep tones, ranging across the rainbow.

"I've always been partial to amethyst," Deanna said.

"Lovely... but it's still a lot of color. What about a pastel?"

"What - lilac or lavender?" the empath replied in distaste.

"What about yellow?"

"I'd look like a dandelion!"

"Peach?"

Deanna didn't even bother to respond, giving Beverly a look of pure disgust instead.

"Light blue?"

"Why do other colors have special words for their pastels - except blue? Why is light blue just 'light blue', when light orange is peach, light purple is lilac, light red is pink..." She stopped again - then slowly turned to Beverly - who was grinning back at her, the thought striking them both at the same moment.

"Pink..." she said touching the control board.

"No, go a tone more intense," Beverly insisted, reaching to make the adjustment,

"And let's change the fabric from charmeuse to iridescent taffeta..."

The two women stared at the newly displayed gown for a long moment - then turned to each other, grinning. "That's it," they agreed with a grin - then raised their newly filled cups to one another in salute.

"Ah! We have found the dress!" the waiter exclaimed. "And an exquisite one at that - perfect for a most exquisite bride! A moment to celebrate! A pastry perhaps? A lovely slice of our most excellent Reine de Saba? A crème bruleé?"

"Both," Beverly said firmly.

"Bev, I've got to fit into that dress!" Deanna protested.

"You've got six months before the wedding - and you do have a gym on the Titan, you know. God knows if I was going to be stark naked in front of a bunch of people, I wouldn't be that concerned with what I look like when the dress on," she added.

"Beverly?" Deanna said.

"Yes?"

"You're my matron of honor: you _are_ going to be stark naked in front of a bunch of people," she reminded the physician.

Beverly looked at the waiter. "I think we'll stick with the espresso," she decided.

He inclined his head in understanding, then stepped away, leaving the two woman to their conversation - or rather, their lack of it.

Sipping the brew, the two stared at the dress for a few moments, then Deanna murmured, "The captain's going to be naked, too," she reminded her friend.

"I'll remind him to visit the gym," Beverly replied.

Deanna gave a exasperated sigh. "That's not what I meant! I meant... well, haven't you been curious?"

Beverly smiled. "I'm his physician, Dee; I've seen him naked. For that matter, I've seen virtually every man on this ship naked; after a while, they all begin to look the same."

"Really?" Deanna replied in surprise.

"No, not really," Beverly answered with a smile. "But, in the condition I see them in... well, there's not really a basis of appropriate comparison, if you know what I mean," she said. "And, given what I can presume to be the general level of discomfiture at the wedding, I doubt were going to see any interesting changes in their attention level."

"Not to mention that Mother is going to be there," Deanna reminded her friend. "One look from her is enough to keep them all at half mast - or worse," she said, smiling.

"Still..." Beverly replied.

"Still..." Deanna sighed in agreement.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, ruminating over the possibilities, each smiling to themselves - then Deanna looked at her friend. "What about you?" she asked.

"Me?"

"What do you want to wear to the wedding? The one on earth, that is. Dress uniforms? A dress?"

"Oh, God, not another bridesmaid dress!" Beverly groaned. "I stood up in at least a dozen weddings while I was in med school; somewhere on Earth there is a crate containing metric tons of pastel frou-frou that I was forced to wear because my so-called friends thought that adult women looked cute covered in yards of pastel chiffon with ruffles and bows."

"You could pick out something you like, you know," Deanna placated her friend, a hint of hurt in her voice.

Suddenly aware that she might have just insulted her friend, Beverly instantly retreated. "I'm sorry, Dee. Look, if you want me to wear a dress. I will. Whatever you want..."

"No - it's your choice, Beverly."

"Really? Then I'd prefer my dress uniform for the ceremony," she insisted, "but I reserve the right to change into something less formal after the reception breaks up and the wedding party goes bar-hopping," she added.

Deanna smiled. "I'll beg out of that part of the evening, if you don't mind."

"What? The two of you haven't had enough of each other yet?" Beverly teased.

"No - and that'll be our first night as newlyweds - so that makes it all new and different," Deanna countered with a grin. "But you do what you want. Biji was all for uniforms, though, so if you're serious about going out after, help her find something to wear. I love the woman - but she has no idea about style!" Deanna sighed.

"She's never needed it, Dee," Beverly reminded her gently - then looked at Deanna, surprised. "Dee's in the wedding party?"

"Of course!" Deanna answered. "She's part of this crew... she's Data's lover," she added with a smile, "we could hardly have Data in the party and not have Biji as well!"

"Good point," Beverly murmured.

Sensing the change in her friend's mood, Deanna reached out, laying a hand on the physician's arm. "Bev? What's wrong? Don't you think Biji should be in the wedding?"

"What?" Beverly replied, startled - then shook her head. "Oh, no, Deanna; one, it's your wedding, not mine - and you can ask anyone you want to stand up for you - and I think it's lovely gesture to ask Dee to join you."

"So what's bothering you?"

Beverly sighed. "I have to give Dee some bad news - and I'm not sure attending a wedding is going to be easy for her once she hears it."

"But I thought you said she was recovering!" Deanna protested.

"She is... but one area of her recovery is presenting problems," she confessed.

"Beverly, I'm her counselor - and yours; tell me - and maybe I can help her - and you - face whatever's on your mind," she urged her friend.

"Dee wants to have children..."

Deanna frowned. "But Data can't..."

"Can't father a child - yes, I know," she sighed. "Even though I've made it clear to them both that any pregnancy is out of the question for at least a year, I wanted to make sure they understood their options so they could think about them for the future. But I'm afraid I may have given Dee false hope; while I have no doubts she can get pregnant, I'm highly doubtful she can carry a baby to term. Her immune system is so strong that every particle of foreign matter is identified as alien - and is destroyed. I think it'll be the same with a fetus; once the embryo begins to shed cells - a few weeks into the pregnancy - her body may identify it as foreign - and destroy it.

"I think," she added softly, "I think that's what happened on Cardassia," she whispered.

Deanna gaped at her friend, horrified. "My God, Andile was pregnant...?"

Beverly nodded. "I found unmistakable traces of Cardassian DNA in her system - and the antibodies to that DNA. I assumed she had contracted some local virus - but after examining her, I found other evidence that she was pregnant - and recently - less than five years ago.

"One of her assaults resulted in pregnancy," Beverly concluded, "and that pregnancy ended, not a result of the trauma she suffered, but rather as her own body attacked and destroyed the child."

"You haven't told her," Deanna murmured.

Beverly shook her head. "I didn't think she was ready yet. Another disappointment – another hurdle to helping her overcome the idea that she is _andile_. She's been making so much progress, but this could be a real setback for her."

"But aren't there immune system blockers?" Deanna argued. "You gave something to Will when he was carrying Odan..."

"And it almost killed him after just a few days. No, I'm going to have to work up a long term therapy for Dee - someway to desensitize her body to the father's DNA, so that, as the baby develops, it sees the tissue as 'self' not 'alien' and doesn't damage it."

"And you can do that?" Deanna asked.

"Do it? We've already done it! She's walking around with the captain's lungs in her body - and she still has his nano-probes nestled in her liver and kidneys. Yes, it can be done - but it's going to take time - lots of time - to desensitize her to the DNA - and it means they need to start looking for potential fathers as soon as possible, so I can start desensitizing her now."

Deanna considered the information for a long time before facing her friend, a sober look on her face. "Beverly..."

The physician turned to her friend. "Yes?"

"How old is Biji?"

The doctor raised a brow, surprised at the question - then shook her head. "I don't know. No one knows - including Dee - but at least one hundred years. Probably quite a lot more," she added, reminding herself that even Deanna did not know the full extent of Andile's life span.

Nor would she ever learn that detail, Beverly added.

Only a few nights before, she and Jean-Luc had discussed that very subject, arguing back and forth the medical and social possibilities that an investigation of Andile's unusual DNA and the life-sustaining properties it had given her would mean to the public at large - and the terrifying potentials it held for Andile if it ever was learned that she was the sole source of that DNA.

Kidnapping, medical experimentation or worse - even the possibility of the removal of her ovaries or her unfertilized eggs in order to create an endless supply of donor DNA...

No, they had decided; while the needs of the many might well outweigh the needs of the one, the truth was that no one _needed_ immortality.

And Dee needed her life for herself.

And for Data, Beverly thought, smiling.

Jean-Luc had smiled at that smile, she remembered, finding the tenderness in her expression so touching that he had turned her face to his and kissed her before either of them realized what was happening... then startled, they had broken apart, the moment gone, the awkward discomfiture of their evolving relationship coming between them.

She had left a few moments later, wondering then, even as she did, why she hadn't stayed, why she hadn't let the kiss progress into something more...

Because if it did, and I let myself really love him the way I loved Jack, he might be taken from me, just as Jack was - and I'd be alone again.

And I don't think I could bear it again, she knew.

"Bev?" Deanna said softly, reaching out for her friend's hand, sensing the worry in her friend's heart.

But the physician shook off the touch and the concern. "Just worrying about Dee, Dee," she said - then managed a smile. "Doesn't it bother you that you two have the same nickname?"

Deanna smiled. "No more than you're bothered by the fact the Bev Uldeger works in hydroponics, or that Bev Chortho is in engineering, or that Bev..."

Beverly raised a hand, conceding the point.

"There are nine 'Bev's on the Enterprise, Bev," Deanna pointed out, "not to mention a half dozen 'Dee's," she added. "We've also got fourteen 'William's - though there are more 'Bill's than 'Will's," she added. "I think the captain is one of the few people who doesn't have to worry about having a namesake on board."

"What about 'Geordi'?"

"Nope," Deanna objected. "We have two Geordi's; there's even a Worf - though it's spelled Wharf," she added. "But only one Jean-Luc - and only one Data," she realized.

"I guess Dee likes her men to have unique names," Beverly said.

"I think Dee's still trying to deal with the fact that she has men in her life, period," Deanna countered. "That they have uncommon names is incidental." She hesitated for a moment, then looked at her friend once again. "But that's the point, Beverly; Biji _is_ just beginning to accept the fact that she has men in her life. As much as she might want children, her relationship with Data is far too new for either of them to be worried about having children - and I think you know that too."

"Yes," Beverly agreed hastily, "but if she's going to have children, she needs to start addressing that issue shortly..."

"Why?" Deanna objected. "Biji's fertility isn't at issue; she's already a hundred years old - or more - but her reproductive clock isn't counting down; she's got time - and so does Data. Why do you feel you have to put this burden on them at this moment... or maybe it's not Dee's biological clock that you're concerned about?" she added sagely.

Beverly looked at her friend, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"Transference, Bev; that's what psychologists call it: transference. Time isn't running out for Dee and Data, Beverly; if there were ever two people who did not have to worry about time, it's those two. But for we mortals..."

"What are you saying?" Beverly pressed, a hint of anger in her tone.

"I'm saying you're imposing your concerns for your life, your future, on them - when, in reality, you need to face those concerns for yourself," her friend counseled.

"Deanna..." Beverly snapped angrily.

"Beverly," Deanna said, reaching out once again to calm her friend with a touch, "I know how you feel about the captain. I know... we both know... how hard he took the death of his brother and his nephew - and how much he doesn't want his family line to die out. And I know..." She hesitated. "I know that you would have liked to have had at least one more child.

"But unlike Dee, time _is_ running out for you - and for the captain," she continued.

The physician glared furiously at the counselor - but even through her anger, she knew the truth of the woman's words.

Not that she was about to admit it. "What do you want me to do, Deanna; go jump in his bed?"

Despite herself, Deanna smiled. "There's something to be said for a bout of great sex, Bev, but..." She grew serious once again. "But no, that's not what I'm suggesting. I am suggesting that you need to decide what you want, Bev - and act on that decision. And if that decision is to pursue a permanent relationship, then you need to face the fears that are holding you back.

"Not every person you love is going to leave you, Beverly," she said softly.

"I know," Beverly replied quietly.

Deanna shook her head. "No, you don't," she told her friend. "Oh, you know it in words - but not in your heart. In your heart, you terrified that you're going to open yourself to him - and he will leave you. And so you dance around him, wanting to be with him, wanting to have a future - then pulling back every time he tries to make it happen."

Stricken, Beverly stared at her friend - then shook her head soberly. "I know, I know... Oh, Deanna," she whispered, "what he must think of me: teasing, playing with his emotions..."

Feeling the waves of emotional uncertainty rolling off her friend, she pulled the aching woman close to her, running her hand over the woman's back in slow, soft strokes. "No, no... he understands - more than you could possibly know. He knows you're not playing with him - and what he thinks of you, Beverly, is that he loves you. That he has always loved you... and that he will wait until you're ready. Forever, if that's what it takes," she soothed her friend.

"But he shouldn't have to wait!" Beverly protested angrily. "It's been fifteen years - more, if you consider how long he's been in my life: since before Wesley, before Jack died... He was the best man at our wedding, for God's sake... Half of my life has been spent with him - and yet I'm still not ready to make this commitment! Commitment?! My God, I'm not even ready to try even a temporary relationship with him?"

"Beverly, you're scared," Deanna soothed. "You're both scared," she added. "But at some point, you both have to realize that you don't have forever. So ask yourself this: How much of your life, of his life, of your precious time together are you willing to lose - to waste - knowing that once that time is gone, it will never be yours again?

"If the last few months have shown us anything, Beverly, it's how precious life is - and how easily it can be lost. Data and Dee lost months; they almost lost everything. We all face that possibility - but we face the possibility of years as well. So should we act on that fear - or should we seek out the joy we can have?" she asked. "Will and I decided on joy, Beverly; I hope you and Jean-Luc choose that as well," she counseled.

"I'd like to help you," she added a moment later. "You've carried your fear and grief by yourself for so long... but you don't have to. I can help," she reminded her friend.

Beverly looked at her friend - but her eyes were not focused on the empath. Instead, she saw past the woman, seeing...

Something else, Deanna realized; something important - then gave a shiver as she realized that Beverly had made a decision.

"Thank you, Deanna - but I know what I have to do."

Deanna looked worriedly at her friend. "Beverly, you're not going to give up on this, are you?"

"No," she said, instantly easing her friend's worries. "But you're right - there are some things I need to work through - and I'm going to do just that."

Deanna nodded - though she felt enough uncertainty streaming from her friend not to feel completely at ease. "All right," she agreed reluctantly. "Just remember, I'm still here."

"For now," Beverly pointed out. "You and Will will be going to the Titan as soon as we reach Earth."

"Yes," Deanna demurred, quickly adding, "but the Titan and the Enterprise will both be in dock for at least a few months - and you did say you were going to help me with the wedding plans," she replied. "We'll have plenty of time to talk - all right?" she added.

Beverly smiled and nodded - though both her eyes and her thoughts seemed to be concealing something, Deanna decided. "All right - but don't worry, Deanna; it's going to work out," she added firmly.

"All right," she replied hesitantly - then drew in a long breath, knowing the subject was closed... for the moment. "Let's get back to work here; we have some more shopping to do."

"For your honeymoon?"

"We've got time for that; Will hasn't even told me where he wants to go!" she laughed. "For now, however, there's something far more pressing."

"Oh?"

Deanna nodded. "When I asked Biji what she was wearing to the engagement party, she told me she was planning on wearing her uniform."

"Her uniform," Beverly murmured. "To your engagement party."

"That's what she said," Deanna confirmed.

Beverly looked at her friend and shared a mischievous grin with the empath. "Oh, I don't think so," she agreed. "So, Counselor, just what did you have in mind for our misguided friend?"

Deanna touched the controller, bringing up an image of the engineer in her usual work clothes. "I was trying to think up something that flattered her coloring and her shape..."

"Dee doesn't have a shape, Deanna," Beverly reminded her.

"Actually, she does," the counselor countered. "She may have only gained a few ounces lately - but it's all going into the right places. Add a little emphasis, and a little mystery and..." She touched the controller again - and Andile's figure was suddenly ensconced in a different outfit.

Beverly stared at the image for a moment. "Oh, my," she whispered.

Deanna grinned. "I knew you'd like it."

"Yes - but aren't you concerned she's going to steal your thunder? After all, it _is_ your engagement party. You're supposed to be the star - not Dee."

"Bev, I've already got the man of my dreams," Deanna answered seriously. "What more could I want? No, if we're really going to celebrate our love, I want to do it by sharing that same possibility with my friends - old and new. I'll have my wedding day to be the center of attention: let's let Biji shine at the party - and let's make sure Data appreciates what he has in her," she added with a mischievous grin.

"I don't there's any issue there," Beverly replied.

"Then it'll be an opportunity to let everyone else to appreciate what Data has," Deanna said.

"I don't think that's going to be a problem either," Beverly said, then sighed, reached for the computer, and made an entry.

"What's wrong?" Deanna asked, worried.

"Nothing. Just saving time," Beverly replied.

Deanna raised a brow.

Beverly smiled. "Deanna, if you send Dee to the party in that dress, you know damned well that neither she or Data is getting out of bed for at least a day; I'm just saving time, and taking them both off duty now."


	175. Chapter 175

**Chapter 175**

Jean-Luc Picard stopped at Beverly's door and reached for the annunciator pad - but even as he did so, the door slid open.

A grin began to form on his face as he prepared himself for the image of the what he presumed would be his companion for the evening - but the smile faded before it could finish manifesting itself as he found himself face to face with his android first officer.

"Captain," Data said politely.

"Data," Picard replied.

The two men stared awkwardly at one another for a moment - then Data gestured at the hall. "If I may, sir?" he said.

It took a moment for the request to register - then Picard stepped back. "Of course," he replied, motioning for the android to leave - then hastily entered the room before the doors could shut on him.

"Beverly?" he called out - then stared as she stepped out from the alcove that held her sleeping area.

He had expected... well, he admitted, he wasn't entirely sure what he expected - Beverly dressed in a evening gown, perhaps, or one of her more sedate, but still stunning, casual dresses - but he hadn't expected this: the doctor still dressed in her work uniform.

"Long day?" he asked after a moment.

"More than you could know," she answered.

He studied her a moment longer, seeing the slightly frazzled expression on her face - then gave a silent sigh of resignation. "If you'd rather beg off this evening..." he began.

"From Deanna and Will's party? Never!" she replied, smiling - then moved to his side, reached up and kissed his cheek. "Just give me a few minutes," she started, then gave him a thorough once over and added, "and I'll try to make myself look half as good as you do," she said with an appreciative smile.

And he did look handsome, Beverly added to herself - though he always did, in her opinion. Still, she had always thought the low-cut shirt, its shimmering ivory fabric, half plain, half pleated, was one of his better ones, revealing hints of both his nicely muscled chest and a few curling grey hairs - and the perfectly cut black trousers suggested that what lay beneath was equally appealing.

Picard glanced down at himself, as if noticing for the first his outfit, then smiled back. "Thank you," he said, "I thought that, as best man for the wedding party, I should try to dress the part," he explained.

"Not to mention that with all the receptions over and most of the delegates going tomorrow, you can finally get out of that damned dress uniform," Beverly reminded him.

"Some of us couldn't excuse ourselves from the receptions," he countered.

"How was I to know that Ensign Sakamoto would have an allergic response to the Cardassian ver'lot?" she asked innocently.

"Or that Lt. Meda would injure his ankle? Or that Cmdr. Hastings would need to meet with you all evening?" he countered.

"Alan and I are old friends, Jean-Luc," she protested instantly.

"I wasn't questioning that, Bev," he mollified her. "I just thought your emergencies - and the rekindling of old friendships - suffered from exceptionally dreadful timing."

"Or exceptionally fortuitous timing, depending on your point of view," she countered with a smile.

"Indeed," he replied. "As I am the one who had to endure those dinners without your company, I'll leave you to decide how I interpreted your absences," he suggested.

"Oh, my poor captain," she commiserated, "How you suffer. I'll tell you what," she continued. "Why don't you pour yourself a drink and relax - while I get dressed?" she suggested, then turned, heading back into the bedroom area.

Nodding to himself, he followed her direction, then called back, "Can I get something for you?"

"No thanks," she called back. "I haven't had a chance to eat today; one drink and I'll be out like a light!" she answered. "And as matron of honor, I, too, have some responsibilities at the party."

"You haven't eaten?" he replied worriedly as he poured a short measure of Scotch into a glass, then took it and settled into one of the chairs. "Was it that busy in Sickbay?"

"Hmm?" she replied, her voice fading in and out as she moved about her quarters. "Busy enough," she replied, "not to mention what I had to contend with in your second officer!"

"My second..." he began, more to himself than to her, then added in a louder voice, "Which one? Data or Dee?"

"Both, actually," she answered. "Dee was not interested in wearing a dress to the party - let alone the dress Deanna chose - and trying to convince her that she should get dressed, while at the same time trying to keep Data out of their quarters while we helped her dress and get her hair and make-up done... Let's just say that it's a good thing that you like tenacity in your senior staff - because you have it, and in spades!" she laughed.

He nodded, having long ago recognized the quality in the people he chose - including the woman hiding herself in the adjacent room. "Out of curiosity, why were you trying to keep Data out?" he asked. "And, for that matter, what was he doing here?" he added.

A faint, slightly exasperated sigh came from the adjacent room. "We were keeping Data away from Dee, because, my dear captain, a lady likes to make an appearance when she first greets her companion for an evening out," she said, stepping into his view once again - this time dressed for the party.

Picard stopped, his glass half raised to his lips - then he slowly set down the glass, and stood up to more properly appreciate the vision before her.

And she was a vision, he thought, the simple dress of iridescent indigo silk softly clinging to her figure, emphasizing the generous curves of bust, waist and hips before falling away in a skirt just full enough to sway softly with each step she took toward him.

"Well?" she asked softly. "Worth waiting for?"

He gaped a moment longer - then gave a nod. "Worth every minute of every year," he replied softly.

She smiled back at him - but there was an uncertainty, a reluctance in her expression that the smiled couldn't hide.

"Bev?" Picard began.

"You know, maybe I will have that drink," she said, starting to push past him.

"I thought you said you'd fall asleep," he protested.

"Make it a short one, then," she replied.

For a moment, Picard hesitated, then turned, prepared a second drink for Beverly and handed it to her.

Raising his glass, he said, "To the happy couple."

Beverly's smile returned, whole-heartedly, then she touched the rim of her glass to his. "To the happy couple, indeed," she agreed, her eyes meeting his - then turned her gaze away and took a small sip from the glass.

He studied her for a long time, then spoke. "Talk to me, Beverly," he said quietly.

"We talk every day, Jean-Luc," she replied with a forced lightness.

"And every day, I know there's something between us, something that's keeping us from resolving all our issues, keeping us from moving forward with our life together." He hesitated for a moment, reluctant, unwilling to bring up the topic that had been on his mind for the last few weeks - but this stalemate, this dance had gone on for too long. He had to know.

"That is," he continued softly, "if you _want_ a life together."

Beverly studied him for a minute - then reached for his hand and led him to the couch.

They sat, silent, tense - then Beverly took a second sip of the Scotch, put her glass down, and turned to him.

"You know I love you," she said quietly.

"But it's not enough?" he interjected.

"It is," she countered - then added, "and it's not. Jean-Luc, I love you, but there are things between us... things in our lives... things in my life... that I need to work through," she admitted quietly.

He nodded slowly.

"I'm not saying I don't want a relationship - but right now, I can't do this," she continued - then took a third sip of her drink, steeling herself with alcohol - then set the drink on the table with a decided clatter, resolved at last to go through with what she had to do.

"I've been thinking... for a long time."

"About us?"

She nodded. "And about me. When you brought Dee back from the Breen ship, you said some things..."

"Beverly," he interrupted, "I've apologized for what I said. I didn't mean them..."

"I know - but it doesn't change the fact that you did say them - and it doesn't change what I said in response. Jean-Luc, you are the captain of this ship - and you had every right - every right! - to order me to try and save Dee's life, even if it was in direct opposition to my professional decision - and as my captain, I was under obligation to follow those orders," she reminded him. "And as your CMO, I can understand and accept that relationship. But..."

"But not as my lover," he concluded for her.

Beverly nodded solemnly. "A relationship needs to be between equals, Jean-Luc - and knowing that you can - and must - exercise your rank, even in a portion of that relationship, serves to remind us both that we are not equal.

"It's not easier for you, either," she added. "I saw how hard it was for you to order Nella Darren into a dangerous situation; I saw the doubt and conflict on your face - and I knew what that conflict was doing to you, the ship's captain, as well as to you, the man, the lover. I can't ask that of you; I don't want to impose that pain on you."

"Beverly, that is my decision..." he began to protest.

She shook her head. "No. Not this time. This time it is my decision - and my decision is that I cannot be the cause of such pain in your life - any more than I can allow you to be the cause of such pain in my life. I can't watch you put yourself in danger anymore; I can't bear the thought of watching you beam down on some dangerous mission - or worse, a presumably benign one - and yet never be fully confident that you're going to come back. It's hell enough to be the CMO and watch that; to do it as your lover?" She shook her head.

"No, dear, this isn't going to work," she concluded. "At least, not as things stand," she added.

Picard studied her for a long time - then reached for her hand, enveloping it in his, studying her sapphire eyes for a long time before he spoke.

"Then you're going to accept Cmdr. Hastings offer to resume your position as the head of Starfleet Medical," he said.

Beverly's jaw dropped. "How... how did you know?" she gasped.

Picard managed a wan smile. "You're not the only one with old acquaintances in the Federation delegation, Beverly. Alerod Siggerstrom - you remember him? From the Stargazer board of inquiry?"

She nodded, still stunned.

"He's been with the diplomatic corps for twelve years now - but we've maintained our friendship - and he brought me up to date on the latest scuttlebutt - including the fact that Alan Hastings was sent on this mission for the specific intent of talking to you about returning to San Francisco, permanently," he said. "Admiral Leholt's upcoming retirement, your expertise - and now your first contact relationship with Jemat and the Breen - all of that makes you the prime candidate for the post," he added, pride managing to shine through his voice.

"And Siggy wanted to give you a head's up so you could try to talk me out of it?" she asked defensively.

"On the contrary," he replied, "he wanted me to convince you to take the post. You are the best candidate, Beverly," he reminded her, "and Starfleet needs you."

"But... you didn't say anything!" she protested.

"Nor did you," he countered.

She pursed her lips, silently conceding the point.

"And...?" she said at last.

"And it's not my decision," he said quietly. "It's your career - and your life. I know you weren't happy there last time - but times have changed; you've changed."

She gave a frustrated growl. "I'm not talking careers, Jean-Luc - I want to know what you think... about us!" she argued.

"Does it matter?" he countered.

"Of course it matters!"

"Bev, if you're not ready for a relationship with me, then nothing I can say will change that. But know this: I do love you, and I will wait for as long as it takes for you to be ready for a relationship..."

"But?" she said, hearing the hesitation in his voice.

Picard hesitated, then ran his thumb over the back of her hand. "But... You're right. Loving you and serving with you at the same time is hard. It can strain the best of relationships - and we have never allowed ourselves to have the best of relationships. Friendship - yes; friendship with mutual respect that allows us each to voice our opinions..."

"And we're both so shy about doing that," she agreed.

Despite himself, Picard smiled. "Indeed - which, even between friends, has caused us grief. But between lovers... No; neither of us is that secure in our feelings or in our selves to not take those comments personally, Bev. One comment, one remark, even an off-hand one, is going to cause us both pain - and our remarks are rarely off-hand.

"We're both people of strong feelings, strong convictions," he continued. "With each other, we speak from the heart - and as long as we limited our on-board relationship to that of friends, we've been able to keep the pain our words have caused to a minimum. But as lovers..."

"As lovers, the hurts would wound, the wounds fester..." she continued.

"And the relationship would end, badly and painfully."

"And so it ends here and now, instead," she finished, her voice soft, stricken as she looked away, staring their interlocked hands - and knowing they would not be this way again.

But the hand surrounding hers did not open; instead, he tightened his grip - and his other hand reached to her chin, raising her teary eyes to face his.

"No. It doesn't end... I hope," he added softly.

"But..."

"As head of Starfleet Medical, you'll retain your rank as commander - but the reality is you'll carry the same relative power as a ship's captain," he reminded her.

"I'll be your equal," she realized.

He nodded. "More importantly, we'll be serving in different fields; my decisions may have some peripheral effect on you, as your decisions will on me - but no longer will we be answering to one another. I can't tell you what to do - and you can't threaten me with removing me from duty for not following your orders," he reminded her.

"You'll still be in danger," she reminded him.

He gave a soft laugh. "I was able to bully Will into letting me go on missions; Data, on the other hand, is not about to let me push past him so easily. No, I suspect my life is about to become a lot more sedentary, Beverly," he admitted. "And maybe it's time for that," he added. "I'm not as young as I was," he reminded her.

She gave a soft laugh of her own. "Jean-Luc, you will always be young - and foolhardy and a risk taker."

He shook his head.

"Not so foolhardy as to risk this," he said, raising her hand to his lips, kissing it. "Go," he told her, raising his eyes to hers once again. "Take the position if you want it, with all my support and encouragement. I want you to do what is best for you, to take the time to find the answers you need, the security in yourself - and in me - to feel we can move forward. If that's a day or a year, so be it - but know that, however long it takes, when you decide you are ready, I will be waiting for you."

Beverly stared at him, astonished by the unexpected depths she was finding in the man she thought she knew so well - and touched to the very core of her being.

He reached up and touched away the tear that was forming in the corner of her eye. "I'm going to miss you," he said softly.

"You make it sound as though I was leaving tomorrow. The transfer won't be in effect until Admiral Leholt's retirement," she reminded him. "That's six months away."

"Yes - but you'll need the time to study the situation - and to train your replacement," he reminded her.

"I hadn't considered that," she replied.

"The Enterprise will probably be in dock that long, as well, refitting Dee's engines, training a new crew," he mused, his focus growing vague - then turning to her. "We'll still see each other, of course; I'll still expect regular breakfasts and dinners with you, so you can tell me what you're doing, how things are going," he added with a forced smile. "And you'll make the trip to Betazed for Deanna and Will's wedding with us, of course," he added.

"Of course," she replied - then leaned forward, and kissed him.

Startled, he stared to pull back - then stopped, leaned into her, and gave himself fully into the moment.

My God, he thought, her lips are so soft, so delicious, her hair, her skin, she smells so sweet, so delicious... He reached a hand up, caressing the line of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the curve of her neck - and heard her give a soft groan of pleasure.

"Oh, Jean..." she murmured, her lips moving against his.

"I love you," he replied, pulling her to his body, feeling every swell, every curve, every exquisite inch of her body pressing against his, her flesh pressing against his muscles, her softness against his hardness...

He pulled back at long last, his hand still caressing her face - and smiled. "We're going to be late to the party," he reminded her breathlessly.

She stared at him - then shook her head in disbelief. "The party," she whispered.

"We're the best man and matron of honor; we can hardly not be there when the guests of honor arrive," he reminded her.

She stared at him a moment longer - then sighed in acceptance. "I suppose not," she agreed - but rather than standing, she met his gaze once again. "I hope that wasn't a going-away kiss."

He smiled, earnestly this time. "I prefer to think of it as a promise of things to come."

Beverly gave a soft sigh of contentment. "Indeed," she murmured - then forced herself to her feet. "But you're quite right: we can't be late. Give me a moment to repair the damage," she said, touching her now disheveled hair.

"I assure you, Beverly, you are stunning just as you are," he said.

"Thank you, Jean-Luc, but I'd rather not appear as if I just got out of bed," she replied.

He inclined his head, declining the opportunity to tell her how pleasant, indeed, how damned attractive, that image might be - then rose, taking both of their drinks and following her into her bedroom, watching as she sat down at the vanity, quickly brushing her hair back into the long soft waves that framed her porcelain-skinned face, then quickly touched up her make-up.

"So you got Dee to wear make-up," Picard mused as he watched her.

"And a dress," Beverly agreed. "I think you'll be suitably impressed. I wish I had been there to see Data's reaction," she added.

"I can guess what that is going to be," Picard added with an uncomfortable sigh. "I noted you had taken them both off the duty roster tomorrow," he added, sipping at his drink, wondering what type of torment - albeit unknowingly - they were going to put him through this evening and the following day. "You do realize, of course, that you're going to have to teach me that technique to block Dee's more amorous thoughts before you take the position at Starfleet Medical," he reminded her.

"We can start tonight," she replied. "I'm not about to leave you here, picking up on Dee's erotic energies unchecked. It's hard enough leaving you with her, knowing how you feel about her," she admitted.

"Beverly, I would do nothing to interfere with her relationship with Data," he replied honestly. "And I would do nothing that might interfere with ours," he added solemnly.

She looked up at him - and smiled. "I know you wouldn't," she said, then added, "I'm going to miss being around to tease you," she said.

"I suspect Dee is going to be able to take your place without any gaps in my private humiliation," he said.

"Remind me to give her a few tips before I go," she countered.

"Oh, joy," he murmured, then added, "Just remind her to tell you how to stop me from hearing the two of them every night," he replied with a sigh.

"Oh, no! They're not at it already..." Beverly gaped in horror. "Damn it, I made them both promise they wouldn't do anything before the party! I took us hours to get her dressed!"

"No," he answered hastily. "They're just... thinking about it. Vividly," he added.

Beverly smiled. "They're always thinking about it Jean-Luc; they're young, in love..."

He shook his head in surprise. "But..."

"But you don't always sense it, do you?" Beverly asked.

"No," he admitted.

"Distraction. Dee said that proximity is a factor - and you may want to think about where you're going to put their quarters when we you start reassigning ship space back on Earth - but also distraction." She paused for a moment. "Dee said the easiest way to not sense someone was to be doing something else. She said the best way was, of course, to be having sex."

Picard raised a brow, recognizing the tease for what it was. "Is that an offer?" he countered.

Beverly met his look dead on. "The night is young, my dear captain."

He froze, suddenly not certain whether she was teasing or not - and not willing to press the matter, just in case she wasn't.

"Umm... yes... well..." He paused for a moment. "So, was that what Data doing here? Listening to you read him the riot act about not messing up Dee's dress before the party?" he asked.

"No," she countered. "He wanted to ask me a question."

"Oh?"

Beverly nodded, set down the hairbrush and smiled at him, waiting.

It took him a moment before he realized she was not about to volunteer any information.

"And that question was...?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I can't say. I'm sworn to secrecy," she said.

He frowned, uncertain what game she was playing - then followed her gaze as she pointed turned it to the vanity top.

He studied it, seeing the array of brush, comb, cosmetics, jewelry... and then suddenly realizing he was not seeing one thing.

It was gone.

"My God," he whispered - then shook his head. "Data asked for_ that_?"

"What?" she said - the shook her head. "Oh, no. Of course not! He just wanted to know what to do - giving that to him was my idea. After all, I wasn't using it anymore," Beverly said.

"But..." he began to protest.

"He loves her," she replied. "And... And that part of my life is over. I am moving on, Jean-Luc; more slowly, perhaps, than either of us would like - but I am moving on."

He stared at her for a long time - then smiled. "I love you, Beverly Crusher."

"And I love you, Jean-Luc Picard. Now, let's go before we're late."

He extended an arm to her - then stopped, and offered his hand instead.

His hand, she thought; he's willing to hold my hand in public.

Stunned and touched, she took it, then felt his hand close over it, warm, safe - and utterly certain.

And one day, she knew, I will be certain as well.


	176. Chapter 176

**Chapter 176**

Andile shifted uncomfortably, the touch of the gown, shoes, elaborate hair style and jewelry so different from the familiar pressures of her work uniform.

Not uncomfortable, she conceded - but different, with new pressures in new places - and old ones missing.

She smiled to herself, deciding that the absences could well be worth discomfiture - when they were discovered.

What did Deanna call it? she asked herself silently - oh, yes; exploring my femininity, she reminded herself. Letting Data explore it would be a little more accurate, she decided - then smiled for a second before another frown crossed her face, and another shrug shook her shoulders as she tried to settle the gown into place.

"Are you uncomfortable, Ginger?" Data asked as he watched her shimmy against the strange stresses of the dress. "Would you prefer to change into another outfit?"

"Hmmm?" she replied, then turned to him, smiling. "Oh, gods, no, dearest; I don't have anything else to wear except my uniform - which would be fine with me, but I don't dare not show up in this dress! Not only did Beverly and Deanna pick it out for me - but they spent all afternoon helping me get ready to wear it! If I show up in uniform, I'd be insulting them - and I'm not about to do that. Not tonight. Tonight, I don't want hurt feelings; I want to laugh and dance and have a good time... with you," she added softly, stopping in the middle of the corridor that led to Ten Forward to face him.

She took a moment to give him a long and frank appraisal - and smiled.

"You look like Fred, Fred," she murmured, running her hands up the front of the silken white shirt until she reached the collar.

"I disagree," he countered. "The Fred Astaire of motion pictures would not have attired himself in such a manner; not for an event of this nature, Ginger. From the films we have viewed, I have noted that he would have worn more formal attire; specifically, a 'tuxedo'," he pointed out. "He would not have worn an open-front shirt and plain trousers, such as you have requested I wear this evening."

"Perhaps not," Andile agreed, fingering the soft material, "but this isn't 1930 - and this isn't a movie. This is Deanna and Will's engagement party - and they were very specific in saying we could all wear whatever we wanted to wear. Except me," she added with a frown - then smiled at Data again. "But you my dearest, you look particularly handsome in an 'open-necked shirt and plain trousers'... especially trousers that fit you so... nicely," she added - then ran her tongue over her lips before pursing them in a kiss. "I can't wait to see them on," she added.

He frowned. "Ginger, they are 'on'," he explained, confused.

"They're 'on' you," she replied. "I can't wait to see them on... the floor," she explained.

"Ah," he said, slightly mystified - then repeated, comprehension dawning, "Ah! You are 'teasing' me; being sexually provocative so that my excitation might build throughout the evening until it culminates in a bout of exceptionally vigorous sexual congress this evening," he said.

"Yes," she purred back - then added, uncertainly, "Is it working?"

He nodded. "Oh, yes. I am eagerly anticipating our post-celebration activities. Quite eagerly," he added.

"As am I," she murmured, moving close to him, savoring the scent of his body.

He nodded, nuzzling her hair. "I am cognizant of that fact, Ginger; I can detect the pheromonic aroma of your arousal. Perhaps," he added after a moment, "we should decline attending the party..."

"Can't, love," she reminded him. "We've already accepted... and besides, how can I tease you if we're already in bed?"

"There will be other occasions..." he tried.

Andile gave a soft, rich laugh. "Gods, dearest, if only Dr. Soongh could see you now; he'd be so proud."

"Indeed? In regard to what?" Data asked, confused.

"Your humanity - your masculinity," she amended. "I don't think he ever imagined you could be so wonderfully human - and without a chip," she added. "This person you've become - this wonderful, sexual, charming, erotic man - is you, not a chip," she sighed.

"Perhaps my creator was not cognizant of the efficacy of an orgasm as a motivating factor," he suggested.

"Or maybe he was," Andile replied. "After all, he did build the ability into you; it was your fear of losing control that kept you from allowing yourself that pleasure," she reminded him.

"I was concerned that I might damage my partner," Data answered - then looked at her repentantly. "Justifiably," he added.

"Dearest," she replied, "you didn't 'damage' me last night - just startled me," she added, smiling, remembering.

It had been startling - though, for a moment, it had been more than just 'startling', she reminded herself; for a moment, she had been truly terrified as she felts his hands tighten about her waist, his powerful arms lifting her, guiding her, maneuvering her above him...

For a moment, she had found herself back in the hellhole of the Cardassian prison, being abused, assaulted by her jailors, her guards, the Cardassian officers...

For a moment, she had forgotten where she was, who she was... and who was with her.

And then...

Then she had opened her eyes, looking down at the man, the android beneath her, his own eyes closed as his body moved within hers, every ounce of professional and programmed decorum forsaken as pure physical need and desire overtook him and he sought that moment, that exquisite moment of release...

... and knew that, once - and for all - she was utterly safe.

As he was.

He had apologized afterwards, of course; apologized and repented his abandonment of his normal attention to her needs and desires, begging her forgiveness at having lost control of his own body, at using hers for his own needs... then stared at her as she fell upon him, kissing him, crying with joy and happiness, lost, befuddled - then complied with the inevitable, consoling her, comforting her... and loving her, again and again.

As she loved him.

" 'Losing control'," she repeated, smiling, then raised her hand to his face. "I rather enjoyed you 'losing control'," she added. "It's rather delicious having the ship's very proper first officer being a bit of a wild man in bed."

"Or perhaps it is simply that you motivate me to such abandon," he suggested, taking her hand away, pressing his lips to her palm - and earning a soft moan of pleasure in response.

"Gods, Data," she murmured, "maybe we should skip the party."

"Unfortunately we cannot. As you stated, such an action would be socially inappropriate having already accepted the invitation," he replied - then kissed her palm again.

She moaned again, her eyes closed in rapture - then looked at him. "Now who's teasing whom?" she asked.

He smiled, then released her hand, proffering his arm to her before guiding her down the corridor once again.

"Nonetheless," he continued, "my emotions are still quite undeveloped," he reminded her. "While I do love you, and am capable of feelings several other emotions without the chip being activated, I am still not complete in my emotional development," he said.

"I know, dearest," Andile answered. "But this time, the emotions are yours - and if it takes time for them to emerge and develop on their own, then so be it. And I'll be there to help you with your feelings... as you've helped me with mine," she added quietly, laying her head against his shoulder as they walked. "Thank you, love, for being there for me for all this time. For not giving up on me; for reminding me, by your example, of the humanity I almost gave up."

"Andile," Data replied evenly, "you overstate the significance of my contribution to your recovery. If thanks are to be apportioned in direct relation to the efforts extended, then you should be more thanking Captain Picard rather than me, as he offered far more assistance than I have..."

"Data?" she interrupted, stopping, pulling away.

"Yes, Ginger?"

"Are you suggesting I should go boink the captain?" she asked.

He hesitated a moment, then hastily amended, "Perhaps, in this case, humility is an over-rated quality."

"Indeed," she murmured, then moved close to him once again, tightening her grasp on his collar, then tugged it toward her, pulling him down until their faces were only inches apart.

Easily taking his cue, Data kissed her, the coolness of his body unable to offset the heat of his passion. Wrapping his arm around her, he pulled Andile close, her body pressed to his, and let the kiss deepen.

She gave a soft groan of pleasure - then pulled back and smiled at her lover.

"Damn, Data; I don't know about love, but you've got 'lust' down pat," she murmured appreciatively.

"I could demonstrate the full extent of my mastery of both emotions if you would like," he replied, an awkward grin on his face.

A lecherous smile, Andile realized - or his best attempt at one, she added. "You're teasing me again," she said.

"On the contrary, Ginger; I am most sincere," he replied.

"Oh, gods," she groaned. "I wish we could... but we're both right; we have to go to this party. But after..." she added.

He frowned - again, awkwardly, as he practiced the facial expressions that accompanied human displays of emotion - and earned a soft laugh from his lover.

"Oh, my poor, sweet Data," she purred. "Be patient, love - and I promise it will be worth it," she said, a mysterious smile on her face.

Data raised a brow in surprise. "Indeed?"

"Indeed," she assured him.

He hesitated a moment, then said, hopefully, "Ah! You intend to demonstrate the sexual allure of provocative undergarments?"

"Naughty little nothings?" she said - then shook her head. "I'm sorry, love. Not tonight. I know I've been talking about that - but although they might be little nothings, they're more than I can wear under this dress," she informed him.

He studied her dress for a moment - then nodded his understanding.

Her outfit - for the ensemble was far more than a simple dress - started at the very top of her elaborately coiffed hair, sparkling with gems that had been carefully arranged in the intricate coils of hair that framed her face. The same gems dangled in long strands from her ears, then appeared to continue down onto her neck and shoulders, growing more numerous and closely positioned until the appeared to form the bodice of the dress, glittering and shining as the cupped her breasts, outlining her narrow waist, then trailing down into the depths of the dark burgundy skirt that clung to her hips - only to reappear with each step she took, the gems adorning the leg that was bared by the opening of the skirt.

It was a stunning outfit, Data thought - but with bejeweled skin visible from her neck to her feet, there was no way she could have worn any provocative undergarments.

For that matter...

The light dawning in his mind as they approached the door to the lounge, he drew to a stop just before they reached the opening. "Ginger?"

"Yes, love?"

"You _are_ wearing something beneath your gown, are you not?" he asked worriedly.

Hearing the concern in his voice, she gave a soft, reassuring laugh. "Of course I am, silly," she said.

He gave an audible sigh of relief.

She eased a glittering leg through the slit that ran up the side of the burgundy gown and showed it to him. "See? I'm wearing shoes."

Data's eyes widened in shock - but before even his positronic circuits could respond, the doors to the lounge slid open.

"Baj!" roared a deep voice.

A moment later, the petite engineer had been swept up in the muscular arms of the massive Romulan and swung about, before setting her down, breathless and slightly disheveled.

"My little one!" he roared, then looked her over frankly - and smiled. "Or perhaps not so little anymore," he added, his voice gentling, softening. "You are turning into quite a beautiful young lady, my dear - is she not?" he added, turning to the Cardassian woman at his side.

Zumell smiled Andile - then smiled up at the massive Romulan. "That she is, Tiron," she agreed. "You look lovely tonight, dear," she repeated.

"And you, Tar," Andile replied.

Zumell gave a soft laugh. "You are sweet, child - but at my age..."

"Your age?!" Tiron interrupted, shaking his head. "Your age?! You are in the prime of life, Zumell!"

"Tiron, we Cardassians have a shorter life span than Romulans," the teacher reminded the warrior.

"Bah!" the Romulan sneered. "We all have the same lifespan - from the moment we are born until the moment we die. Whether that is one year or one hundred matters not; all that matters is that we live our lives to their fullest while we can. And you, my dear Zumell, at your age..." He hesitated, studying her carefully - then lowered his voice. "At your age," he repeated more softly, "you should be dancing the night through," he concluded with a joyous roar, then took her hand and led her - gently - toward the center of the room, cleared for the evening to serve as a makeshift dance floor.

"Hmm," Will murmured as he watched the scene on the opposite side of the room. "Even if the treaty isn't ratified by all the governments, I think relations between the Cardassians and the Romulans should improve," he informed Deanna.

"Well, at least between some Romulans and Cardassians," Deanna agreed as she watched the mismatched couple maneuver their way across the floor in an intricate patterns of turns, steps and dips - then gave a sigh. "I suppose it can't last, though; there have been so many years of animosity between their peoples..."

"I know - but trust has to start somewhere, and with someone. Why not with them, here, tonight?" Will countered. "After all, it's a night for celebrating the new start of our lives together - why not hope that their people can celebrate a new beginning as well?" he asked her.

Deanna looked up into his eyes. "Since when, Will Riker, are Starfleet captains hopeless romantics?" she asked him.

"We're not," he informed her. "We're pragmatic and practical, my dear - except on the nights of our engagement parties," he added, reaching for her hand, pulling her close to him. "On that night, we get to hope: to hope that everything we're doing is for a reason. And seeing a Romulan and a Cardassian dancing together? That's a pretty good start on a future for us all," he told her - then leaned down to kiss her.

She returned the kiss whole heartedly, only to hear a soft chuckle from behind her.

"You should save some of that for your wedding, Counselor," Geordi said with a smile.

"Hello, Geordi," she smiled back at him.

"Not to worry, Commander," Will added. "A good captain marshals his resources, utilizing them in time - and in quantity; I assure you - and you, my dear," he added, raising Deanna's hand to his lips, kissing it softly, "that there will be ample quantity left for our wedding - and the honeymoon," he added, kissing her hand again, more passionately this time.

For a moment, Geordi watched in awkward silence, then interrupted with a, "Speaking of the honeymoon, have you two decided where you're going yet?" he asked.

Startled, Will looked at the engineer, as if just realizing he was there - then loosed Deanna's hand. "I was thinking about Pacifica..." he said.

"But the timing won't work - not if we're to get back to Earth before the Titan beaks orbit," Deanna reminded him. "I was thinking about a week or two at a resort on Betazed..."

"Where you'll spend all your time in a spa..." Will offered.

"Making myself beautiful for you," she countered.

"You're already as lovely as could be," he replied softly, raising her hand to his lips.

"Commander?" Geordi interrupted. "Counselor?"

"Hmm?" they both replied absently.

"Get a room," the engineer said.

For a moment, the two continued to stare into one another's eyes - then suddenly looked at the engineer and blushed.

"Sorry," Will said.

"That's okay," Geordi said. "Young love, and all that," he added.

Deanna smiled, then leaned toward the engineer and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "And what about you, Geordi? Any 'young love' in your life these days?"

The engineer shrugged. "I had planned to meet up with Leah Brahms and her husband at the Paris convention on particle physics this year - but I guess I've missed that," he said, resigned to that fact - though not, Deanna realized, completely resigned to the fact that the woman of his dreams was married to another man.

Which was, of course, part of his attraction to her, she knew, slipping, for a moment, into her professional role. Married meant unobtainable - and unobtainable meant that he while he could never succeed, neither could he truly fail in the romance. It was safe - disappointing - but utterly safe.

A pang of regret washed over the counselor, wishing her friend could find the same joy in life that she and Will had found - but perhaps that was not to be, she sighed.

"Beej set me up with Chandra for tonight," the engineer continued. "Chandra Levinson? From stellar cartography?" he added.

Deanna nodded, remembering the officer. "She came on board with the others at the last minute, didn't she?"

"Yes. She'd been assigned to the Excalibur - but when this mission came up, and Ensign Calagari couldn't get back to Earth in time, Chandra was assigned to the Enterprise," Geordi explained.

"I met her in during the preliminary staff interview," Will said. "She seemed... nice," he added, a bit hesitantly.

Geordi smiled. "You mean she's quiet," he countered.

Will gave an embarrassed nod. "Not your usual type," he agreed, surprised that Andile, who was normally so good at seeing - and matching - the personalities of her acquaintances, had put the two together.

"On the outside, no - but I guess Biji knew we'd have something to talk about. Chandra's been doing some experimentation in hydroponics," he explained, "trying to develop a new flower hybrid, but she's having issues with nutrient flow. I guess Biji thought that I could give her a hand with reconfiguring the hydraulic systems." He glanced back at the young woman, attired in a rather conservative dress, standing on the edge of another gathering, then back at the two. "Guess I'd better not leave her too long. I promised I'd introduce her around; she doesn't really know anyone outside her department yet," he explained.

"Of course," the two demurred, then watched as Geordi left them and rejoined his partner, watching the two for a moment before turning to one another.

"Not his type," Will repeated.

"No, thank goodness," Deanna agreed.

"Hmm?" Will replied, surprised.

Deanna smiled. "His 'type' - or what he thinks is his 'type' - is a woman who shares his interests."

Will gave her a curious look. "And it isn't?"

"Will, sharing an interest is a starting point," she pointed out, "but it's not a life. I'm not saying that Ensign Levinson is a love match for Geordi - but Biji may have hit the mark in putting the two together," she said. "Geordi's knowledge can help her with her hobby, so they have somewhere to start - but it's not enough for a whole relationship; at some point, they're going to have to talk to each other about something else - like themselves. And they're both alike enough in personality to feel at ease in talking to one another. No, it's not a love match - but I'd be willing to bet that they build a good friendship between now and when we get back to Earth - and that they both come out of it stronger and more confident in who and what they are than when they started."

Will gave a soft laugh. "And here I was, thinking Beej had lost her touch," he said.

Deanna echoed his quiet chuckle. "Our Biji? Never."

He moved closer, kissing her upraised face. "I wonder... Do you think she would have put us together, if she had been there, back on Betazed, all those years ago?" he asked her curiously.

"No," she replied.

"No? Why not? Certainly an up-and-coming young Starfleet lieutenant and a university psychology student don't share too many of the same interests," he pointed out, a touch petulantly.

"No," Deanna confirmed. "But I think Biji sees things more clearly - and along a greater timeline than we do. I think," she said softly, lowering her voice as she turned to her lover, her fiancée, the man of her dream, "that she would have known there was no need to 'put us together': I think she would have known that, in the end, we were fated to be together... forever, with or without any outside intervention. Even if it took us a while to realize it," she added with a smile.

He moved close, caressing her face with his thumb, then bent down to kiss her. "A wise woman, our Biji is," he teased. "She knew I loved you even before she met either of us."

Deanna laughed, returned his kiss. "And I do love you, Will Riker," she murmured - then pulled back. "We should go socialize with our guests," she reminded him, somewhat reluctantly.

"I don't know," he countered. "There are enough people here - no one would miss us," he suggested - then glanced around. "Speaking of missing people... where is Biji? She is coming isn't she?" he added - then looked at his fiancée.

"Maybe after the party," Deanna answered softly, smiling to herself. Then again, if Data's reaction to Andile's appearance when she had stepped into their quarters an hour ago was any guide, whatever threats Beverly had made to the two would have gone by the wayside - immediately followed by Andile's dress.

"Hmm?" he answered, not hearing her fully - and not paying attention either, she thought, watching as he scanned the room for his newest friend.

"She'll be here," Deanna said. "Beverly and I didn't spend six hours with here just so she could miss the party."

"And I'm sure you both suffered through it," Will replied. "An hour at the spa, a massage, a manicure... It must have been dreadful for you all," he commiserated.

"Smart ass."

"That's Captain Smart Ass," he grinned.

"It's going to be Mr. Smart Ass soon enough - and I want you to remember that," she added, looking past the man.

"Remember that I'm a smart ass?" he replied, confused.

"No, remember you're about to be a married man," she said - then pointed across the room. "Data and Biji are right over there. Next to Geordi and Chandra."

He followed her gaze, then felt his jaw drop. "Dear God," he murmured, then added, "I'm a married man. I'm a married man. I'm a married man... but if I weren't..."

"Will, put your tongue back in your mouth, then close it, and..." She glanced down, "try to make yourself a little less obvious," she said, smiling at the bulge at the front of his trousers. "Unless, of course, that's because of me," she added.

"Always," he answered immediately. "You and only you."

"Good answer," she replied.

"Thank you."

"Need a minute to catch, uh, your breath?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, yes, please," he answered earnestly.

Deanna laughed brightly, then took him by the arm and led him to the bar.

"That is a fabulous dress!" Chandra gasped at Andile as the two couples talked near the door. "I have to ask... how does it stay on?" she added, gaping at the gem-dusted skin that was clearly evident from neck to hem.

"By staying in public places," Andile replied.

The young woman gave her a confused look. "I beg your pardon?"

The engineer smiled. "Good engineering," she tried again.

"Really?"

"Really. The bodice is made of visco-elastic memory fabric," she explained. "Once it's fitted to you, it retains that memory. I can take it off - and it would still hold the shape. No closure is necessary," she added.

"Wow!"

"I'll echo that thought," Geordi added. "You look fabulous, Biji."

Andile smiled, glanced down at her empty hand, then looked at her companion. "Love, could I talk you into getting me a drink?"

"Of course. Geordi, Ensign?" the android added. "May I obtain a libation for you?"

A moment later the android and the ensign moved away, leaving the engineers alone.

Andile let out a sigh.

"You all right, Beej?" Geordi asked worriedly.

"Fine - just..." She looked down at the gown, at herself, then back up at the man. "I wish Beverly and Deanna hadn't made me wear this. I was just going to wear a uniform. In this... I feel like I'm on display," she admitted.

"Then why didn't you?" he asked, curious. "It's not like you've never stood up to anyone when you wanted to," he reminded her.

"I didn't want to disappoint them," she replied.

Geordi contorted his face - then shook his head. "Uh-uhh. I'm not buying that, Beej. Whatever you owe the Doc and Counselor Troi, it doesn't include letting them dress you up and put you on display like some kind of toy - not unless you wanted them to do it."

Andile looked at her friend - then sighed. "Maybe... maybe I just wanted to look beautiful - one time - for Data."

Geordi gave her a surprised look. "Biji... Andile," he amended, growing serious, "in Data's eyes, you are beautiful - and it has nothing to do with what you're wearing," he added. "He loves you - and to him, that's all that matters. The clothes...? The clothes are just icing on the cake. Damned fine icing," he added, looking at the outfit once again, then hastily added, "but icing nonetheless.

"And," he continued, "just as Data loves you for who you are, so do I. So do all your friends. It doesn't matter to us if you wear a uniform or that dress..." he said - then gave her another frank stare, "though there's a lot to be said for the dress," he admitted.

Andile gave a soft laugh. "Thanks, Geordi. It's good to have a friend like you. I just wish Data shared your opinion about the dress," she added.

The chief engineer frowned. "He doesn't like it?" he asked, stunned.

"I guess not," she replied solemnly. "At least I don't think he does. After all, he's been trying to take it off me all evening."

Geordi's eyes widened - then he burst out chuckling. "You know, we've spent fifteen years trying to help Data grasp his humanity; you spend a year with us and..."

"Yeah. Amazing what a little sex can do to improve your life."

"Hey, I'm game to try," the engineer cheerfully volunteered.

"Well, in that case..." Andile said - then reached out and took Chandra by the hand, drawing her close as she and Data re-approached them, drinks in hand. "We were just talking about you, dear," she said brightly.

Slightly confused, Chandra managed a smile while Geordi gaped - and Data handed out the drinks.

"Every other man in the room has their tongue on the floor - and you just say she looks nice?" Beverly said to her companion as they watched the various scenes playing out in the lounge. "Jean-Luc, where is your taste, your judgment? Dee's absolutely stunning!"

Picard studied the woman across the room - then nodded at Beverly. "Agreed. She's stunning. So what were you saying about the wedding?"

Beverly rolled her eyes up, giving as exasperated sigh. "You know, you scare me sometimes. We spent hours getting her dressed - and you dismiss all our efforts with a quick, 'she's stunning'?"

"She is," he countered - then allowed himself a moment to look over his companion's dress - and her form - once again. "As are you, Beverly," he reminded her.

Beverly hesitated for a moment, then inclined her head, accepting the compliment. "Well, at least we know your taste and judgment aren't impaired," she said with a smile. "So why the praise faint for our girl?" she pressed.

"Bev, we just finished this conversation, didn't we?" he asked, exasperated. "She's an officer on my ship - my new second officer, to be exact. I'm going to be putting her in a number of difficult positions and situations in the months and years to come - and if I have a personal relationship with her, then that is going to make our professional one difficult for both of us.

"Not to mention that she's my new first officer's lover," he added. "The morale issue that would result from any involvement I might have with her would be beyond the realm of all reason. And in any case, what she looks like is not really the issue here. Yes, she's lovely - but..."

"But?"

He smiled. "She's not you."

"Oh," she said, startled. "Well. In that case, you're forgiven."

"Glad to hear it. Now, what were you saying about the wedding?"

"A wedding?" a familiar voice interrupted.

The two humans looked up to see the form of the Breen _outo_ standing by their table.

"Commander Riker and Counselor Troi are engaged, Jemat," Beverly explained. "That means they're planning to be married."

"I'm familiar with engagements and marriage, Doctor," Jemat replied.

"I thought your people reproduced asexually," she replied, a little surprised.

"Don't confuse reproduction with emotion, Beverly," he reminded her. "We may not need another Breen to create the next generation - but we still require others for our emotional support, to give meaning to our lives. Yes, we become engaged, we marry... perhaps not as you do," he added. "We tend to group marriages rather than monogamy - but with the maintenance of our genetic line assured by asexual reproduction, the size and construction of the marriage group is always a matter of personal preference, not genetic imperative.

"But we do celebrate the unions - and we celebrate the announcement of those impending unions. We are," he reminded her once again, "more alike than unalike."

Beverly smiled, chagrined. "My apologies, Jemat."

"Not necessary, Beverly," the Breen demurred. "We are still learning about one another."

"As we're learning about each other," Picard added. "While I've attended several weddings on Earth - including Beverly's," he said, turning to his companion, placing his hand over hers before looking back at Jemat, "I've only been to one Betazoid wedding - and that was truncated when the groom backed out. Will and Deanna's wedding on Betazed will be the first one I've had the opportunity to experience in completion - and as a participant."

"I'd be interested in hearing what a Breen wedding is like," Beverly added, gesturing at one of the unoccupied chairs at the table. "Would you care to join us?"

"Thank you," he replied - but before he sat down, he glanced at Picard. "We will not discuss the ongoing negotiations - agreed?"

Picard gave the Breen a stern look. "It is not Starfleet policy - not human social norms - to mix business and pleasure, Jemat," he replied.

The Breen gave the shoulder roll of relief - a motion akin to a human sigh, Picard knew - then took the chair. "Please understand that I have no compunctions against such discussions, captain - but six days of meeting with the bureaucrats - your and ours - is all I can tolerate. I was delighted to accept the commander's invitation with the understanding that it was purely a social event."

"Then we will limit our discussion to purely social ones," Picard said.

"I'd like to hear more about Breen weddings," Beverly interjected.

"It would be my pleasure," Jemat replied, then added, "though I must admit I regret that you will be leaving in two day's time. I will be officiating at the joining of three of my people next week - and if you were to remain, you might join us to witness our ceremonies."

"Officiating?" Beverly said, confused.

"Yes. I am _outo_, after all," he reminded them.

"_Outo_," Beverly repeated. "I still don't really understand what that is."

Jemat shook his head. "There is no direct translation into your language, Beverly - but it would not be entirely inaccurate to consider me something like one of your 'priests' - though without the religious connotations," he added. "Counselor, confessor... I attempt to help my people lead their lives in conformity with our laws and moral codes."

"I thought that was what your mutual telepathy does," Picard replied.

Jemat smiled. "It does - just as your consciences guides you. But the day that any of our peoples - yours or mine - can find their way through a life well lived without assistance - that is the day we no longer have to search for the gods - because we will have become them. Until that time, we rely upon one another, Captain."

The Breen smiled, raised his glass to the others, touched rims with the other two - but before they could drink, a young woman, still in uniform, approached them.

"Captain Picard?" she said.

"What is it, Ensign?" he said.

She nervously thrust out a padd. "The bridge just received this transmission, sir. It's encoded, your eyes only," she added.

Picard glanced at the return code, worry creasing his brow - then relaxed and smiled. "A message from Siggy," he informed Beverly, then added for Jemat's sake. "Alerod Siggerstrom," he clarified.

"Yes, I remember him," Jemat said. "Quite an interesting person."

"With an exceptional sense of humor," Picard added. "Knowing Siggy as I do, this is probably something he didn't dare transmit over Starfleet frequencies," he informed them with a smile, then touched the controls.

The smile faded - and an expression of dread covered the man's face.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly said.

Picard bit his lip - then glanced at the gathering on the other side of the room, and forced a smile on his face.

"We need to go," he told the woman.

"What is it?"

"Just... let's go. Pretend nothing's wrong," he added hastily.

"It's Dee, isn't it?" Beverly continued, understanding his sudden need for subterfuge.

"Can I be of assistance?" Jemat asked, worriedly.

Picard hesitated. "I don't know, Jemat; I don't know if anyone can help us now - but I'll take all the help I can get." He glanced across the room, his worry appearing to pass, unnoticed by the gathering - then reached for Beverly's hand.

"Let's go."


	177. Chapter 177

**Chapter 177**

"What is it, Jean-Luc?" Beverly asked as they three left the lounge.

Without a word, without breaking stride, he handed the padd to her, continuing his rapid pace down the hall, even as he heard her gasp, heard the angry inhalation of her rage. "Son of a bitch!" she raged. "That son of a bitch! He's been behind this all - every attempt to kill her - and when he couldn't, he does this!" she cried furiously

Bewildered, Jemat looked from one human to the other - then jerked. his head in negation. "I do not understand," he said. "I thought Commander Siggerstrom was a friend of yours," he said.

"Siggy is a friend," Picard countered. "If he wasn't, he wouldn't be risking his career - maybe even his life - by sending this..." He raised the padd defiantly, "... to me."

"Then what, exactly, does the padd contain?" Jemat pressed.

"Notification that Admiral Czymszczak intends to press a charge of treason against Cmdr. Handeela," Picard said grimly.

"Treason?" Jemat repeated, confused. "I am not familiar with that word," he admitted.

"Probably because in a race of telepaths, such an act would be impossible," Beverly supposed.

"Treason," Picard explained, his anger barely container, "is the act of betraying one's country, government or people; it is disloyalty or treachery - and, in light of the recent Dominion War, it is also one of the few acts in the Federation that is punishable by death."

Jemat made a very human inhalation of shock and surprise - then jerked his head in negation. "But... Garave could not have done such a thing. We have not yet completed our review of her memories - but it is quite evident from her behaviors and her personality that she is incapable of betraying her people - to the point of sacrificing her own life!" he protested.

"I agree," Picard murmured, "but it is that very loyalty that may cause her to lose her life."

"Jean-Luc," Beverly interrupted, "Dee's changed. Just because she was willing to go to the gallows before doesn't mean that she'd be willing to sacrifice herself again."

Picard nodded, agreeing with the woman's point. "I know - but that may not save her, Beverly; if she says nothing, they'll execute her - but if there's even a suggestion she might talk..."

"He'd kill her," she gasped, understanding instantly.

"I do not understand," Jemat interjected. "Who would kill her - and why?"

Picard started to explain - then stopped, looked around - and raised the padd. "Siggy sent this - rather than telling me face-to-face - because he must have suspected that the conversations here were not free from being monitored."

"The saboteur?" Beverly said.

Jemat looked at the two. "Saboteur?"

Picard nodded - then sighed. "It's a long story, Jemat - and one not suited for these halls. Geordi assures me that my quarters are free from monitoring devices; if we were to continue this conversation there...?"

Jemat nodded, then gestured at the lift at the end of the corridor. "After you, captain," he said - then followed the two as they made their way down the hall."

Five minutes later found the three seated around the coffee table in Picard's quarters, two drinks sitting on the table, untouched - a third in Jemat's hand, being carefully considered.

"Strange," he said, gingerly tasting the amber fluid. "It tastes of smoke," he added, trying second drop.

"Scotch," Picard explained. "Single malt, roasted over a peat fire - that's what gives it that smoky flavor. It's Dee's - Garave's - drink of preference," he added.

Jemat managed a sad smile. "If, by introducing me to this beverage, you wish me to how special she is, Captain, or what her loss would mean, you waste your energy, sir; I understand her to a depth and in ways you cannot comprehend - and yet I do not presume to think that the fullness of her life could be replaced, even by the repository of her collected memories - even if augmented by the memories of those who knew her. No, captain, I understand that her life - her presence here - is unique... as it is for every individual," he added thoughtfully.

"But Garave's existence is critical to the eternal survival of my people," he reminded them, "and yours as well."

"I understand that, Jemat - but I'm not sure if there's anything we can do to save her," Picard said, a gentle emphasis on the pronoun.

"Surely you do not believe that Garave would have done anything to betray her own people!" the _outo_ replied indignantly.

"I know she didn't," Picard agreed. "Unfortunately, it's not going to be as simple as my stating my beliefs about her personality. Starfleet courts make their decisions based on evidence - and, as we have learned, there is evidence that would implicate her on such charges," he said.

"But only if she didn't attempt to defend herself," Beverly protested. "What she did during the interrogation was one thing - but she's a different person now! She would fight for her life..."

"Yes - maybe," Picard demurred. "But bear in mind that what she did - and did not do - during the interrogation was as much to protect Data as to protect the Federation. Now that her relationship with him has come out in the open, that makes her all the more vulnerable to being manipulated."

"You don't think Czymszczak would harm Data, do you?" she gasped.

Picard shook his head. "He wouldn't have to, Beverly; all he'd have to do tell Dee that her relationship with Data his implicated him - and she won't say a word to save herself."

"Yes - but she's no longer the only person who knows the truth, Jean-Luc," Beverly reminded him. "She's told us - and we could testify..."

"Hearsay," Picard countered.

"Hearsay?" Jemat interrupted.

"Information that is passed by word of mouth; it's inadmissible in Starfleet courts, unless it is the best possible evidence - but in this case, it's not. There's physical evidence that Garave was on Cardassia during a time of war - without any evidence to support her claim that she was sent there on a covert mission. All the courts would have is her word that that was the case - and that's not sufficient," he informed the Breen.

Jemat, however, failed to be daunted. "Except that I could present evidence that the events did occur as she stated. We have her memory repository; as _outo_, my evidence..."

"Means nothing to a Starfleet tribunal, Jemat," Picard objected. "Telepathic readings are not considered evidence - not even when given by races that are members of the Federation," he said grimly. "And the Breen..."

Jemat gave a low hiss of understanding. "We are not members of the Federation. Indeed, we, too, are one of your recent enemies."

"For you to testify on Dee's behalf might be as damning as the evidence itself," Beverly suggested. "Rather than save her, you might prejudice the judges against her even further than the evidence would."

"That's presuming the case ever got to the judges, Beverly," Picard added.

She raised her eyes. "Then you really think Czymszczak would..."

Picard shook his head. "He might. If he thought she was going to testify - if threatening Data didn't work."

"I don't understand," Jemat said.

Beverly looked at the captain for a moment, silently requesting permission to explain - then hastily turned to the Breen as Picard nodded his assent.

"If you haven't read this part of Dee's memories yet, you will soon. Everything she has been accused of is true. She is guilty, technically, of acts of treason; she was on Cardassia during the war. But she was there under Czymszczak's orders, acting on his behalf. The problem is that what she was told she was doing, why she was there - and Czymszczak's true intentions - aren't the same. Czymszczak was manipulating her to get information he could use to end the war - but to his own benefit."

Jemat frowned. "But... Garave is a most formidable telepath; she must have known..."

"Perhaps," Beverly agreed, "and perhaps not; the more I come to know of Dee, the more I understand that she may deliberately chosen not to read Czymszczak, to have allowed herself to be used - knowing the outcome was for the right reason - peace - even thought such a peace would glorify someone whose behavior she found detestable.

"I think..." She hesitated for a moment, growing solemn, "I think she was so tired of life, Jemat, that she would allow herself to die on this mission. I think Czymszczak understood that grief, that depression - and used it, never realizing that she might somehow survive; never believing that she might return to the Federation someday."

"But she did," Jemat argued.

"She did - but so horribly injured that her survival was never anticipated. When she did survive, when she began to recover," Beverly continued, "that was when Czymszczak began to grow worried."

"Worried that she might identify him as the causative agent behind her actions," Jemat agreed.

"Yes. I suspect that, since that time, he has had an agent - or agents - watching her, documenting her actions - or worse," Picard interjected.

Jemat lifted a shoulder in question.

"There were two deaths on a starbase where Garave was stationed - and those deaths were attributed to her. She was vindicated of the charges - but doubt remains behind; if charges of treason were pressed, what happened on Utopia Planitia could be used as part of a chain of evidence against her."

"And you believe that your Admiral Czymszczak may have been behind these deaths?"

Beverly nodded. "Yes - just as we believe his agent - agents - aboard the Enterprise have made several more attempts on her life. That we were able to identify those attempts, and effectively protect her from them may have forced Czymszczak's hand; by saving her, we may well have condemned her, Jemat."

"You believe there is sufficient evidence to convict her?" Jemat asked.

"There is - but I doubt that Czymszczak will dare take that risk," Picard replied. "He cannot afford to have his actions - or even a suggestion of his actions - made public. Being a member of the Admiralty might well protect him against a fair amount of public criticism - but the Tad Czymszczak I know is not about to remain an admiral the balance of his life. He has greater political aspirations - and therefore, he cannot permit even a hint of his involvement to become public.

"No," he said with a shake of his head, "I have reason to suspect that at some point between her arrest and her trial, there will be a tragic 'accident' - and Dee will be killed."

"Or perhaps it will be something more obvious, more public - and more definitive," Beverly opined. "A grief-stricken relative of someone killed in the war may kill her in retribution - ensuring the public opinion that she was guilty, and deflecting any doubt concerning Czymszczak's involvement."

"Either way, my Garave will die," Jemat concluded, "and with her, the future of all our peoples."

"Unless we can find a way to protect her," Picard said, leaning forward, folding his hands together, studying them - then raising his eyes to Jemat. "And I may have a way to do that. Jemat, you once offered to take Garave with you; to give her sanctuary on your worlds..."

Jemat met Picard beseeching gaze - then slowly shook his head. "I cannot," he said quietly.

Astounded, Picard stared at the Breen. "But you said..."

"I know what I said, Captain," Jemat concurred. "But my offer was one of a temporary reprieve - not one that must endure for as long as she is at risk. You are suggesting that she live among my people for fifty years, Captain - maybe more."

"I am aware of that, Jemat," he assured the man. "But Dee's adaptable," he protested, stunned. "She's spent years - generations - living among alien species; she can make the change to live with your people."

Jemat gave a slow nod of his head, unmoved by the man's argument. "That she can make the adjustment is not in question, Captain - but it is an adjustment we cannot permit."

Picard gaped at the alien. "But..."

Beverly reached out, laying a hand on his arm to silence the protest, nodding at Jemat in comprehension. "I think I understand, Jemat," she said, then turned to Picard. "The Breen are telepaths, Jean-Luc..."

"I know that!" he snapped back angrily.

"You know it," she agreed gently, "but knowing and accepting are two different things. The Breen are telepaths; they are used to having their conscious thoughts being openly read. What they're not used to is concealing those thoughts."

"I understand," Picard agreed, somewhat less tersely - but still perplexed. "But what I don't understand is why you think they would they need to conceal their thoughts?" he asked.

"Dee's just coming to grips with her concept of her own identity, Jean-Luc; she's just beginning to accept that she's not andile, not some vile abomination - but rather a loving, valued and worthwhile human in her own right. She is nowhere near ready to accept that an entire species view her as god!"

Picard stared at the physician for a long moment - then slowly nodded.

"It is not within the bounds of reasonable assumption that we could keep that truth from her, Captain; asking fifty billion telepaths to keep their thoughts to themselves for fifty years is impossible - and all it would take is one errant thought, and she would know the truth."

"It wouldn't even take that," Picard realized. "She would see the change in behavior among your people just between our brief stay on your ship and their behavior now. She's perceptive; even if your crew managed to suppress their thoughts for a time, she would sense the difference."

"Yes. And though in time she may come to accept our beliefs about her, I would be concerned that those beliefs would affect her. She might well try to become who she thinks we would want her to be - not the person she is destined to become by her own hand."

"She won't be anything, by anyone's destiny, if Czymszczak gets hold of her!" the captain protested.

"Agreed. We must save her - but we cannot grant her sanctuary among our people," Jemat said solemnly.

"Nor can we ask Tiron or Zumell to do so," Picard replied. "Having just submitted a treaty to our respective governments, we can not endanger that by asking their worlds to shelter her. Even if they agreed, the Federation would not; Dee's extradition would become the first bargaining chip - and one that could be easily forfeited."

"Can't we send her to a non-aligned world?" Beverly asked him.

"Of course - but if Czymszczak's people could infiltrate our ship and attempt to kill Dee here, even with our security measures, what chance would she have on a non-aligned world, where she has no protection whatsoever?" he replied.

"None," Beverly agreed - then shook her head. "No matter how we try to hide her, Jean-Luc, he can find her," she said.

For a long moment, there was silence among the three - then Jemat looked at the two humans. "No matter where she hides, he will not stop searching for her - yes?"

Beverly nodded.

"Then we must stop him from looking," he replied simply.

Beverly stared at the Breen for a moment, then looked at Picard who returned her confused look.

"I don't understand," he said.

"He will not look for what he already has," Jemat repeated.

The captain shook his head.

"Your Admiral wishes Garave - preferably dead. Then that is what he will get.

"If the only answer is for Garave to die, then she must die."

"Jemat!" Beverly exclaimed, horrified.

"_Outo_," Picard began to protest at the same time.

"Captain, Beverly, it is the only way," the Breen said quietly - then began to explain.


	178. Chapter 178

**Chapter 178**

"Lovely, my dear, quite lovely," Tiron wheezed as he released his dance partner, guiding her off the makeshift dance floor, back toward the table the Romulan was sharing with the Cardassian ambassador.

"You flatter me, Patchni," Andile replied, slightly breathless from the exertion of the complex and vigorous dance. "I haven't danced the _v'ishtien in a long time; I must have forgotten half of it - not that I ever knew it that well," she added. "I'm sorry; I stepped on your feet a dozen times - and I almost hit you when I forgot the turn," she reminded him.

"Ah, yes," he agreed in mock seriousness. "My feet will never be the same, and I shall worry for my safety forever more. Such is the threat you pose to me, little one, for I have never borne such a great weight before," he added, then stopped, turned to her, studying her intently, the usually hard expression in his eyes softening, moistening. "When she was your age, perhaps a bit younger, I taught my youngest daughter the _v'ishtien_," he told her. "She stepped on my feet and hit me time upon time... but not a day goes by that I have not missed my bruised toes and sore arms. Until today," he added quietly, then took the hand he held and raised it to his lips. "Today... today she lives again," he said softly, placing a gently, fatherly kiss on her hand.

Andile felt the tears building in her own eyes, bit her lip, them inclined her head respectfully. "You honor me, Patchni," she answered.

He raised his hand to her eyes, touching the budding tear, drawing it away with his finger. "No. No tears, child. Not tonight. Not for either of us. Tonight is for joy and happiness," he added.

"Yes, Patchni," Andile replied - then glanced past him to where Tar Zumell sat, watching them both, smiling.

Tiron followed her gaze - then looked back at her. "Joy is not just for the young, bajni," he chided her gently.

"I never thought it was," she answered, then added silently, I just never thought it was for me.

I thought it was for others, she thought; I thought I didn't deserve it, she added, glancing back at the android who waited patiently on the other side of the room, making small talk with Worf - but glancing at her every few seconds.

Until you, she thought.

She smiled at the man - and watched as joy - wonderful real, human joy, shone on his face. Her heart melting, she turned back to Tiron. "Patchni..." she began.

He silenced her with a look. "I understand, little one. Go. Leave your ancient grandfather to stumble back to his table alone."

"Patchni..." she replied, unhappily.

Tiron laughed. "Oh, my little one," he said with a shake of his head. "How sensitive you are - how worried for others. But I am just teasing you; I, too, have plans of my own for the evening," he added, glancing at Zumell.

Slightly shocked at the intensity of his emotions and the erotic undertones, Andile whispered, "Grandfather?"

He looked at the human. "Did you expect that you would be my only dance partner? No; tonight I will introduce the Cardassians to true culture - Romulan dance, beginning with the v'ishtien!" he announced. "So go; we both have great plans for the evening."

"Yes, Patchni," she said, happy and relieved at once. She raised herself on tiptoe, planted a kiss on his cheek, then turned.

"Child?" the Romulan called after her.

"Yes, grandfather?" she answered.

"Be happy... together."

"We are," she replied - then stopped.

They were happy, she realized. Truly happy.

Together.

Almost giddy with the realization, she moved away from the Romulan's side, grinning, joy filling her soul.

I am happy, she thought. Oh, gods, I am so happy!

For a moment, she was tempted to hurry to the android's side, unable to bear the joy alone much longer... then checked the motion, even as she checked the need that was beginning to consume her.

No hurrying tonight, she reminded herself; as happy as I am, I want this to last forever. I want this all to last forever. No; no hurrying tonight. Tonight would be slow and wonderful and delicious and glorious.

She slowed her motion, her hurry turning to a saunter, each step carefully measured and choreographed, shoulders back, hips moving from side to side as she eased her way toward him...

... And smiled. There was nothing even vaguely subtle in her body language - but the art was still something Data had not mastered, despite their burgeoning relationship. Nonetheless, he seemed to instantly understand what her intention was - and as she watched, he said something to Worf, then hurried to meet her halfway across the room.

"Hey, big guy," she said, her voice low, sultry, one finger planted in the middle of his chest, drawing lazy circles on the front of his shirt.

For a moment, he stared at her, confused. " 'Big guy'? Are you referring to me, Ginger?" he asked, perplexed. "If so, I must point out, there are individuals of greater physical stature on this ship - and indeed, present in the room," he began to explain.

"Not," she interrupted him, stepping close, pressing her hip into his groin, "where it matters," she informed him.

His looked at her, somewhat confused, then looked down at where their bodies pressed together. "Ah!" he said understanding – then gave her a confused look. "I was not aware that you had had the opportunity to investigate and compare the sizes of the sexual organs of the males aboard the ship, Ginger - and while I realize we have not made a life commitment to one another..."

"Data?" she said, stopping him in mid-observation.

"Yes?"

"It was a compliment, not a reference to a real comparison. Praise.

Flattery."

"Ah. Then I thank you."

"You're welcome... big guy," she added, her voice becoming sultry once again, then let her finger drift downward, slowly tracing a long line down his chest, toward his stomach...

"Ginger," he said tentatively, reaching for her hand, securing it within his own, "I am not certain your behavior is appropriate for this venue. There are many people observing us, including Cmdr. Riker and Counselor Troi, and I would not wish to ruin their party," he told her solemnly.

"Ruin it?" she asked.

"If you were to continue your action in the manner in which I believe it is moving, I would feel compelled to make love with you here and now, in front of everyone - and that would not only ruin the betrothal party, but might well damage our reputations as well as our careers."

"Ooh, Data, you say the nicest things," she murmured back, then stepped back. "So what say we blow this joint?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?" the android replied, confused.

She grinned. "It's something Dix said the other night. 1930's slang. I think it means 'let's go'."

"Ah," he said, understanding. "Then I concur; let us depart this... joint."

Despite their mutual hunger, however, it took more than a few minutes to make their farewells, each needing to visit, however briefly, with the dozens of friends and acquaintances who filled the room. When they finally managed to make their way through the door, Andile stopped and covered her face with her hands.

"Ginger? Are you unwell?" Data asked worriedly.

She shook her head, then lowered her hands, revealing tear-filled eyes.

"Ginger?"

"Sorry, love. It just... hit me," she said.

"Something hit you?" he echoed. "What? Where? As the operations officer, it is my responsibility to have any defective areas of the ship corrected so that no one else is harmed."

Despite the tears, she smiled. "Have I ever told you how sweet you are?

"Innocent, naïve - but sweet," she added.

He gave her a perplexed look. "I do not understand."

"I know. Dearest, what 'hit' me was my emotions - and I don't think there's anything you can do to prevent others from being hit in the same way. But it's sweet of you to want to try," she added, laying a hand on his chest, then placing her head alongside it. "I... I'm happy, Data. I'm with people I care for, doing work I love... and I'm with you," she added softly.

"As I love you," he agreed – then added, "it is not happiness, Ginger; it is joy."

She looked up, surprised. "Joy?"

"The captain once said the joy is the absence of fear," he explained.

"But... I've never really been afraid, dear," she countered.

"I think he did not mean fear, per se, Ginger, but rather any emotion that so strongly affects us that it prevents us from enjoying the fullness that life can offer. I understand," he added. "When I realized the ramifications of terminating our relationship, I acted not from rational thought, but from the fear of re-experiencing that pain: I opted to terminate the function of my emotion chip.

"What I did not know at that time was that the emotions had started to be integrated into my systems functions; I could no more terminate the feelings than I could terminate any other functions. I could, however, block them, cease to allow them to affect me," he said.

"Oh, Data," she murmured softly. "I never wanted that for you."

"I am aware of that, Ginger - but I could not bear to experience the feelings, to continue with the knowledge that you were no longer a part of my life. To live without feelings was simpler than to live without you," he told her.

"Data..."

"When you returned to my life, I realized how empty it had been; I then understood what the captain had said. It was not fear, per se, that prevented my ability to accept the fullness that life presented, but the joy that should be the essence of life was missing.

"In that same vein, Ginger, you have spent most of your life unable to accept the fullness of life; your fear, your loneliness, your personal pain overwhelmed you, whether you are cognizant of that fact or not. I believe that now, for the first time, you find yourself in a place and position when you are safe and secure - and therefore, are open to the... joy," he said with a smile, "that life can provide. That would include the friendship, the companionship of your fellow officers and crewmates..."

"And love," she said softly.

"And love."

Data studied the woman beside him - then pulled her close, encompassing her in his arms, and kissed her, deeply, fervently, passionately.

"Geez, you two; get a room," Geordi muttered as he and his date exited the lounge a few minutes later, grinning as he passed the two, then nodded at the ensign who was hurrying toward the still-open doorway. "Hi, Deb," he said. "Don't worry; the party's still going strong," he added.

"Oh, I'm not here for the party," she said, with a touch of obvious regret. "I'm on duty for another hour. I'm just delivering a message from the captain to Ambassador Tiron," she explained, waving a padd as if to prove her statement, then strode past him and into the room.

"I wonder what that's all about," Geordi murmured to his companions. "I thought the captain was off-duty tonight," he added.

To his surprise, there was no response from Data or Andile - nor could there have been, he realized as he turned to face them, for the hall was empty except for himself and Chandra.

"Where'd they go?" he asked.

"I guess they took your advice," she replied. "You know," she added softly, smiling, her eyes dark and smoldering, "there's something to be said for getting out of this hall. Tell me: have you ever seen the night-blooming naballa?"

"No - but if it only blooms at night, has anyone actually seen?" he asked jokingly.

"Of course not. Shall we go look for it?" she added, grinning - then reached for his hand and pulled him along.

He raised a brow in surprise, unused to a date who was so enthusiastic about being with him - but it had seemed a night of unusual happiness, he added.

Must be something in the air, he decided as he hurried to catch up to her - then slipped his arm around her waist.

As the lift doors shut behind them, Data pulled Andile to him, nuzzled her neck, then began to kiss her passionately, turning her to pin her body between the his body and the lift wall.

A moment later, she gasped as his hand slid through the opening of her dress and began to caress her intimately. "Data!" she cried out, shocked by the unexpected caresses. "What are you doing?!"

"You stated that there was a 'certain thrill in making out, making love, in places where we might be caught'," he reminded her.

"Yes, but..."

"You wish I should stop?" he asked.

"Yes... No... Oh, gods!" she cried out as he brought her to a climax - then felt him withdraw his fingers and lower her to the floor, straightening the front of her dress as he did so.

Stunned and dazed, she barely felt the lift come to a stop, barely was able to feel Data's hand as he guided her into the hall and led her down toward their room. Weak, lightheaded from the pleasure, she leaned against him, gratefully accepting the support of his body, his arm warm, firm and unyielding as it wrapped around her waist.

"Whatever possessed you to try that, Data?" she asked. "It was wonderful... but if we were caught..."

"We would not have been caught," he countered.

"You seem pretty sure about that," she answered.

"I am."

She looked at him as they walked, waiting for the explanation.

"Give," she said at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said 'give'. Tell me how you knew we wouldn't be caught. You're no sexual adventurer, dearest," she reminded him. "I'm not complaining - but you're too much the proper first officer to risk your career over a cheap feel – wonderful as it was," she added quickly, sincerely.

The android hesitated for a moment - then confessed. "I timed it."

"Timed what?"

"The intervals between when the lift leaves Deck Ten and reaches each level between that deck and ours," he confessed. "I then determined what the defining characteristics were as the lift decelerates as it reached each deck. With that knowledge at hand, I would be able to determine if there was an intervening call for the lift to stop between Deck Ten and our destination - and to terminate my actions appropriately. Thus I could appear to engage in a moment of sexual exploration without risking your reputation."

"My reputation?" she echoed, astounded.

"I have been told that a male's reputation is seldom damaged by being known as sexual roué," he admitted. "Your reputation, on the other hand might have been imperiled. I could not risk that - so I made sure I could grant you this moment of 'danger and excitement' without actually endangering you," he said.

" "A roué'," Andile echoed, a knowing smirk crossing her face. "Let me guess. This was Commander Riker's idea - yes?"

Data nodded. "He suggested that such a maneuver might be pleasurable for us both; he said that Commander Troi had found such events equally exciting."

"Gods! Will and Deanna...? Where?" Andile gasped - then pulled away, covering her ears and shaking her head. "No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know," she insisted - then uncovered her ears and looked at her lover. "Yes, I do. Where did they do it?" she asked.

The android shook his head. "I am sorry, Ginger; I did not inquire. I can..."

"Not necessary," she insisted.

"...but I do know that they established certain rules about their extracurricular activity. I do know, for example, the captain's ready room was 'off limits', as was the ship's chapel. I believe they felt it inappropriate to engage in such actions in areas where it might be deemed disrespectful."

"Decorum rears its ugly head," Andile sighed. "Which only leaves the question... why?"

"I believe that Captain Riker believes that maintaining a degree of 'freshness' in their sexual play..."

"No, dearest," she interrupted, "I meant, why did you do this? It was lovely, it was delicious... but why?"

"I wished to please you..."

"Data, you've 'pleased' me a hundred times," she countered. "Why this? Why tonight?"

He hesitated again.

"Dearest?"

The android waited a moment - then spoke. "I wished... I wished you to know that I will always attempt to please you... sexually, emotionally and spiritually; that I will not be content to allow our lives to become static or unchanging."

She stared at him - then smiled softly. "Oh, Data..." she sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder as they reached their quarters - then fell silent as the doors opened.

Within, faint flickering lights shone: a dozen - a hundred! - candles had been lit and placed about the room, their light warm and soft, illuminating the room with glints of gold and red as tiny flames danced from within the hundreds of small glass vases that held the lights.

"Oh, Data! It's beautiful! But when did you find time to do this?" she asked breathlessly.

"I took advantage of the opportunity provided when you agreed to dance with Ambassador Tiron. I had calculated the time required to arrange and light the candles..."

"But you couldn't know Tiron would ask me to dance," she pointed out.

"Mr. Worf had agreed to make a similar request of you should another opportunity not present itself," he countered.

Andile smiled. "Deanna and the Doctor, Worf, Captain Riker... Tell me Data, was there anyone on the ship not involved in this evening of seduction?" she asked.

Data considered. "I believe there is an ensign on deck seventeen who was unaware..." he began lightly.

Andile smiled, then stepped into the room, turning slowly, her arms extended, watching as the candlelight glimmered, reflecting off the glitter and gems stones that adhered to her body. "I feel as though I was in the middle of a nebula," she sighed, delighted. "I feel as though I was a star."

"You are a star, Ginger," Data agreed, stepping near. "You are my sun, my moon, my Earth, my heaven."

He put his arms around her, drawing her close. "My day, my night, my morning, my evening."

One hand slipped beneath the opening at the front of the dress, gently peeling it from her body. "My dawn, my dark, my joy, my happiness."

He dropped the gown to the ground.

"My life," he whispered - then picked her up and carried her to their bed.

Later - minutes, hours, days - how long, she didn't know, she didn't care - later, she gave a low groan of complete satiation, then sagged forward, falling until she lay beside her lover, her heart still racing as she slowly recovered from the onslaught of the nearly unbearable pleasure of their love-making.

He didn't pant, of course, he didn't gasp for air - he didn't both with those human trivialities - but even so, he lay beside her with that same stillness, that same quiet that filled a human - perhaps any being - in those languid moments after the needs of the body had been filled, and the soul was filled with calm and contentment.

She freed her hands from his, rescuing them from where they had been trapped as he kept her secure while she sat astride him, curling one beneath her, laying the other one on his chest - and smiled.

He didn't pant, he didn't gasp, he certainly didn't sweat she knew - but here, lying beside her in the flickering light of the hundred fading candles, he shone with the same reflected light as though his body were drenched in perspiration...

Which it was, she realized. Hers - her sweat covered him - and with it the glitter and miniscule gemstones that had worked their way loose from her body and now lay across his; he shone with the same light that had covered her when she had entered their quarters - doubly so, she added, his golden skin shining all the embellishments of moisture and gem.

She touched one of the stones, then began to trace a curving line among and between the glittering points, then shifted her position so that she could kiss each point as her finger changed direction.

After a moment, her hand trailed over the far edge of his body, and fatigue and satiated exhaustion filling her, she lay her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

"Ginger?"

His voice cut through her foggy thoughts, reality cutting through the edge of a building dream.

"Ginger?"

He placed his hand on the back of her head, a finger gently pushing back one strand of her now-disheveled hair.

"Ginger?"

She frowned, wrinkling her nose in annoyance. Their love-making had been exquisite - exquisite and delicious and wonderfully prolonged - but exhausting. She had been on the verge of drifting into sleep when he had called, and despite herself, she felt a surge of annoyance with her lover.

A surge she quickly checked; he was too good to her, too kind, too generous, too giving of himself and his time for her to permit herself to be annoyed with him. Forcing herself as awake as possible, she murmured, "Hmmm?"

"Ginger, earlier this evening, as well as on prior occasions, we were discussing the effect of certain items of... apparel... on the sexual response of the partners? Might we explore that conversation?"

Gods! she thought, astounded. He wants to talk about naughty undies - now? After we just made love? Gods, he can't still be aroused - can he? she gasped silently.

Of course he could, she realized instantly. There was no limit to his satiety - but, as a matter of course, he had always acceded to her limitations, making sure he never taxed her beyond her body's boundaries.

But their lovemaking tonight had been exceptional, she admitted, even for Data. He had brought her to the heights of pleasure more times than she could remember, exciting and sating her body over and over again until she had thought she could bear no more - and only then allowing himself his own release.

No, she thought; he was gentle and generous and loving and giving beyond measure - and if he was still aroused - Gods, how could he be? she wondered in astonishment - but if he were, how could she say no?

And if he wanted her to put on some black lacy nothing just so he could take them off again, it was the least she could do, she decided.

She opened her eyes, smiling at her lover. "Of course. What did you want to discuss?"

"Is there a correlation between the size of the object and the sexual response?"

Andile considered the question for a moment, then shook her head. "Not really. It's all subjective; in some cultures a fully dressed woman is sexually alluring; in others a strategically placed piece of lace can have a profound effect." She smiled. "Remember that robe you replicated for me - the on that made us realize the replicators were failing? Maybe I should put that on - and we can see what you think of that one," she suggested.

"Perhaps later," he demurred. "So a small object can have as dramatic an effect as a large one?"

She nodded.

"And is there a correlation between the material and the response?" he pressed.

Again, she hesitated - and again shook her head. "No, that's subjective as well. Leather, lace, velvet..."

"Metal?" Data prompted.

"Metal? Well, I guess..." She stopped, nausea filling her as she realized what he was suggesting. "Data, there are a lot of... devices...that people use when they're making love, but..." She stopped again, then swallowed hard. He had been so good to her, so generous... How could she say no?

"All right," she conceded tremulously, trying to hold back her fear, reminding herself that, above all, Data would never hurt her. "I'll try what you want. What... what is it you want me to wear?" she asked anxiously.

"This," he said.

Taking her hand with one of his, he reached beneath the pillow with the other, pulled out something - then slipped a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Raising his eyes to hers, he spoke.

"Wear this, Andile. Forever."

She gaped at the firestone and silver ring - then gaped at him.

"Data..."

"Marry me, Ginger."


	179. Chapter 179

**Chapter 179**

Andile lay in the dark of their quarters, the candles having long burned out and raised her left hand, staring at the ring that glittered on her third finger - then looked past the hand to the body that lay on the bed beside her.

He wasn't asleep, she knew; Data didn't need to sleep any more than he needed to eat or breathe - but he knew how much she craved having him beside her in the night, ached for the company of someone safe, someone strong, to protect her throughout the night; craved it, ached for it - but refused to allow him to sacrifice those hours when he might otherwise be working just to indulge her childish fear.

Tonight, though... tonight there had been no other place for him to go; tonight was for her, for him, for the two of them - alone and together.

They had made love once again, whispering words of love and joy and a life together, then he had drawn her to his side, enveloping her in the strange warmth of his arms, and smiling, slowly drifted into sleep - or rather, she amended, into the program he called sleep.

She smiled at him. The program was amazingly good, she admitted, a far cry from the first one she had witnessed, with the android lying rigidly on his back, centered in the middle of the bed, the blankets perfectly arranged over his body; now he lay beside, her, eyes closed, face slack, one arm wrapped protectively, lovingly, around her waist, occasionally turning, adjusting his position beside her, just as any sleeping human might do.

Well, she conceded, not quite like any human would do; a human would breathe. With Data, there were no inhalations of exhalations, no steady rise and fall of the chest... there was not even the soft, barely perceptible beating of his heart as they lay beside one another.

Then again, they were somewhat superfluous, she thought; Spot had made herself completely at home on their pillows, her breath and her heartbeat a close approximation for those factors missing from her lover.

She smiled at the cat, reaching up to give it a reassuring pat, earning a cat-sleepy purr in return, looked at her lover once more.

Human breathing and a human heartbeat would be nice, she thought - but they were just surface dressing, she knew; if she mentioned it, he would find a way to alter the program to add those features, just to please her - but it would not change the truth: he might well be an android, but he was as human as any of them, as real, as caring, as loving and giving, as anyone she had ever met.

And she would spend the rest of her life with him, she reminded herself, raising her hand before her face once again, staring at the ring in astonishment, then looked at her lover and smiled.

Ironic, she thought; I finally have the chance to sleep with him - but for once, I can't sleep. Not because I afraid or worried or sick this time - but because I'm happy.

Oh gods, I'm so happy! she thought.

She moved forward, kissing him softly, feeling him respond with a soft murmur of awareness - then watched as he drifted back into sleep once again.

She watched him for a moment longer, then turned until she was lying on her back, and raised her hand once again.

For a long time she had been too stunned by Data's proposal to even realize what he had placed on her hand; for a long time, all she had thought to say had been, "Yes."

Later, as the shock had faded, she had finally looked at the ring - and gaped.

The simple band that adorned her finger was itself adorned with a Denobulan firestone - a gem that, by its rarity and value - not to mention its dazzling sparkles of reds and oranges and yellows - had taken the place of the diamond as the traditional gem on an engagement ring.

But unlike diamonds, the stones couldn't be replicated, she knew - just as she knew that Data, even with his incredible ability to foresee any contingency, had not brought a firestone engagement ring aboard when they had left Earth.

"If the ring is not acceptable, I can replace it with something else, Ginger," he had offered as he watched her staring at the ring.

"No, Data; it's beautiful," she countered. "But... where did you get it? Firestones aren't exactly a standard item in ship's stores."

For a moment, the android was silent, seemingly uncertain as he considered the answer. Then, reluctantly, he replied, "I... I was uncertain about the appropriate manner with which to approach you about this topic," he confessed. "Indeed, at first, I was unsure regarding the legality of an android marrying at all. But the Starfleet decision that I was indeed a sapient being, rather than a machine - an object - and therefore entitled to the rights and privileges thereof, granting me the same legal right to marry, should I so choose.

"Knowing that there could be no legal protest, I than needed to consider the more important aspects."

"Important?"

"I wished this event to be memorable for you, Ginger; to be unique. I wanted it to be special," he added uncertainly.

She smiled adoringly at him. "Oh, it was, Fred; it was...wonderful," she sighed.

"I am gratified. I had studied the matter intently," he added hastily, trying to explain his actions, then relented, adding, "but I could find no traditional approach that would appropriately reflect the nature of our relationship," he conceded.

"So how _did_ you dream this up?" she asked softly, looking at the candle-lit bedroom and the now well-tousled bed.

"I thought to consult someone who had been engaged - and asked what her thoughts had been on that event - and what she would have liked had she been given a choice," he replied.

"You talked with Deanna?" Andile asked.

Data looked back in surprise. "No. I spoke with Dr. Crusher. I thought that her experience - having been engaged and the resultant marriage - would grant me a wider perspective on the totality of the event."

Andile studied him for a long time, then nodded. "I knew she was married, once," she agreed softly. "Was it a good marriage?" she added.

"The doctor does not confide easily in others about personal matters," he replied. "I think... I think that her marriage to Jack Crusher was not what she had envisioned; I think that she had not considered the ramifications of marrying a ship's officer, and the inherent strain that the prolonged separation would place upon that union."

"And they never served together," Andile said quietly.

"No," Data agreed solemnly. "That is one reason that I have delayed asking this of you," he explained. "I wished to be sure that you be returned to active status - so that our lives might be spent together," he said.

She gave a half-laugh, not entirely sure whether to believe him. "And if I hadn't?" she pressed, teasingly.

"I would have resigned," he answered easily. "I will not live without you, Ginger."

For a moment, she gaped at him, then slowly closed her mouth. "Please tell me you're joking, dearest; please tell me you wouldn't leave Starfleet for me! Starfleet is everything to you! Your friends, your work..."

"They are insignificant in comparison to my desire to have you with me, Ginger: with me - and content. Had you been removed from duty, we could still have been married, and you could have joined me on the ship - but you would have been unsatisfied in your personal existence, and the thought that you would be unhappy was intolerable. Rather than ask that of you, I would have resigned so that we could be together," he insisted.

"But this is your life!"

"You..." he whispered, drawing her fingers to his lips, kissing them softly, "are my life. Without you, this has no meaning."

"But..."

"We would have found a way to continue the work of Starfleet, even though we were no longer members," he assured her. "But we would have done it together."

She stared at him, tears welling in her eyes, them kissed him again. "Have I ever told you I love you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, then I'll say it again," she said, kissing him once more. "I love you."

He answered the kiss with one of his own, the passion building rapidly between the two until he pulled back, whispering, "You wish to coit once again?" he asked, the unmistakable tone of very human hope tingeing his words.

Andile laughed. "You're insatiable."

"As I have no physical restrictions upon my ability to perform sexually and to achieve and my enjoy orgasms derived from those actions, then yes, by technical definition, I am," he agreed.

"Mmmm, lucky me," she purred, nuzzling him softly - then sighed. "But give me a couple of minutes, love; I'm still trying to catch my breath from that last go-round. Four times in one night is pretty close to my limit."

"Ah," he answered disappointedly.

"I said 'close', love. I don't think five is out of the question - and just think," she reminded him, "I still haven't fully recovered. A few more weeks..."

"Dr. Crusher says it may be a number of years before you have fully recovered," he pointed out soberly.

"Dr. Crusher can kiss my..." she began angrily - then stopped, fell onto her back and sighed as she stared at the ceiling. "No. I'm not going to ruin tonight by being angry at things I can't control. Dr. Crusher is just trying to be realistic - while I," she said, looking at him once again, "I am unrealistic and deliriously in love. And I will get better, all the sooner, just so I can make love with you all the more often," she promised.

Data smiled back. "I will hold you to that promise, Ginger."

"I know you will," she returned, then smiled at him. "So is this what Dr. Crusher suggested? Take me to bed and make love over and over until I thought I couldn't be any happier - and then show me how insignificant that pleasure would be in comparison to the thought of being with you forever?" she asked.

Data raised his brows in contemplation of the statement. "No - though I am gratified that that is how you have interpreted my actions," he admitted. "She merely suggested that I present my request in a romantic setting. She said that to do so, to start our lives together in a romantic setting, would set a precedent for continuing romance throughout our lives."

"Is that what her fiancé did?" she asked.

He nodded. "Dr. Crusher indicated that Jack Crusher proposed over dinner at a dining establishment in San Francisco."

"But her marriage wasn't a happy one, was it?" Andile countered.

"Perhaps it was not as she had hoped - but she stressed that at that moment, she was as happy as she had ever been. And she wished for us to be that as well. And..." He hesitated.

"Dearest?"

He paused for a moment, then took her hand. "She offered me her engagement ring to present to you, Ginger," he said, glancing at the band.

Andile gaped at the stone once again. "This was hers? And she gave it up? Data, we have to give it back..."

"No," he stopped her. "She was adamant on the point. She said she wished that you could be as happy in this moment as she was then - and that the ring might bring you the same joy she felt," he said. "I would have refused, Ginger - but I cannot conceive of a better way to begin our lives together than with the approval of our friends, our co-workers, of those people with whom we will share our lives and our work."

She studied the ring for a moment, then turned her attention back to her lover - and smiled. "I can," she said, moving close to kiss him once again, her hands reaching to caress his body once more.

Their lovemaking had been slow and languid this time, as full of passion as it was free of the freneticism of physical need; they moved together, side by side, eyes locked on one another, wordless but for the soft cries of need and delight and murmurs of love eternal, taking their time, find pleasure in one another's body time and again until their hunger was sated, their bodies drained.

Data had pulled her close after, wrapping her in his arms, watching her as exhaustion took its toll on her, his own sleep program aping her descent into slumber.

But the exhaustion and fatigue could not hold their own against her happiness; for a moment, she felt herself drift away, then, just as rapidly, felt consciousness return.

Marriage, she thought as she stared at him. He wants to marry me. Dear gods, he wants to marry me - and I want to marry him! she thought.

There was nothing magical about the idea of marriage, she admitted; she had never been consumed by the idea of a life spent in the companionship of another person. It wasn't just that she was andile, she knew; andile could never have relationships or marry - but even as a child, she had held none of the fantasies that other girls her age had possessed - of marrying for love or romance, for a life spent with someone who could protect her and care for her needs; she had seen too much of a mother who was as independent and capable as any of the men on the ship to have thought there was a place or a need for someone else of either gender to take on that role. And...

And, she admitted, she had seen how unhappy her mother was with her father. Not because she didn't love him, for she had, but because he had never accepted the child they had brought into the world - their flawed, imperfect, telepathic abomination. She was anathema - and it had torn her parents' hearts apart; torn their hearts and their souls and, eventually, their marriage apart.

No, she thought, marriage would not be for her - not then, not ever.

Even now, she admitted to herself, it was not the idea of marriage that sent waves of joy through her soul. There was nothing about some ceremony that was thrilling her, delighting her, filling her heart with such happiness; no, she knew, it was just the idea that this man lying beside her loved her - loved her so much that he wanted to spend the rest of his life - his very, very long life - with her.

He loves me, she thought, joy filling her soul.

He loves me.

And I love him.

This wasn't the time, Jean-Luc Picard thought to himself as he strode down the corridor, deserted in the early hours of the day; this wasn't the time or the day or the place or the way to do this... but he had no choice.

None of them had a choice, he added. Not really. Thaddeus Czymszczak had forced their hands - and the only option they had left was to take the path he would offer - or to leave the path entirely.

Forever.

And for her, for Andile, for his friend, there was no choice at all.

Still, he hesitated as he reached the door outside Data's quarters, raising his fist instead to knock at the door - then stopped.

What had she said about knocking at doors? That it fulfilled the requirement of trying to make contact with the people within - but more often than not the inhabitants didn't notice the sound or disregarded it if they did? Knock - and you had made your attempt; knock and your obligation was fulfilled.

Would that I could do that this morning, he thought to himself; would that I could have done that on a hundred trips to crewmember's quarters when bad news had to be delivered - but duty wouldn't allow him that privilege of personal cowardice. And honor - and friendship - would relent no more easily.

He reached for the annunciator...

_Captain?_ a startled voice whispered in his head.

Despite himself, despite his sorrow and his grief and rage, he smiled, savoring that gentle touch once again.

_I'm sorry to wake you,_ he replied wordlessly.

_You didn't! I was... Oh, Jean-Luc... Data, he... I have to tell you... Let me get dressed_ she said hurriedly.

A moment later the door opened - and, despite the critical import of the message he carried, Picard found himself staring at the woman before him.

She was... stunning, he thought. Earlier that evening at the party, he had dismissed her appearance without much more than a thought, knowing the inner beauty of the woman far outshone anything Beverly and Deanna could do to her outward appearance - but here, now...

Here there was no elaborate dress; instead she wore only Data's dress shirt from the party, hastily buttoned, open low enough to reveal a décolletage shimmering with glitter and gemstones that accented her full breasts, the hem just low enough to cover her, but high enough to reveal her nicely muscled legs.

It was stunning - but, as with the dress, it was only the outer layer; despite her appearance, it was the light in her eyes, shining out with a joy he had never seen there before.

Joy, and life, and happiness - and hope.

And he had to take that all away.

"I'd ask you in, but Data's asleep, and I hate to wake him..." she began breathlessly.

"Asleep?" Picard interrupted.

Andile reddened. "A present," she explained, embarrassed. "He creates a sleep program so I wouldn't be alone," she said.

He smiled, nodding. "I understand," he said. She had shared his bed for enough time that he had grown used to the nightmares that accompanied her sleep - and how readily they were soothed by the simple presence of another person.

She reddened again. "It's stupid," she said softly. "It's waste of his time... There's so much more he could be doing, rather than lying in my bed..."

Picard reached out for her, taking her arms in his and drawing her close, then lifted her head up until her eyes met his. "It's not stupid, Dee. He loves you," he said quietly.

She met his gaze for a long time - then smiled. "I know," she answered. She looked down at her hands, then raised the left one, splaying her fingers apart. "He asked me to marry him, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "And I said yes," she added, smiling. "Gods, gods, gods... I didn't know I could be this happy," she whispered, half-choking as tears welled in her eyes.

For a long moment, Picard hesitated, then drew her to him, holding her closely as the tears of joy and confusion fell, dampening his shirt once more, awkwardly patting her back as she cried softly.

But familiar as the tears were becoming to Andile, they were still a relatively new phenomenon, and the crying ceased after only a moment. Giving a sniff, she pulled back, swiped at her face with the back of an overlong sleeve - and looked up at her friend, joy shining on her face.

For a moment, he felt that joy echoing back within his own soul - then felt the burden of reality return.

"Dee..." he began softly.

Startled by the ominous tone, she stared at him, then looked away, her face contorted in misery.

"I can't marry him, can I?"

Picard shook his head. "No. You can't."

She stared at him for a long moment - then loosed a roar of pain and rage. "NO!" she cried out. "NO! It's not fair! Damn it - it's not fair! Why can't I have a relationship; why can't I be in love and get married? Do the gods hate me that much? Is this my punishment for refusing to be andile anymore?!" she screamed at him in rage - then gave a soft sob as her rage faded, leaving only grief in its place. "Damn it," she repeated, softly this time. "It's not fair!"

"It's not," he agreed softly.

"I should have known," she continued. "Or maybe I did know all along." She shook her head. "I knew this couldn't last. I knew the gods would never permit me to have this joy in my life, this happiness," she cried miserably.

"Your gods have nothing to do with this," Picard answered grimly. "This is the doing of a devil - an all-too-human devil."

Andile looked at the man in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Admiral Czymszczak's issuing a warrant for your arrest... on a charge of treason," he said grimly.

She gaped at him, the whispered, "Oh, gods. Treason. He's going to do it, isn't he? He's been trying to get rid of me for years - now he's finally going to do it. And he can, can't he?" she added, looking at Picard.

The captain nodded grimly. "I think so. The investigation on the Enterprise found enough circumstantial evidence against you to be able to consider the charge, Dee; with Czymszczak's resources on Earth, he'll have found all the evidence he'll need."

"Knowing Czymszczak, he wouldn't even bother with finding the evidence," she countered. "He'll just make up what he needs, and I'll be convicted."

Picard nodded. "You've become too great a liability to him. You're the only one who can definitively link him to what happened on Cardassia Prime - and with the negotiations having allied us with them..."

"We'll open our war records to them - as a symbol of our desire to heal the wounds of the past."

Picard nodded, familiar with the practices of the Federation in their recent peace negotiations. "And they'll take advantage of every opportunity we'll give them. The Cardassians lost the war - they're going to want to know how. If it comes out that Czymszczak was responsible..."

"When," she corrected.

"When," Picard agreed with a nod, "he'll be ousted as a conciliatory act toward the Cardassians," he said.

"If he's lucky. If he's not, the Cardassians may decide to pursue charges of war crimes against him," Andile added. "And they'd have grounds," she added grimly. "If it came out that a Starfleet officer acting under his orders killed - murdered! - a Cardassian child, they would have the political wherewithal to not only destroy his career - but maybe him as well."

"He won't take that chance, Dee," Picard agreed. "There's nothing to tie him to Cardassia."

"Except me," she countered.

"Except you," he agreed.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Picard sighed grimly. "We don't think he can even risk your returning to Earth space, Dee. I suspect he'll send a ship to meet us - and either you or the entire ship will meet with a tragic accident. You'll never get back to Earth to stand trial; he simple cannot risk that possibility," he concluded grimly.

"That arrogant bastard! Everything I've been through in the last two years - and I didn't say anything to anyone! Doesn't he know I won't say anything?!" she railed furiously.

"He can't take that risk, Dee,' Picard replied.

"But..."

He raised his hands, stilling her protests. "The situation is desperate - but we think we have a way to get you out of this alive, Dee. Beverly, Jemat, Tiron and Tar Zumell have been talking with us for the last few hours - and we think we've found a way for you to escape - safely. But," he added quietly, ominously, "it's not going to be easy. And it's going to mean a sacrifice - a tremendous sacrifice - on your part."

"More than not marrying Data," she said.

He nodded. "More than not marrying Data," he agreed.

"What?" she asked. "What am I going to have to give up?"

He studied her for a long moment, then drew in a long breath. "Everything, Dee. You're going to have to give up everything."

"Everything? Even Data?"

He nodded. "Even Data. Especially Data," he added grimly. "At least for a time," he added. "We think we have all the details worked out, Dee - but in the end, the final decision will be yours. You can choose to go back to Earth, face the charges, and stand trial - and if that's your choice, we'll stand beside you."

Andile gave a bitter laugh. "Stand beside me, Captain, and Czymszczak will tie you into the whole damned debacle. At best your careers will be destroyed; at worst... he could bring you up on charges as well. No. If I face the charges, I'll do it alone."

"And you'll die," Picard answered bluntly. "Dee, he cannot allow the possibility of the truth coming out - not now; not while he's presenting the treaty to the allied worlds as his work. If he succeeds, if the treaty is accepted by even a few of the representative worlds, he'll be the hero of the Federation. It's his guarantee to becoming Vice Admiral – or even higher - and he won't risk that for anyone."

She gave a frustrated cry of rage. "So those are my choices? A sure death - or giving up everything - and everyone?"

"And keeping your life. And..." he added, "hope."

She looked up. "Hope?"

"It's not going to be easy. But," he continued quietly, knowing the offering he was about to give her was a pale one - but it was the only one he could present, "time is on your side. You and Data will both outlive us all - even Czymszczak. One day - not soon, but one day, you'll find each other again - and no one will remember the Starfleet lieutenant commander who was suspected of treason a generation before. And you'll have each other and a life to share together."

Andile watched him for a moment, then nodded - then stopped. "But I want it now," she whispered.

"I know," he sympathized, "but I can't give that to you. None of us can," he added. "All I can give you is the chance for another day. Take that chance, Dee," he urged her.

She turned, staring at the door to her quarters, then looked back at him, tears filling her eyes. "Will you take care of him?" she asked softly. "It's going to be so difficult for him; it's going to hurt him so badly."

Picard nodded. "We'll do everything we can, Dee."

Andile thought for a long moment - then finally nodded. "All right."

He gave a sigh of relief. "Wake Data up," he ordered her gently, relieved as the need for action replaced the need to talk. Talk had its place, he knew - but talk took time, and time was running short for them all. "Get dressed. We'll discuss what we've planned... but time is of the essence. The minute we officially receive the arrest warrant, our hands are tied, Dee. We have to start now."

She nodded, turning back to the door - then stopped, turn again, and splayed the finger of her left hand once more. Grasping the ring, she pulled it off, then placed it in his hand.

"Would you give that back to Beverly?" she asked softly.

He stared down at the firestone ring in its white gold setting, remembering the afternoon Jack had bought it, remembering his long talk with his friend, trying to dissuade him from the folly of marrying - even someone as lovely as the young Beverly Howard - remembering the look of joy of the two lovers faces the next day as he met them for breakfast - and remembering the sensation of feeling his own heart break as he watched the only woman he had ever truly loved announce her betrothal to his best friend, remembering that grievous night when Beverly had removed the ring and the matching band from her finger and placed them on her dresser, her marriage over, ended eternally with Jack's death.

No, he thought, he and this ring had known too much sorrow together. He would allow it no more.

Taking her hand back, he opened her hand and pressed the ring back into it. "No," he said quietly. "Hold on to this - and to the hope. If there's a way, you'll find it."

Andile looked at him - then lifted herself on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. "Give me a minute," she said quietly. "We'll be right out."

Turning, she triggered the door-opening mechanism, then stopped as the doors closed behind her, studying her sleeping lover once more.

And perhaps, she knew, for the last time.

Then she stepped over to the bed and gently shook his shoulder. "Dearest?"

He turned, opened his eyes, staring at her with the blurry, unfocused expression of any human awakening from a deep sleep.

"Ginger?" he murmured in sleep-fogged recognition.

"Wake up, dearest," she told him softly. "The dream is over."


	180. Chapter 180

**Chapter 180**

Picard stood in the doorway to the Sickbay's main treatment area, watching the body on the biobed, watching as Beverly, still gowned in her red surgical garb stood beside the bed, watching as Deanna lowered her head and spoke softly, watching as the body heaved up in grief and pain, a wail of rage and disbelief filling the room, watching as the Betazoid took the outstretched hand, clutched it tightly, then stroked back the strands of hair from the bandaged face.

He watched it all, the grief, the pain, the anger, the compassion, watched every emotion a human could possess - but Picard could feel none of it himself.

He stood there, watching, his face blank, hard, unreadable to everyone.

Almost everyone.

As if sensing that he stood in the doorway, Beverly turned, studied his emotionless face for a moment, then moved to him. Reaching his side, however, she made no effort to reach for him, to lay a consoling hand on his arm or shoulder; she made no attempt to ease his pain, knowing from long experience that time, and nothing else, would be the only thing to ease this hurt.

For a long time, he stared past her, his eyes locked on the scene before him, but his thoughts, his feelings... elsewhere.

Finally, without turning his eyes or his thoughts, he spoke. "How is he?" he asked, his voice low, hard, controlled, no feeling daring to slip past that stern barrier.

"He's in shock," she replied.

"We're all in shock, Doctor," he replied coldly. "How is he physically?"

"What he is, Jean-Luc, is damned lucky. Explosive decompression is usually fatal. Will lucked out."

"There was no luck involved here, Beverly," Picard replied coldly.

"No," she agreed soberly. "I suppose there wasn't." She sighed - then laid a gentle hand on his arm, offering him the consolation she knew he couldn't accept. "There was damage to the outer epithelial tissue; the surface layer of his skin froze when he was blown out of the shuttlecraft into space. Fortunately, the tissue was just superficial; we're regenerating it now, and, aside from some mild discomfort for a few days, he'll recover.

"His eyes, however..." She let out a long breath of frustration and fatigue. "There's nothing I could do for his eyes. The exposure was brief enough that the aqueous and vitreous humours remained unaffected, but the corneas froze, like the rest of his skin, Unfortunately, corneas do not regenerate well."

"Can you clone them?"

She shook her head. "The cells froze; when they thawed, they had already lysed. There wasn't enough coherent genetic materials to use as the basis for a clone replacement. Fortunately, artificial corneas have been around since the twentieth century, Jean-Luc. I excised the damaged tissue; he'll have implants that will be indistinguishable from his natural eyes. We'll schedule that surgery for tomorrow."

Picard nodded wordlessly.

"There was some damage to his lungs; in that, Will was lucky. Normally, the pressure differential between inflated lung tissue and vacuum ruptures the alveoli - but Will must have just exhaled when the door blew out. There was some damage, but not as much as I expected. Not as much as would have been if... If..."

She stopped as her voice caught - then sucked in a deep breath, refusing to give in to the tears.

Turning to her at last, Picard studied the woman - then placed his hand atop hers. "I know," he said softly.

Still trying to fight the pain and tears, Beverly shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way, Jean-Luc," she protested. "We had everything - everything! - planned to the last detail."

"Not everything, Beverly," he countered. "We forgot the saboteur."

"Then... it wasn't an accident?" she gasped, shocked.

Picard shook his head. "Before... Dee told me what she found - and Geordi has recovered enough of the shuttlecraft to confirm that the explosion was deliberate."

"But why try to kill Will?" she asked.

He shook his head again. "Not Will, Beverly: Dee. He... she... whoever was trying to kill Dee again."

"But it was Will's shuttle..."

"No," he answered. "Dee said that they switched shuttles at the last minute; something about the stabilizers on her ship acting up," he explained.

"And she need to be able to steer the ship precisely today," Beverly whispered, understanding.

Picard nodded. "And so they traded - and now Will's here, and..."

The chirp of his communicator badge interrupted the man. Tapping it, he replied, "Picard here."

"Captain," the communications officer on the bridge said, "There's an incoming transmission for you from Starfleet Command, marked urgent."

Beverly looked at Picard. "Here it comes," she murmured.

He nodded in agreement, then turned away, growing grim once again. "Pipe it down to Dr. Crusher's office, Lieutenant. I'll take it there."

"Aye, sir."

With a glance toward the physician, Picard moved away, entering the office, settling himself into her chair, then touched the computer controls. A moment later, the image of the bridge officer appeared.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," he ordered, steeling himself for what he knew was about to happen.

The screen turned vibrant blue as symbol for Starfleet took the officer's place, then cleared as the familiar visage of Thaddeus Czymszczak appeared.

Grim, he gave Picard a brief nod. "Picard," he said gruffly.

"Admiral," Picard returned. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Captain, upon reviewing your ship's logs to date, and, upon consultation with the Admiralty and Starfleet's legal department, I am hereby issuing a warrant for the immediate arrest and incarceration of Lieutenant Commander Andile, on suspicion of treason," he said. "She is to be held, incommunicado, until you reach Earth space, at which point she will be transferred to a Federation prison vessel, and transported to Earth for trial."

"Admiral," Picard replied quietly, "I am afraid I cannot arrest her."

"Picard," the Admiral snapped angrily, "you can, and you will - if you don't want to face charges of your own! Your own report indicates you were aware of her actions at Utopia Planitia, her involvement in your ship's sabotage - and that you were aware of her actions and her involvement in unauthorized activities on Cardassia, during a time of war! Whatever her excuses or justifications, you had the responsibility - the duty! - to have locked her up and brought her to trial! Instead, you gave her free run of your ship - and God alone knows what havoc, what damage she's created since then! She may have been responsible for the sabotage you've reported - and you did nothing! By God, you promoted her!" he raged. "Picard, you arrest her now - or I'll see you lose your ship and your commission..."

"And I will see you lose yours, Admiral," Picard interrupted quietly.

Czymszczak froze. "I beg your pardon, Captain?" he growled furiously.

"I know where she was, what she was doing - and who sent her there," he said grimly. "I know it all, Admiral. She told me everything."

"What?!" Czymszczak gaped.

"Lieutenant Commander Andile told me the whole sordid story - including your involvement, Admiral. Everything she knew, I know now," he said coolly, his rage and indignancy both held in check with steely control.

Czymszczak gaped a moment longer, then sputtered, "It's a lie! There's no evidence! It'll never hold up in court! It'll be her word against mine - and who's going to take the word of a suspected treasoner against a Starfleet admiral?" he raged.

"No one," Picard agreed. "No one will ever know," he continued.

"What do you mean, Picard?" Czymszczak replied, suddenly cautious. "I don't understand." He eyes the man suspiciously. "Is this some sort of blackmail attempt?"

"No, sir," Picard replied. "No one will know - because she can't tell them."

He fell silent for a moment, looking down, tightening his control on his emotions until he could almost feel his body shaking with the stress - then looked up at the screen once again, staring at Czymszczak with a terrifyingly unreadable expression.

"Lieutenant Commander Andile," Picard said quietly, "was killed six hours ago in a shuttle accident."

Czymszczak stared at the captain for a long moment, his mouth opened in undisguised astonishment - then quickly shook his head, dismissing the possibility.

"No," he said firmly. "You're lying, Picard. This is one of your tricks, a deception to hide her until..."

"Until she could testify against you?" the captain replied, his brows raised in question - then he shook his head. "No. Not that I wouldn't have liked to have seen her do it - but she was a loyal officer, Admiral. Not loyal to you or to me - but loyal to all that Starfleet stands for. You never understood that, did you?" he added. "You used her loyalty, her dedication, to get her to do your dirty work - but you never understood that she did it, not out of a desire for personal gain or achievement, but because she could see beyond that - beyond your needs, beyond her own, to the gain the entire Federation would garner if she succeeded.

"And she did succeed. She found the information you needed to bring the Cardassians down, to force them to abandon their war efforts earlier than they would have otherwise - and as a result, thousands, perhaps millions are alive today that would have otherwise died."

He studied the silent admiral for a moment, examining him as though he were some loathsome insect. "That you were promoted to admiral as a result of her actions... She never held that against you, Czymszczak; that you left her to die on Cardassia Prime...?" He shook his head again. "She forgave that as well.

"You see, she knew there was something more important than herself at stake - the survival of the Federation - and she lived, and was willing to die, so that it would survive.

"No, she would never have testified against you, regardless of what you did, what you did to her; that would have imperiled her beloved Starfleet, and she simply would not bear that possibility. She would have died rather than let Starfleet or the Federation come to harm." He stopped, hesitated, then looked at the admiral once more. "Indeed, she did die for that," he added quietly.

"I don't understand," Czymszczak replied, his own voice softening.

Picard nodded, agreeing fully with the man; he did not understand. If he had... If he had, Picard thought, Dee might be alive now, alive and happy and planning her wedding, rather her remains lying in the morgue.

If you can even call them remains, he added; eighty pounds of bone and flesh and tritanium so mangled by the effect of the explosion that she was unrecognizable. It had taken hours to retrieve even that much of her body, the balance blasted apart into molecules and atoms that had already been lost to the depths of space, the space she had loved as much as he did.

They would send her body out there, of course, among her beloved stars. Perhaps a burial on Earth might have been better, a burial at Starfleet's memorial park, among the other honored dead - but Earth was not her home, he knew. Her home was space, where she had lived - and died - and that, he thought, was where she should remain.

It would be a closed coffin service, he added - then felt a rush of new grief as he realized he was planning her funeral, and he realized, once more, that she was dead.

Pain welled up in him - but even as he felt the anguish build, he thrust it back, refusing to let Czymszczak see it in his face or his being.

"Commander Andile and Captain Riker were completing the last stage of shuttlecraft pilot training..."

"Pilot training?" Czymszczak interrupted.

"As I indicated in my last report, sir," Picard informed the man. "The commander had never been trained as a pilot, Admiral," Picard pointed out. "Captain Riker was taking advantage of our extended stay in this quadrant to rectify that situation. They had been practicing routinely for the last several weeks; this was to be the last session before we left for our return to Earth later today."

Czymszczak scowled. "Your departure was scheduled for oh nine hundred hours, Picard. Don't tell me that after six months in one position, your ship was not prepared for an on-time departure!" he snarled.

"No, sir; we were ready to leave as scheduled. However, the Breen informed us that their vessel was running diagnostics on their power adsorption system at that time. Had we attempted to leave during that period, the ship's energy would simply have been drawn off by the Breen ship."

Czymszczak looked startled by the revelation. "That sounds like a weapon, Picard," he countered.

"It is, Admiral; one that the Breen have used effectively for generations," he added.

"And they simply told you about it?" the admiral asked skeptically.

Picard managed a smile. "There was no reason not to, Admiral. Not only had we already deduced its existence, but, more significantly, there is no effective countermeasure to prevent its use.

"However," he continued a moment later, "they provided that information not for our benefit, but for their own; the adsorption nodules in the tendrils are extremely sensitive to non-energetic contact. To protect the tendrils from contact with space debris and dust particles, a high energy field surrounds the ship - and any solid matter reaching that field will be destroyed. They advised us of their actions to prevent Commander Andile and Captain Riker from entering that area of space."

Czymszczak nodded. "I see," he murmured, though it was clear to Picard he did not.

The disadvantage of never having served aboard a vessel, Picard thought; he didn't have more than a vague knowledge of how ships worked - and how they did not, he added.

And that, Picard added grimly, was to have been Dee's saving grace; this same scenario, this same plan... It had all been perfectly arranged, perfectly choreographed...

And then it all went to hell.

"However, several moments after departing the ship, as the two shuttles vectored through the transition corridor between the Breen vessel and ours, there was an explosion on Captain Riker's ship. The ship's exterior doors collapsed, and the Captain was ejected into space," Picard continued in sober tones, his memories flashing back to the scene on the main viewer, the puff of gas escaping turning crystalline and glittery as the deep of space turned it instantly to a solid - and the body tumbling amidst the glitter, limp, unresponsive...

"Ejected?! My God! Is he..."

"He's alive," Picard replied. "Burned by the exposure, blind, and suffering from lung damage - but my CMO assures me he will recover."

"My congratulations to your transporter crew, Picard," Czymszczak murmured. "That was quick thinking on their parts."

Picard shook his head. "It wasn't the transporter crew, Admiral. The same adsorption field that would have drained our engines prevented us from getting a solid lock on Riker."

Czymszczak looked startled. "Then how?"

"Commander Andile did a mid-space capture; she used a personal transporter to transport herself to Captain Riker, capture him, and return to her craft," he answered grimly.

"Hmpf!" the admiral answered. "Damned lucky that she had a EVA suit on, wasn't it?" he asked suspiciously.

Picard stared at the man coldly. "She didn't."

"What do you mean, she didn't?"

"We don't routinely wear EVA suits on shuttles, Admiral - and time didn't permit her to put one on. She made the transport as she was, in uniform only."

Czymszczak's eyes widened. "That's not possible! To transport... into space... without a suit...? Impossible!"

"Not impossible," the captain countered. "In theory, a human body ejected into space has an effective thirty second period before the effects of zero pressure and extreme temperature renders them immobile or dead. The commander had no time to do anything other than what she did - which was to transport off her vessel, reach Riker, and transport them both back. It was an act of unmitigated bravery, Admiral," he added solemnly.

She has seen it, he knew, seen the body floating in space, limp, unmoving; seen it -and heard the cries of the transporter chief as he failed to get a lock on Riker's dying body; seen it, heard it - and then she acted.

She hadn't even called to him to tell him what she was doing; time hadn't permitted even that. He had only known when the biting cold of deep space suddenly tore through him, ripping the air from his lungs, burning his throat, his skin, his eyes... and then his arms, stretched as far as they could reach to envelope the limp body, fighting against the growing fatigue of cold and oxygen deprivation as she struggled to hold him as she touched the transporter control...

He felt the weight and warmth and air return with a rush - and heard, in his mind and in his ears, her voice.

"Fuck, that's cold!" she gasped, her voice distorted by the static from the Breen energy field.

Despite himself, despite the intensity of the situation, Picard found himself replying with an automatic rebuke, "Commander..."

"Sorry," she answered, "but I've got him."

"What?" Picard gaped.

"I've got Captain Riker," she announced triumphantly. "He's alive... but we need to get him to Sickbay. Can you transport him from there?" she asked.

Picard glanced at Geordi who instantly shook his head. "The transporters can't get a solid lock on him; too much interference."

"Captain, I'm getting an incoming message from the Breen ship, Sir," the communications officer announced. "It's _outo_ Jemat," he added.

Picard nodded for the man to open the channel.

"Captain Picard," Jemat's voice cut through over the communication system, "we've seen what's just happened. Are your people..."

"They're alive, Jemat - but we can't transport them back. The interference from your shields isn't preventing us from getting a transporter lock on them."

"We're cycling down the system, Captain," the Breen replied, "but it will take several minutes to fully power down."

"I don't think we've got several minutes," Andile countered from the shuttlecraft.

"Then we can beam them to our ship..." Jemat said.

"Captain," Beverly said, stepping toward his chair, "I would strongly advise against doing that. The disruption effect on the human body could kill either - or both - Biji and Will."

"I'm going to vote with the Doc on that, Captain," Andile quickly opined. "The captain's beginning to bleed from the mouth... I think his lungs are damaged."

"Can the Romulan or Cardassian transporters get them?" Picard asked.

Geordi shook his head. "Out of range. Even if they weren't, they'd be subject to the same interference that we are experiencing."

"We could move the ship closer to the shuttlecraft," Worf started.

Geordi shook his head. "Until they've finished that powerdown cycle, the field will drain our energy systems - and we won't have the power to transport the captain back."

"If the mountain can't come to Mohammad, then Mohammad must come to the mountain. Setting course for return to the Enterprise, Captain," Andile informed them - then groaned, "Son of a bitch!"

"Commander?"

"Sir, the other shuttlecraft..."

Geordi interrupted. "Sir, the explosion has sent the other shuttle into a tumble. It's heading for the Breen vessel! If it makes contact..."

If it makes contact with the tendrils, Picard knew all too well, the ship would be destroyed - and the damage to the Breen vessel would be severe.

This had been the crux of their plan, putting Andile's ship in a position where the Breen would have to destroy it, surreptitiously beaming Andile off at the same moment, replacing her body with a near equal amount of cloned genetic material... It wouldn't be pretty, he thought - but bodies that have been blown apart rarely were. More importantly, though, they had decided, it would pass any and all DNA scans that Czymszczak would demand; there would be no question that the woman had died.

It was a perfect plan, he thought - perfect, except reality had intervened - and this time the stakes were higher than just Andile's life alone.

"Jemat," he called out, "our shuttle is falling into your adsorption field."

"We're aware of that, Captain. Can you stop it?"

Picard looked at Worf, who shook his head. "Whatever the explosion was, it took out the remote operation control system. I cannot gain control of the vessel."

"No, Jemat. We can take it out with our weapons..."

"Sir, the weapons are ineffective while the Breen vessel has even peripheral power to their diagnostic system. The phaser energy will be drawn off to their grid."

"Photon torpedo?"

"Range is too close, sir," Worf replied. "At this distance, we'll damage both vessels and destroy both shuttles."

"Jemat?"

"We cannot fire until we've completed the powerdown, Captain," the Breen answered.

"How long?"

"Three minutes, now," Jemat replied.

"How long until the ship makes contact with the tendrils, Worf?" Picard asked the security officer.

"Two minutes," came the grim answer.

"Captain," Andile's voice interrupted, "Do you know if the Captain Riker's shuttle controls were damaged?"

Worf shook his head. "Impossible to determine," he announced.

"Then we're going to have to hope for the best, now," she said. "Captain, I'm setting this shuttle for automatic pilot and sending it back to you. The shuttle should be in tractor range in one minute - and even if you can't get a tractor beam on his ship, he'll be close enough for a transport."

Picard nodded, then froze, the full meaning of what she was saying - and what she was not - registering. "Just pilot the vessel yourself, Commander."

"Can't," she counter, slightly breathless now. "Someone's going to have to stop that shuttle, and I'm the only one who's close enough. I'll adjust the autopilot on this ship to do a close pass-by and beam over... the interference shouldn't be an issue..."

"Commander, there's no atmosphere on that ship..." Picard began warningly.

"No fucking shit!" she snapped back - the sighed. "I'm not planning anything brave or foolhardy, Captain; just get control of the ship, then get it - and me - the hell out of there. I'm already in my suit," she added.

"You have no idea if the controls are still functional..." he protested again.

"Captain, what I know is..." There was a moment of silence as she turned her attention elsewhere - probably setting the ship's autopilot, Picard realized, "that if the shuttle hits the Breen tendrils, the damage to their ship will be incalculable. It could kill them all; it could damage our ship; hell, it could even damage the Romulan and Cardassian vessels!" she added.

_And that would be a hell of an end to this adventure,_ she added wordlessly, her voice echoing in his mind. _Everything we've worked so hard for, everything we've achieved, gone in an instant... Even if everyone survives, there would be doubts, suspicions, questions... I'll not have all that hard work - that chance for peace - destroyed because of a stupid accident!_

For a moment, there was a grim silence between the two, then Andile's voice, softer this time, returned. _It's the only way - and we both know it,_ she said.

He thought for a nanosecond - nothing more, there was time for nothing more - then nodded. "Do it," he said aloud.

Even as he spoke, he watched the remaining functional shuttlecraft enter a tight turn, veering away from the Breen vessel, rocketing toward the second shuttle, passing within inches of the damaged ship, then veered once again and headed for the Enterprise.

"As soon as you can get a lock on Captain Riker, transport him to Sickbay. Beverly?" he added, looking at the physician.

She nodded, turned on her heel and headed for the lift doors.

Picard turned back to his other officers, barking, "Get a shuttle ready and out there; if we can't destroy the ship, maybe we can push it out of harm's way," he announced - then added, his voice dropping a degree, "And Geordi, get Data up here."

Geordi froze as the import of the captain's words struck home - then he whirled around, reaching for his commbadge.

"Fuck!" snapped Andile's voice across the comm system. "The whole control panel's blown out! I've got no helm, no navigation, no thruster control - shit! Motherfucking son of a bitch!"

_Captain,_ she added silently, _this was no accident! I see thermal damage across the entire control board. This was a bomb, and explosive device of some sort..._

_The saboteur?_

_Had to be,_ she agreed.

_But... why destroy Will's shuttle?_ he asked.

_Not Captain Riker's; mine. We switched at the last minute; this one had some stabilizer issues and he offered to switch..._ There was an inhalation of pain and shame. _Fuck me, I should have checked the ship to find the reason! But I was in a hurry... Gods, forgive me, Captain,_ she added softly.

_I'll rebuke you properly when you get back,_ he countered gently.

For a moment, there was silence, then Andile replied, _I don't think I'm getting back, sir._

She spoke aloud. "There's nothing left of the control panel, sir. I was hoping that something would be left intact - but I can't even find the attitude stabilizers," she explained.

Picard nodded - but the determination in his voice made it clear he was not about to give up. "Stay calm, Commander. I've got a shuttle crew on its way to you. They'll be there in two minutes."

"I don't have two minutes," she replied.

"You do," he replied firmly. "I want you to evacuate the ship. Get out - now. That's an order."

"The ship's going to hit the Breen defenses in less than ninety seconds, Captain. If I'm anywhere in the area..."

"I'm not used to having my orders questioned by junior officers, Commander," he replied sharply. "Get out - and place the shuttle between yourself and the Breen vessel," he added, as though it could protect her from the brunt of the explosion. That much mass, converted instantly to that much energy...?

"Aye, sir," she replied, adding a moment later, "I'm out."

Once again, Picard felt the ghost touch of her senses in his mind, a hint of the biting cold of deep space gnawing at him, a touch of the nausea of free-floating turning his stomach.

"Captain Picard," Jemat's voice interrupted. "We've some the calculations... Captain, if the ship hits our adsorption gird, even in the power down cycle, the energy expended will exceed our tolerances. Our ship and yours will be destroyed," he informed the man grimly.

"Can you move your ship out of range?" Picard asked.

"No. Not in time. But..."

Picard heard the reluctance in the man's voice.

"But what, Jemat?"

A moment of hesitation, then, "We can release the distal portion of the tendrils in that area, allowing them to make the contact. The effect will be two-fold; the disconnected portion will absorb the majority of the energy - destroying it in the process, but buffering the ship from the maximum exposure - and to push us away from the site of the explosion. You and the other ships must, however, move back as well - at least one hundred kilometers."

"Out of transporter range, you mean," Picard translated grimly.

Jemat was silent for a moment. "Yes," he said at last.

"She'll be killed," Picard replied.

"Yes."

The Starfleet captain hesitated - but only for the moment he dared, then spoke. "Move the ship back, one hundred kilometers. Inform the Cardassian and Romulan ships to do the same.""

"Captain!" Geordi and Worf protested simultaneously.

"Do it!" Picard roared, hating himself for the order, knowing he had no choice.

A moment later he felt the almost imperceptible tug of the ship beneath his feet, and watched as the distant mage of the single shuttlecraft grew smaller and smaller, the body floating in space beside it lost to the human eye.

_Dee?_ he called softly.

_Yeah, I know,_ she answered, her voice gentle, forgiving. _Hey, next time I come up with a brilliant idea to save the ship, please throw me in the brig. Save me from my own ideas - okay?_

_Agreed,_ he replied.

_Thanks. And Captain?_

_Yes?_

_Keep your promise?_ she asked pleadingly.

_Promise?_

_Take care of him,_ she said, then he felt her mind pull away from his even as her voice, soft and low, came over the communications system.

"Verasht ek ta vu essem i simi moi te... By all the gods, free these souls that I have carried, that they may ascend to eternal life..."

The death prayer, Picard realized in stunned amazement; the final words of an andile as she reached the last hours of her life, freeing the souls that she had kept so that they might ascend to the heaven that she had always been denied.

Ten thousand years, he thought; twenty thousand, perhaps even thirty thousand years, she had carried these souls and their sins, knowing that their eternal rest would only come now, at the moment of her own passing. Despite the pain and grief welling in his soul, he found himself overjoyed for her, knowing that, at long last, her role as andile was ending; her life's work was finally fulfilled.

"Accept then, my gods," she continued, "these hearts, clean of all taint; accept then, these purified souls so that they may ascend," she continued softly.

He steeled himself for the long litany of names, wondering how many she could recite in the few moments left to her; how many - or how few - of her people she would be able to release in these final seconds.

He smiled, suspecting she had long ago prioritized the names for this very event; she was far too organized and meticulous to not have thought of this very contingency - and, as he heard the first name, he knew he was right.

"Accept then my daughter, Varel, who though she carried no sin in life, has always been carried in my heart. Accept then, Jean-Luc Picard."

Picard felt his jaw drop. _No!_ he protested silently. _This was to save the souls of your people..._

_You are my people, Captain,_ she replied silently, solemnly - lovingly. _You loved me as my own would not. How, then, can I not save your souls first?_

"Accept then, Beverly Crusher," she continued aloud. "Accept then, William Riker."

"We have released the tendril, Captain, and are moving back," Jemat interrupted. "Prepare for impact in ten seconds."

"Accept then," Andile continued on, "Deanna Troi. Accept then, Worf. Accept then, Geordi LaForge."

The sound of the lift doors opening caught Picard's ear, and turning, he saw the android enter the bridge a look of confusion crossing his face - followed in one horrific instant by crushing awareness as the whisper thin filament moved toward the nearly invisible ship.

"Andile!" he cried out - then turned to Picard, "Captain?"

"Accept then, Data, the one who believed he had no soul, accept my love, my light, my heart, my soul that we may one day be joined again."

"Ginger!" Data shouted.

There was a moment of silence, then a soft, tender, "I love you."

An instant later, a light brighter than the human eye could bear, flashed on the screen, blinding them all, the ship rocking back hard as the force of the energy wave crashed into the mighty vessel.

The light faded moments later, the ship steadying as the blast died out - and Picard stared at the screen, the image of the stars and the other ships virtually unchanged from a moment before.

Unchanged, he thought - but it was changed. Everything was changed, and nothing would ever be the same again.

He turned, looking for Data, looking for his friend, his first officer, and found him still staring at the screen.

"Data?" he asked quietly.

The android stared at the screen - then slowly turned to Picard. "She is... dead?" he asked in disbelief.

Picard faced his friend, then nodded slowly. "I am so sorry, Data," he began.

Data stared at him – then moved, numbly, toward the lift – then stopped and looked back, confused, overwhelmed. "I... I do not... Captain, what do I do now?" he asked.

Picard shook his head, having no more of an answer than Data did. In time, they would grieve and mourn – but for now, there was work the bridge crew had to complete – and Data did not deserve to have his pain put on display for that crew. He glanced at Geordi, silently beckoning the man even as he moved to Data's side.

"We'll talk in a little bit, Data," he said quietly. "I need to make sure the other vessels weren't harmed and check on Captain Riker. Geordi...?"

The engineer took the android's arm and led him to the door to the ready room, leaving the bridge in silence.

Picard studied the closed door for a moment - then turned to the remainder of his crew. "Damage reports. Casualties. Contact the other vessels and find out if they need assistance. And... " He hesitated for a second. "And scan the region of the explosion. Retrieve Commander Andile's remains.

"Bring her home."


	181. Chapter 181

**Chapter 181**

For a long moment, Picard stared at the viewscreen, his eyes locked on Thaddeus Czymszczak's image - but not seeing him, seeing only the last images of his friend's face as it had been hours before, grieving, hurt, mournful as all that she had come to accept as being that which was rightfully hers was stripped from her - and yet the resolve in her eyes burning bright as duty... no, he amended, dedication... He hesitated again, then amended his word once more as the memory of her last action came back to him. No, he decided: her eyes burned not from some sense of obligation, but out of love.

Love for them all, he added, slowly coming to grips with the realization of what she had intended to do. She had agreed to give it all up because she had loved them... us, he amended his heart beginning to tear as the knowledge settled in... because she loved us all. Not just Data, he thought, though there was no doubting the physical and emotional bond she had with the android - but love for them all. She had agreed to sacrifice it all, give up the life she had only recently come to accept with all its joys and rewards, because any other decision would damage her friends, threaten their lives, imperil their safety - and their future.

And Czymszczak's future, he conceded grimly, angrily - then let out a long breath, knowing that in the man's safety lay their own.

"She's gone, Admiral," he said quietly. "You have nothing to fear from her anymore. Picard out," he added, then thumbed the control, disconnecting the senior officer before he could give the obligatory permission to terminate the connection.

He'd earn a reprimand for that, Picard knew - but Czymszczak was going to find something to reprimand him for in any case; it might as well be something he'd actually done, rather than let the man dream up something more dangerous - or vent his wrath against some innocent member of his crew.

He'd take the reprimand, of course; it wouldn't be the first he'd received in his career - and it wouldn't be that last. More importantly though, it would quickly establish Picard's vulnerability to Czymszczak; accepting the reprimand without protest would reassure the admiral that Picard had nothing he could hold against Czymszczak; that while Picard knew the truth about Cardassia, he knew equally well that the knowledge would be considered worthless in a court martial.

Hearsay, Picard thought; second-hand information with no evidence to support it - even if it did come from the captain of the flagship of the fleet. The JAG officer wouldn't even consider prosecuting an admiral with that sort of information, he thought; hell, they wouldn't have considered prosecuting him even with Andile's direct testimony, he knew.

Czymszczak was right, Picard admitted; if it had ever gone to trial, it would have been her word against his - and his would have won.

But with her gone, he was safe - and with the reprimand that would be forthcoming, Picard had ensured a degree of safety for himself and his crew as well; Czymszczak would never waste his time, energy or resources against someone who could prove nothing.

And a reprimand, no matter how severe, was a small sacrifice, he thought, compared with Dee's; what was a career, after all, compared to a life?

Her life.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened for a moment, biting hard on his lip to force the pain back.

This was not the time for grief, he knew; he had been through this enough times to know that there would be ample time for grief and sorrow in the days and years to come. Still, he felt his mind reach out, one last, desperate hope still clutching tightly to his soul, one unspoken prayer that, somehow, her gods, her cruel and unrelenting gods, had once again refused her that final solace, that final peace.

_Dee?_ he felt himself call out. _Are you there? Answer me!_

But only silence answered - and, after a moment, he felt the last tendrils of hope disappear.

She was gone, he thought.

But I am still here, he reminded himself, and there are things that have to be done. Friends to console, funerals to plan, eulogies to be written. So much to be done.

She would have jumped out of the chair and started doing it, of course, he knew; she would have already made the arrangements for the arboretum to start gathering the flowers for the memorial service. She would have, of course, already known the right type of flowers and the colors, he added with a smile, having pulled that bit of trivia from the depths of her mind; she would have already known the music that was to be played; she would have...

He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder, the familiar warmth drawing him gently from his reverie, and looked up to see the Beverly Crusher looking down at him, her face a strange mixture of grief and compassion.

Wordlessly, he reached up, laying his hand atop hers, freeing the sympathetic grip - then drawing it to his lips, kissing it, not passionately, but with an intimacy born out of time and shared pain - and, for an instant, Beverly felt a warmth in her soul she could not remember ever having felt before.

There was something in that touch, something in the way he kissed her hand, something in his refusal to let it go, even now, second later, that spoke of a familiarity that she had never known before, even with Jack: in that instant she knew that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart they might be physically, they would always be together - and that he knew as well.

For a moment, she was tempted to say something - then stopped. This was not the time or the place, and there was so much that had to be done.

"Czymszczak?" she asked quietly.

Picard nodded. "He was informing me that he had issued a warrant for Dee's arrest," he replied emotionlessly.

Beverly nodded. "And?"

Picard stared at the screen a moment longer, then drew a deep breath and turned to look at her. "He didn't know," he replied.

Beverly raised her brow in question.

"He accused me of trying to deceive him," he continued, "but..." He stopped, thought for a moment then shook his head. "I genuinely believe he did not know about the sabotage attempt, Beverly. When I told him Dee was dead, he seemed genuinely astonished."

"Maybe he'd been practicing," she countered caustically.

He shook his head in disagreement. "He's not that good an actor, Bev."

Despite her anger and pain, she smiled at his use of the nickname. He called me 'Bev', she thought - and on duty, yet.

But that was a topic for another day. "No screams for DNA tests on the remains?" she pressed.

"No," Picard replied. "Not yet at least. It'll come to him, I know - but the fact that he didn't immediately demand proof of her death..." He shook his head again, released her hand then rose to his feet. Smoothing his uniform, he turned to face the physician. "Beverly, what if we've been wrong?"

"About the saboteur having been sent by Czymszczak?"

He nodded.

She shook her head. "We aren't wrong," she replied. "Jean-Luc, we went through this all before. The only person who had reason to send a saboteur was Czymszczak; he needed us to end this mission in the hands of the Breen - and he made sure Tillerman was on board to do so. Tillerman all but admitted it!" she reminded him.

"Except he didn't admit it - and everything else has been conjecture," he countered.

"Who else had a reason to want to kill Dee?!" she snapped angrily - then instantly repented as she saw the devastation on his face. "Oh, Jean-Luc, I'm sorry..." she hurriedly began.

"No," he replied, shaking his head - then reaching for her hand, squeezing it gently. "You're right. He wanted her dead - and he succeeded. I just don't think he knew that there was going to be this last attempt," he said. "If he had, he wouldn't have bothered with issuing the warrant."

She sighed. "Unless he needed to cover his tracks," she said.

"Why would he need to?" he questioned. "We have no connection between Czymszczak and the saboteur. If we did, I would have been in touch with the admiralty long ago. No; I think that the admiral and his agent suffered some sort of disconnect - and the saboteur simply continued on with his or her original orders: Kill Dee if possible. When that appeared as though it would fail, Czymszczak initiated his own plan, not knowing that his agent would succeed."

Beverly gave a slow nod. "He almost didn't, you know," she said wistfully. "If Dee had stayed on her ship, she could have gotten out of there safely."

"Until the shuttle hit the tendrils," he reminded her. "If Jemat hadn't managed to disconnect that one segment, the explosion could have damaged or destroyed all of our vessels," he reminded her. "And even if the ships survived, the loss of life would have been appalling - and the doubts it would have cast upon the negotiations and the treaty would have been devastating." He hesitated a moment. "She had to try to prevent that, Beverly; she had to do what she could to protect the Federation. She wouldn't have been able to forgive herself if she hadn't, Beverly," he added quietly.

"The needs of the many?" she replied.

Picard gave a quick nod. "Something like that," he agreed.

Beverly shook her head. "It was nothing like that, Jean-Luc, and we both know it."

It was his turn to raise a brow in response.

"Greater love has no one than this," she continued quietly, "that she lay down her life for her friends. Not for duty's sake," she added softly, "but for love. For her friends."

Picard stared at her for a long moment, then felt the tears well up once more. "I know," he whispered as he looked down, unwilling to risk letting her see his tears, unwilling to risk letting them go.

She touched his face, caressing it gently. "Jean-Luc," she said, "it's all right to cry. It's all right to grieve. She was your friend. There's no shame in crying over her loss."

He nodded, biting his lip hard again. "I know - but I've lost others, before. I didn't cry over them. I didn't cry over Jack."

"No," she agreed. "You held it in."

"I needed to be the captain," he countered angrily. "I needed to be strong. I need to be strong now," he added.

She smiled. "And what makes you think that refusing to show your pain makes you appear strong, Jean-Luc?" she asked, shaking her head. "It doesn't. All it does is tell us that we aren't important enough to be allowed to see how you really feel - or that you felt anything," she added.

"Beverly," he replied firmly, "it is not appropriate for a starship captain to go about openly displaying his emotions to his crew or his officers."

"I would disagree with you about that," she began - then relented, "but I won't disagree with your right to feel as you do. But..." she continued, "you do feel," she reminded him. "Dee had become an important of your life in the last year..."

"She's always been an important part of my life, Beverly," he objected - then gave a small smile, "even when I didn't know she was."

"Then honor her memory," she replied. "Allow yourself to grieve for her loss - and yours. Don't let it fester in your heart, as you did with Jack..."

"I didn't..."

"Jean-Luc," she interrupted, her tone growing harsh, "after Jack died, you locked your pain away, refusing to acknowledge the loss and the hurt - and you suffered for years. Jack would have hated knowing he had done that to you; Dee would be furious with you if you did that because of her death."

He managed another weak smile. "She would, wouldn't she?"

"She would," Beverly agreed firmly.

He nodded. "Then I will grieve her loss - but not here," he added, "and not now."

Beverly patted his arm tenderly. "I know. Now you have to be captain. And I have to be CMO - and we both have to go see her friends and family - and make plans."

Picard nodded, sobering, pulling himself together as the tasks that faced them both arranged themselves in his mind.

"Is someone with Data?" he asked.

"Worf is there now," she said. "Geordi was with him for a while, until you asked him to examine the shuttlecraft. Deanna will be going to see him as soon as Will's asleep." She gave a sigh. "This has been a hard day for us all, Jean-Luc - and it's going to be harder still for the next few days," she added.

He looked at her questioningly.

She met his gaze. "I've drawn tissue samples from... what we've been able to recover," she managed. "To confirm that it was Dee's DNA, that she really was killed."

"And you are sure?" he asked, hope flaring for one moment.

"Then initial scans are incontrovertible," she said, seeing the hope - then watching it die. "It was Dee. Nonetheless, I don't want there to be any question; I've taken samples from every organ..." She hesitated. "Jean-Luc, do you really want to hear this?" she asked.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Go on," he said resolutely.

"I've taken samples from every organ..." She hesitated again, "...from every organ I can identify. The force of the blast..." She stopped again, unable to continue, her head handing as her own grief began to well up.

He tightened his grip on her hand. "It's all right, Beverly."

She nodded, drew a breath, then raised her eyes to his once again. "We've recovered about eighty percent of her body," she said at last, letting her voice form a cool detachment, finding a moment of reprieve from her grief in the requirements of her work. "Some of the body was reduced to molecules, and we'll never be able to recover all of them - but we have enough to be able to state without question that it was Dee. I'm having Greg run the tests so there won't be any question about their authenticity," she added. "Czymszczak won't be able to question you on that matter."

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "It's funny, you know. We had Jemat cloning tissue from her body so we could litter the area with physical residue for just this reason. To prove that Dee had died even as we sent her off to hide from Czymszczak." She laughed again - but this time the laugh was choked off as the tears, held back so long, began to fall. "I'll have to apologize to Jemat for wasting his time..." she began - then stopped, bit her lip to silence the sob, and started to turn away.

The turn never was completed; even as she moved, she felt him pull her into his arms, felt him guide her head to his shoulder, felt him press her head to his chest, and felt his arms enveloped her, warm, comforting... safe.

"I was so horrible to her," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him, drawing him close to her. "I could have saved her so much pain, so much hurt..."

"It wasn't your fault, Beverly," he reminded her. "She pushed you away - she pushed us all away - until we finally were able to make her understand that she was worth our time and concern... and our love," he said at last. "And, in the end, she returned that love, by saving Will... maybe saving us all," he reminded her - then he gave a small laugh.

"What?" Beverly asked.

"I'd call it a noble act - sacrificing herself for us - but she would have hated that. She hated being thought of as noble, or generous, or self-sacrificing..."

"Even thought she was all of those things," Beverly agreed.

"Even those she was all of those things," he echoed, "and more," he added softly. "We're all going to miss her. I'm going to miss her," he added to himself as much as to the woman in his arms, then stroked her hair once again, planted a gentle kiss on the top of her head, and extricated himself from her grasp.

"But, for now, there are others missing her grieving for her - and we need to be with them."

Beverly nodded, sniffed back a final tear, then patted her face, as thought that would remove the teary red streaks. "Yes," she agreed. "Duty calls."

"No. Not duty," he corrected. "Friendship."

For a long moment, Beverly stared at the man - then watched as he extended a hand to her. Taking it, she allowed herself to be led from her office, through Sickbay, and into the long corridor that led to the lift.

The two walked in silence until they reached those doors, then, after Picard gave the order to proceed to the correct floor, spoke, his eyes locked on the lift doors, unwilling to risk facing Beverly once more, unwilling to risk another release of his emotions.

She was right, of course; he would need to let out his pain and his anger and his own grief... but not here. Not now.

"We need to make arrangements," he said.

Beverly nodded, her eyes locked ahead as well. "It'll have to be closed casket," she said. "With Data's consent, of course."

He nodded. "I've informed Tiron and Tar Zumell. They would like to have a brief memorial on their ships as well, to remember her in accordance with their ways and beliefs."

"Czymszczak will be furious when he finds out we haven't left for Earth," she countered.

"Until we've completed the investigation - and until I'm assured that the ship suffered no irreparable harm from the explosion - I would be derelict in my duties if I did leave. The Cardassian and Romulan vessels will stay here until they complete their damage reports and repairs as well."

Beverly nodded. "And the Breen?"

"The Breen?" he echoed.

"Was their ship damaged?" she pressed - then turned to him when there was no answer. "Jean-Luc?"

He looked back at her, worried. "I haven't heard from Jemat - or the Breen - since the explosion, Beverly."

She looked back, appalled. "You don't think their ship was that badly damaged, do you?"

He shook his head, his expression growing even more steely. "No. Separating the tendril from the ship prevented the energy from flowing directly back into their power grid. Instead, their systems were able to absorb only the frequencies they could handle - and at the rate they were designed to accept."

She shook her head, confused. "Then why...?"

"I don't know, Beverly," he replied. "But..." His voice trailed off for a moment as too many possibilities, all of them grim, raced through his mind. "The Breen have spent millennia searching for the repository of their genetic heritage, their one chance to ensure that their genes are carried into the next level of evolution. Millions, perhaps billions, of his people have lived and died with that one goal in mind - and in one instant, with one act, Jemat ended that search, ended any chance for their people to move forward. I cannot begin to imagine the consequences he is facing on his ship," he said grimly, "if he is even still alive."

Appalled, Beverly shook her head. "My God! You don't think they would have killed him, do you? He saved their ship, saved the crew..."

"And doomed them all at the same time," he replied. "As to what they are doing to him... I don't know. What is the punishment for killing God?" he asked her.

Beverly stared at him, horrified, then looked away, shaking her head. "I don't know, Jean-Luc."

The lift came to a stop, and, as the doors parted, the two stepped out, and were confronted by a number of small gatherings in the hall. Startled, Picard turned to the nearest crewman - and ensign from engineering, he noted.

"Ensign...?"

"Cheren, sir," the man replied.

"Ensign Cheren," Picard amended. "What is all this?" he asked, gesturing at the crowds.

The man looked uncomfortable at the question for a moment, then drew himself up. "I wanted to express my condolences to Commander Data, sir; to mourn with him," he explained.

"We wanted to begin the death ritual of Ba'taal," another woman offered, gesturing at her party.

"We wished to offer the prayer of remembrance for Commander Andile," a third said.

Picard nodded, slowly understanding the outpouring of attention in this usually deserted corridor. "I'm sure Commander Data appreciates your concern and your sympathy," he placated them. "There will, of course, be a memorial service for the commander..." he began.

"Yes, sir," the first ensign replied, "but..."

Picard raised a brow at the man, unused to being countered by so junior a crewman. "But..."

"But that's the official service, sir. Biji... was more than just that to us, sir."

A few of the others nodded their agreement.

"She was my friend, sir. She helped me... with some personal issues, sir," the ensign continued. "I just wanted Commander Data to know how important she was to us," he explained.

Picard opened his mouth to commiserate with the man - and to gently coax him out of the hall and back to his duties - when he felt Beverly's hand tighten around his.

"This is their grief, Jean-Luc; let them express it as they will. Things will be hard enough when you do have the service," she said.

He studied her for a moment - then nodded, conceding the point. "As you were then, Ensign," he said, then nodded the same tacit approval to the others before gently pushing his way through the crowd to the doors where two security officers stood guard.

Worf's doing, he decided; even in his grief, Data would have been far too polite to turn away one of his crewmates - especially one who had felt near enough to Andile to be moved to visit the grieving man.

He nodded at one of the guards who promptly touched the control panel and gestured the two into the room.

As quiet as the hall had been, there was a stillness in the living space that spoke of solitude, or grief... and of a future that would be marked with loneliness.

Beverly felt the breath catch in her throat. She had been in this room before, lived in this room. In those first days and weeks after learning Jack had died, her apartment in San Francisco had been like this - alone and empty, even though she and Wesley were living there, together. She had hoped she would never have to enter a room like this again - but the professions she had chosen had made that impossible. Doctors faced death every day - doubly so for Starfleet doctors - but knowing that truth didn't make entering this room - all the rooms like this - any easier.

"Captain," Worf said, rising from the couch where he sat next to Data, releasing the seat to the senior officer.

"Thank you, Mr. Worf," Picard replied, then took the Klingon's place beside the blank faced android while Beverly found a place on his other side.

"Data?" Picard said softly.

The android stared emptily into space for a moment, then slowly turned to Picard. "Captain," he replied, then turned to Beverly. "Doctor."

"Hello, Data," she answered softly. "How are you doing?"

Data opened his mouth to answer - then stopped, considered, tried to begin again, then stopped and considered once more before looking at her in confused surprise and gave a brief shake of his head. "I... do not know how I am doing, Dr. Crusher. I have been sitting here for the last six hours, forty-two minutes and seventeen seconds trying to determine that answer - but I believe, at this moment, that I simply _am_."

"I understand, Data. Loss and grief are difficult emotions to understand - even for humans. Perhaps especially for humans," she added.

"Because you suffer them so rarely?" Data asked.

"Or we suffer them too much," Picard offered. "Either way, we often find ourselves at a loss for what to say or think - or do."

Data considered that for a moment - then nodded again. "I believe that that is a correct summary of my emotional state, sir; I am... at a loss. I have lost... her," he added.

Picard nodded. "We have all lost her, Data."

"I beg to differ, sir," the android objected. "You have lost a crewman and a friend. I do not belittle the significance of that loss - but I have lost my lifemate. Your life will go on - admittedly diminished by her absence - but there will be others who will, in time, take her place in your existence. I, on the other hand, will not experience another relationship as I had with her."

"Data," Beverly began gently, "you have a long life ahead of you. In time, you may find yourself..."

He interrupted her with a shake of his head. "You misunderstand me, Doctor. It is not that the opportunity might not present itself; it may. It is that, having loved Andile, I have known all that love can be. Nothing can surpass that experience - nor do I wish to attempt to do so."

Beverly stared at the android, taken aback - then gave a slow nod. "Of course," she said slowly. "Of course."

I thought the same thing, she reminded herself; for so many years I buried myself in my work, in Wesley, in Starfleet, hiding away from love, from life... She glanced at Picard who had begun to speak in low tones to the android - and felt her heart tighten.

I hid from love, she repeated, even when I found you.

She watched the two for a few moments, her eyes misting at the android's pain, her heart swelling at the gentle compassion that Picard offered, his tenderness, his heartfelt empathy at such odds with his usual brusque distancing of himself from his feelings, remembering how difficult those words had been for him when Jack had died, how hard it had been for him to talk with her then.

How hard it had been for her to listen, her heart, her soul, numbed by grief.

How hard it was for her to hear them now.

Memories, old and painful, welled up once again, and she felt her heart hardening once more.

For a moment, the three were silent - then Data turned to Beverly. "I loved her - and I believe she loved me - and yet...?"

Beverly looked at him, curious. "Yet, what, Data?" she said.

"She said she loved me, Doctor," he repeated, puzzled.

"Of course she loved you, Data," Beverly replied with certainty.

"But she loved Starfleet and the Federation more," he countered, a hint of anger entering his tone. "She loved _duty_ more than she loved me!"

It was the two humans opportunity to be puzzled.

"Data..." Beverly began - only to be interrupted by the angry man.

"If she had truly loved me, she would not have sacrificed herself to save the ship! She would have found another way, another option... Instead she chose duty, Starfleet - the Federation - over me, over my love for her!" he raged.

"Data," Picard countered calmly, "there was no time to find another way; she acted as she did because it was the only solution she could think of in those few seconds..." he tried.

"If she had loved me, she would have found a way!" the android snapped. "She would have thought of me first, my needs, my love for her, not Starfleet, not the ship - not Captain Riker!" he cried, his grief gaining control of his emotions.

"Data," Beverly interrupted.

"She did not love me! Not as I loved her!" he raged. "I would have placed her ahead of duty, ahead of the ship - ahead of everything!"

"Data," Beverly tried again, her voice growing lower, calmer, "listen to me."

"She did not love me," the android repeated - slower this time, the rage fading as his grief welled higher. "She did not love me," he said again.

"Data," Beverly said a third time, "don't do this to yourself. Don't hurt yourself this way. Dee did love you; she wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."

Data looked at the woman - then shook his head. "Then... she did not love me... enough - or she would have found a way back."

Beverly nodded. "I know that's how it feels, Data - but..." She hesitated, remembering feeling the same question, the same hurt - then looked at Picard beseechingly.

And to her surprise, he answered the silent plea.

"Data, Andile loved you - more than life itself," he said. "She loved you more than duty, more than the ship, more than the Federation. Six months ago, she faced a charge of treason without protest, rather than let your reputation be injured by letting it be known you were involved with her. She would have died, the truth unspoken, rather than allow you to be harmed.

"Today... today, she died, not for the ship, not for Starfleet, not for the Federation - not even for Will - but because she knew that her sacrifice would save the ship - all the ships - and with it the chance for a future. Not the future of us all, Data - but your future.

"She sacrificed herself so that you would survive, Data."

He stopped for a moment, thought, then spoke again. "But survival of the body was not her only thought, Data; she believed in you. Not just in your physical being, but in your spiritual being as well." He smiled. "Her last words, her last thoughts, were to grant you the blessing of her people - so that your spirit and hers - your souls - would find each other. She knew that not even death could keep the two of you apart."

The android stared at the man, stricken, heart-sick. "But if I do not have a soul..."

"Data," Beverly interrupted, "She believed you did. And even if you don't... Do you think something as insignificant as not having a soul would stop Dee from finding a way to spend eternity with you?" she asked.

The android stared at her for a long moment - then a viscous tear began to build, then began its slow path down his cheek.

A moment later a second began to follow it - and Beverly reached out to her friend, gently pulling him to her.

The sobs were silent, strange - so very unhuman, and yet so very, very human all in the same instant, Beverly thought, her hand gently stroking the man's hair as she made soft soothing noises.

"It's all right, Data," she said. "It's all right."

"How can it be right?" he sobbed back. "She is dead! She is dead. My Ginger..." His grief trailed off in another sob.

"I know. But it's all right to grieve for her, to feel for her. She did not give you your emotions - but she made those your feelings worth having," she said.

"She made my life worth living - but now she is gone!" Data countered, whispering words so much like the ones she had said, all those years before, then let out a deep sob as the inescapable pain washed over him. "She is gone! How do I bear this, Doctor?" he cried hollowly. "How do I bear this pain - forever?"

The knife tearing at her own soul, Beverly whispered back, "I don't know, Data," she said softly. "I don't know. You just... do."

At that his cry deepened, growing more heart-wrenching as his grief mounted, growing with every passing moment until Beverly thought she could bear no more... then she felt the cry weaken, the sobbing diminish until they both faded and the android grew still.

Finally, he righted himself, and gave a small nod. "I am... better now," he said. "Thank you," he added, then turned to Picard.

"And thank you, Captain. I am grateful for what you said."

"It's what she said, Data - and what she thought. And we will all miss her," he added softly.

He nodded, drew a very human breath, then let it out and looked at the two with quiet, solemn eyes. "We should discuss the... arrangements," he said.

Beverly nodded, then looked past the android, catching Picard's gaze.

The captain gave a nod, silently excusing Beverly from that onerous task.

Relieved, she rose to her feet, moving away from the two, separating herself from the discussion and the memories.

Too often, she thought, I've been the one on the other side of that conversation; too often, I've been the one who had to make those decisions.

She looked back at the two, studying them as they spoke in low voices, watching the pain play out on their faces, remembering all too well those same feelings as they ran through her soul - and felt herself grow cold.

Too often, she thought - and I don't know if I can do it again.


	182. Chapter 182

**Chapter 182**

"Beverly?"

Startled, Beverly struggled for a moment, wondering how long she had been lost in thought as she watched Picard and Data talk - then turned and found herself facing the equally worn and tired visage of Deanna Troi.

"Deanna," Bev sighed. "You startled me."

The empath smiled. "You were a thousand miles away."

"Further than that," she admitted - then gave her friend a worried look. "Will's asleep?"

"Finally," Deanna replied, "and only because Alyssa gave him a sedative," she admitted. "He was being difficult. He wanted to come down and see..." The words caught in her throat - and Beverly instantly laid a reassuring hand on her friend's arm.

"Deanna, he's going to be fine. Horrific as it seems, the damage was superficial; the optic nerve wasn't harmed at all. Eye transplants of this nature are hundreds of years old. Two days from now, you won't remember that those blue eyes looking at you are anything but the ones you've always seen; two weeks from now, neither will he," she assured the Betazoid.

"I know," she agreed. "It's just..."

Beverly nodded her understanding. "It's just hard to see someone you love hurt," she said. Or in pain, she added silently, or...

She glanced at the android and the captain - and felt the wound in her soul deepen.

"Beverly?" Deanna said, now as worried about her friend as she had been about her lover an instant before.

For a moment, Beverly hesitated, her eyes still locked on the two - but her mind millions of miles and years away from the present.

"Bev?" the empath repeated, growing concerned.

For a moment longer, Beverly stared at the two - then turned back to Deanna. "Just... remembering," she admitted, then sighed. "This is going to be so hard for Data, Deanna," she said. "This was his first love, and his first real loss since he's started feeling. That's a blow that no one should have to face," she sighed.

"But we do," Deanna countered. "We face it - and we go on. It's not easy, but Data isn't alone. He'll have his friends to help him," she reminded the doctor.

"Yes," Beverly agreed. For a time, she added wordlessly, until time and duty blunt the pain for them - and then, then, he'll have to face those long nights alone.

Deanna studied the woman a moment longer, then turned her attention to Data. "How's he taking it?" she asked.

"Badly - or well, I suppose," she admitted. "He's hurt, he's angry, he's understanding..."

"He sounds very human," Deanna replied.

"Maybe - or maybe it's all an act; it's what he thinks he's supposed to be feeling and doing. For all that Data acts like a human, Deanna, I have to remind myself that he isn't - and to assign any set of our expectations to him is unreasonable. But there's no denying he's hurt and in pain. I just don't know what I can do for him - except to be here."

Deanna lay her hand on Beverly's arm. "That's all we can offer - for now. When the captain's done speaking with him, I'll go talk to him." She thought for a moment. "Ideally, I'd stay with him tonight - but I need to get back to Will. Someone should stay with him tonight, though. He'll have to face being alone soon enough - but not yet."

"I think there are enough volunteers in the hall who would be willing to do their share, Deanna," she replied.

"As will I, Counselor," Worf informed the two. "I have counseled the commander in the rituals on Klingon courting; I shall now do the same regarding our death practices," he said dourly, his tone rough - but with a note of pain and grief underlying the gruffness that took Beverly by surprise.

"Klingon courting rituals?" she repeated.

"The commander needed... assistance... in rekindling his romance with the commander," the big man replied. "Being familiar with the proper traditions of attracting and retaining a mate, I offered my assistance."

"You, Worf?" Deanna interjected, surprised. "I thought you and Dee were..."

He interrupted the empath. "Adversaries," he concluded for her. "Yes. We were - until I understood that we were both working with the interests and needs of the Enterprise - and the Federation," he added hastily, "at heart."

He hesitated for a moment. "Though our actions were different, I know she would have sacrificed her life for the Federation, without explanation or protest," he said proudly, then added, "A Klingon of the highest blood could have done no more. When I realized that truth, I could think of no better, no more honorable, a lifemate for Commander Data than the commander."

"You're a romantic at heart, Worf," Beverly offered.

He looked at her haughtily. "Of course. We Klingons are a most romantic people," he said, as though that fact should have been well known to the two.

Despite her fatigue, worry and grief, Deanna managed a wan smile. "You think Andile will be admitted into Sto-Vo-Kor?" she asked.

"She was not of Klingon blood - but her heart was as pure as Kah'less," Worf said. "When we finally are granted admittance there, we will find her waiting," he announced.

Beverly smiled at the big Klingon, then stepped back to allow him to pass into the hall and the gathered crowds.

"At least Worf's taking it well," Beverly commented.

"Biji died with honor, Beverly," Deanna replied. "As far as Worf's concerned, her death isn't cause for mourning, but for rejoicing; she lived and died with honor, which is all that matters in his eyes." She looked at the closing door for a moment, then turned her attention back to the two men.

"And the captain?" she continued. "How's he handling everything?"

Beverly gave a sigh. "How he handles everything. He's the captain, Deanna. He's holding it all in. He's hurt, he's angry... but he's not going to let it show. Starfleet captains don't reveal their feeling to their crews, you know," she added bitterly.

Deanna gave an understanding nod - then looked at Beverly. "And Starfleet medical officers?" she asked.

Beverly looked at the empath, then shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Deanna; I've already had two good cries - and I'm sure I'll have a few more before the day is out."

"That wasn't what I meant," Deanna countered.

Beverly gave her a confused look.

"When are you going to let out the fear - the pain, the anger at being hurt, Beverly?" she asked.

The physician stared at her for a moment. "I'm fine, Deanna."

"You are not 'fine' Beverly, and you haven't been for years. You're in so much pain - but you won't face it, won't let yourself be rid of it. And until you do, you can't move ahead with your life," she added.

"Deanna, this isn't time for this discussion..." she began angrily.

"Then when? When another friend dies, when you close yourself off even further from the people who care for you?" she asked - then looked at Picard for a moment before turning back to Beverly. "When you close yourself off from the people... the person... who loves you?" she asked pointedly.

"Deanna..."

"Biji died, Beverly - but in her last weeks and months, she managed to work past her pain, to open herself to a loving relationship - even though that meant risking new pains, new hurts. Do you think she regretted it? Look at Data, Beverly - look at him grieving there - and tell me: do you think he regretted it? Do you think that if he had it all to do again, he would have chosen not to love her?" she asked.

"No, of course not," Beverly began - then stopped. "But I'm not Data, Deanna," she said quietly. "I'm me: flawed, and imperfect - and scared."

Deanna drew a breath, seeing how deeply, how sharply her words had struck the physician - and realized the blow may have been far deeper, far closer to her heart than she had intended.

"Beverly, I'm sorry," she apologized.

"It's all right, Deanna," the doctor said, shaking her head, pushing back the apology. "We're all a little on edge today."

"Yes. Biji's death has touched us all. But we do need to talk," she added. "When all this is over."

Beverly nodded. "Yes. When it's all over. But right now, Data needs you," she added, gesturing at the couch.

With an affectionate pat on the doctor's arm, Deanna pulled away, giving the doctor one last, concerned glance - then turned her attention and her skills to Data.

As Beverly watched, the three spoke for a few moments - then Picard pulled away, neatly transferring the care of the grieving android to Deanna, then moved away, joining Beverly near the door.

She raised a questioning brow.

"We discussed the... arrangements," he explained. "Data agreed that a closed casket ceremony and a memorial would be the best - given the situation."

Beverly nodded. "That had been our original 'plan', she agreed. "I just... I just..." The words caught unexpectedly in her throat.

He reached for her hand. "It's all right, Bev," he said softly.

"No, it's not, Jean-Luc. I don't know that it will ever be 'all right' again."

He studied her for a minute - then nodded. "It will - in time. But it will be different. We're going to have to learn to live without her in our lives."

Beverly nodded slowly, accepting his words, knowing he was right - then looked at Data. "And Data?" she asked. "Do you think he's going to be able to learn to live without her?"

Picard followed her gaze - and sighed. "I don't know, Beverly," he admitted. "When they broke apart, even when Dee was injured, there was always something there, something I could see in Data's eyes. Now... whatever there was is gone. It's as though he's missing some integral part of himself," he said.

"He is," Beverly agreed. "He's missing hope. When she was alive, there was always that possibility that they might find their way back to one another. Now, though..." She shook her head.

"When Jack died, I didn't know how I could face a life without him. Even with Wesley to hold on to, the thought of another fifty years alone..." She shook her head. "How then do we ask Data to face a thousand - a ten thousand years - without her?"

Picard studied his android friend for a long moment - then sighed. "I don't know, Beverly."

She looked at him, taken aback by the pain in his voice, then remembered the losses he had faced - and, in time, accepted, and felt herself chagrined.

Where's my compassion? she asked herself sharply. Where's my understanding?! I'm not the only one who's ever lost someone, she reminded herself harshly; I'm not the only one who's ever suffered - but I'm acting as though I am.

We've all lost people we care for - parents, brothers, nephews, lovers; if there is anything we share, it is the fact that our losses, individual as they may be, are something we share. None of us - not one of us - has reached this point without losing someone we care for.

And I had damned well stop moping about as though my pain was somehow special! she berated herself harshly.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "It seems to be the day for opening old wounds," she said. "I didn't mean to bring up memories."

He nodded, "Don't apologize, Bev; there isn't a loss I've suffered that doesn't remind me of those who have gone before. But they also remind me to cherish those who are still here," he added quietly.

For a moment - a moment that, for some reason, terrified her - he studied her - then, to her relief, his face grew impassive - grew professional - once again.

"I need to speak with Tiron and Zumell," he said as if to explain the change in his demeanor. "Data's agreed to having services on all three ships, but I'll need to work out the details with the Romulans and Cardassians."

Confused, she gave him a slightly bewildered look.

He smiled. "I'm trying to beg off dinner tonight, Beverly," he finally explained.

"Oh," she answered, then shook her head. "That's all right. I'm not very hungry - and I should be in Sickbay. It's going to be a long night - and a longer morning," she replied.

It was his turn to look puzzled.

"People express grief in many ways, Jean-Luc," she explained, "but alcohol - real alcohol - manages to find its way into many of them. We'll have a few over-intoxicated crewmembers tonight - and quite a number of hangovers tomorrow. And while in most circumstances, I prefer to let people pay for their indulgences, this is not one of those times."

"As captain, I should forbid those indulgences," he informed her.

"But as captain, you won't; you'll look the other way and let them celebrate Dee's life - and mourn her - in their own way. Will does," she added.

Picard raised a brow in surprise. "He does?"

Beverly nodded. "He does. Dee's not the first crewmember we've whose loss we've mourned. Will decided long ago to look the other way and allow the crew to grieve as they chose. Very few have ever abused that discretion," she added.

Picard considered her words. As first officer, the day-to-day crew functions of the crew had been Will's responsibility, Picard thought, and he had given the man wide latitude in making the decisions that applied to them.

Normally, then, this decision would have remained in the man's hands - but with his promotion to captain, that obligation now fell to Data - who was in no position to be worried about anything except himself.

"I guess it's up to me to do the right thing, then," he told her, "and the right thing, it seems, is to discretely look the other way."

She nodded. "And I promise they'll be on time for their duty shifts tomorrow, sober and recovered - and their hearts and souls beginning to heal."

"Would that it were that easy for the rest of us," he answered softly. "Would that it were that easy."

Twelve hours later, Picard stepped - no, stumbled - down from the transporter platform, fatigue, grief and exhaustion having finally taken their toll on his body.

Twelve hours spent talking with Tiron and Zumell, transporting from one ship to the other as they tried to coordinate arrangements for the memorial services for his friend, each intended to honor her service and her friendship within the culture of the two people - and each finding itself at odds with the other in some crucial point.

In some ways, he thought as he straightened himself against the edge of the transporter console, negotiating the services had been more challenging, more difficult, then negotiating peace; with the peace treaty, all sides had been willing to give something - albeit not too much - up for the greater good of them all, whereas with Andile's service, neither had been willing to concede a single point.

A tribute to her spirit, her personality, her dedication and loyalty, Picard reminded himself for the countless time that day, that they should fight so hard to honor her - but with neither side willing to yield even a fraction of a inch on any point of conflict, it had finally fallen to Picard to point out that Andile's memory was not being served by their contentiousness - even when that contention was over how to honor her.

In the end, they had acceded to practicality and reason... and Picard admitted, a touch of fear. Andile had been identified and catalogued as a criminal on Cardassia - and, he thought, executed as well; when the time for Tar Zumell to explain to her superiors why, and for whom, she had held such a ceremony on a Cardassian vessel - and those questions would come, they all knew - Dee's survival and escape from Cardassia would be noted, and questions, perhaps even an investigation into the whole series of events leading to her presence on the planet - and to Cardassia's untimely secession from the Dominion war - would be raised, alone with old doubts and new suspicions.

And any chance of Cardassia signing the treaty would fade away.

"Above all else," Picard had pleaded with the elderly Cardassian schoolteacher, "she wanted peace. For that peace - for even that _chance_ at peace - to be imperiled because you wish to honor her..." He shook his head. "She wouldn't want that, Tar," he had said.

Zumell had considered him for a long time - then slowly nodded her understanding. "I will observe the rituals in privacy," she had agreed reluctantly.

Chastened by her concession, Tiron had hung his head for a moment - then shook it. "No. We do the little one a disservice by fighting over how we should honor her - and what honor is there in that, for her or for us?" he asked the Cardassian softly. "No. You shall makes your observances... with us. On my ship," he had said at last.

Zumell had gaped at him, eyes wide with gratitude - then shook her head. "I thank you, Ambassador..."

"Tiron," he corrected her.

"Tiron," she conceded. "I thank you - but you have already said the Romulan rituals are inviolate..."

"They are," he agreed. "These, then shall be new rituals; rituals of common grief and pain. After all, have we not worked for months to find ways to live together, my dear?" he reminded her. "Can we not also find a way - a new way - to honor one who was so important to that work?"

Her eyes filling with tears, Zumell had nodded her agreement - and for another four grueling hours they had sought out the key elements of each cultures death rituals, creating a blended ceremony that would honor their friend and welcome her to each of their versions of the afterlife.

Picard had smiled at that during one of the few breaks the three had permitted themselves; Worf vowed she would be in Sto-Vo-Kor, Tiron and Zumell had sworn she would rise to their respective heavens, Dee herself had thought she would find release in her Ascension... and, he admitted, whatever afterlife there might be for me - I assumed she would be there as well.

So where do we go after death? he asked himself. Do all species go to one heaven - or one hell? Or are there as many heavens as there are planets and races?

An interesting thought, he decided; a final mystery to be solved for all of them... but later, he reminded himself.

In the end, they had agreed that the ceremony would be held on Tiron's ship in two days; his authority, money and family name would grant him a degree of leeway that Zumell didn't have; any questions that might arise from the Romulans could be quickly quashed without fear of political repercussions.

As for us, Picard mused as he stepped into the corridor outside the transporter room, moving wearily, unsteadily toward his quarters, the repercussions could be horrific - or non-existent, he admitted. By all of Starfleet's regulations and rules, the accident should be thoroughly investigated and a board of inquiry convened - but those regs, he thought, might well be pushed aside at Czymszczak's insistence; if the truth about the sabotage were to become known, it was possible - albeit unlikely - that his involvement might somehow come out - and that simply was not a risk that the Starfleet admiral would permit, Picard thought.

No, he decided as he entered the lift, this is going to get swept under the rug; Dee's death and Will's injury are going to be classified as accidents - and any evidence to the contrary was going to disappear.

Not that there was much evidence, he thought a few moments later as the lift came to a stop. Entering the hall, he reflected on the minimal amount of physical evidence left from the shuttle's destruction - and the even more minimal amount of proof Geordi had derived from that.

Still, he thought, it would be wise to get that report - and secure it somewhere that Czymszczak would never find it. The day might come when he could use it against the admiral - and, more importantly, if Czymszczak didn't know it existed, he couldn't use it against him or his crew.

Exhausted, he reached the entry to his quarters, touched the entry pad, and staggered into his room.

Oh four hundred, he thought to himself wearily. Four hours until I'm on duty - and I still have a eulogy to write for Dee, he thought.

Moving to the replicator, he called for a cup of tea, then took the brew and a padd and moved to the couch, determined to write his final tribute to his friend.

He sipped the tea, set down the cup, picked up the padd, and closed his eyes, wondering where to start.

The first time we met? he wondered, his mind drifting back to the marathon, to that stunningly beautiful woman who had encouraged him and chided him all at once. The brilliant professor who had effectively ended his career as an engineer before it started - and silently started him on a career in command? The hero who was responsible for saving those lives at Wolf 359? The agent who nearly met her end in a Cardassian prison? The patient who struggled against insurmountable odds - twice! - and lived?

Or should he recall his play mate who climbed the mountains of Guatemala in search of lost treasure? He allowed himself a smile at that thought, reflecting back on their adventures on the holodeck... and on the kiss they had shared.

Even now he could feel the touch of her lips on his, soft yet firm, her breath sweet, her hands reaching to caress his face, her fingers long and delicate... Her hands, he thought. She had such beautiful hands.

Her hands.

Her hands!

His eyes snapped open as he jumped up from the couch and hurried to the computer console. Pulling open the bridge files from that afternoon, he began pouring over them, searching them intently, trying to find the one missing detail - and found nothing.

It should be there, he insisted to himself - then forced his racing mind to quiet.

The explosion had been catastrophic, he reminded himself; they had only found eighty percent of Dee's body, the rest having been reduced to molecules - or less. And there was no guarantee _it_ had even been there.

Even so...

He tapped the communicator button on his desk. "Picard to bridge."

A startled voice replied, "Bridge here."

"I want a scan performed on the area of the explosion, centering at the site where the shuttle touched the tendril, then moving out to encompass the total area that any debris might have dispersed."

"Yes, sir," the voice replied instantly. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What are we scanning for?"

Picard told him.

For a moment there was silence. "Yes, sir," the man said at last.

"And run the scan at the atomic level," Picard added. "There might be only a trace of the elements left after the explosion."

"Yes, sir. Sir, it's going to take an hour to complete the scan," the man cautioned.

"Then start now," Picard replied, "and notify me of the results as soon as you have them," he concluded, then thumbed off the switch.

An hour, he thought - then added, or less. If I'm wrong, well know soon enough.

Moving back to the couch, he reached for the tea cup, draining the cooled brew in a single swallow and headed for his bedroom, the shower and a clean uniform, leaving the empty padd on the table.

Thirty minutes later, refreshed, clean - but somewhat more realistic, he returned to the living room, looked at the padd once again - and reluctantly reached for it.

Pipe dreams, he reminded himself. Unrealistic hope brought on by too many memories, too much wishful thinking. Reality was far more brutal, far harder; his Dee was dead - and in a few hours he was going to have to deliver a eulogy to his crew and his friends, remembering the woman who had so recently joined them - only to leave them again.

He sighed, stared at the padd - then began to write.

Forty-five minutes later, a chirp from his commbadge interrupted him. His thoughts still locked on the words needed to honor his friend, he tapped it mindlessly, murmuring, "Picard here."

"Sir, this is Lt. Gomez," the bridge officer informed him. "We've finished the scan."

"And...?"

"Nothing, sir."

Picard started, his eyes jerking up from the padd's display - then forced himself to calm down. "Nothing?" he repeated cautiously.

"No, sir. No trace anywhere in the debris field. We even tried a sub-atomic scan, looking for the quantum signature - just in case it somehow made direct contact with the tendril fragments, sir."

Picard gritted his teeth together, refusing to yield to the possibility raging through his mind and nodded at the communicator. "Good work, Gomez. Picard out."

He stared at the padd for a moment - then set it down and hurried from the room.

Hope, he reminded himself; that was all this was: hope. And not a good hope at that, he added. There were too many other possibilities, too many other explanations...

But it was hope, he added as he made his way to Sickbay.

A few minutes later he entered the room, relatively relieved to find that, despite Beverly's fears, it contained only a few patients, all sleeping off the worst of the effects of evening's activities. Slipping past them, he moved to Beverly's office, tapped on the open door, then entered.

Startled, she looked at him with exhausted eyes. "Jean-Luc?"

"Beverly, I have to ask you something."

She gave him a surprised look - then nodded. "All right."

He posed the question - and felt the hope surge once more as she shook her head.

"No, of course not. She tried - but I told her..."

He interrupted her. "Beverly, I need to see her body."

Beverly gaped at the man - then shook her head. "Jean-Luc..." she began warningly.

"I need to see it, Beverly," he interrupted again. "It's important.

She stared at him for a long moment - then nodded, reluctantly, rising from her chair and drawing on her lab coat. "All right," she said, then led him out of the office, stopping only to advise the nurse on duty of her departure.

For several minutes the two moved through the ship in silence, walking through the halls, riding the lifts, until they reached the bowels of the ship - and the morgue.

Beverly reached for the key padd - then stopped. "Do you remember what Dee said about the morgue?"

"That she didn't want to include it in the ship's design," Picard replied with a nod. "That if it wasn't here, no one could die."

Beverly nodded soberly. "I wish that it were that simple - because then she wouldn't be here," she said softly.

Picard said nothing, waiting, instead, for the physician to unlock the sealed door.

She reached for the control once again - then stopped once more. "I need to warn you: it's not... pretty."

"I've seen corpses before," he assured her.

Beverly looked at him grimly. "Not like this. This is not a corpse, Jean-Luc, it's a pile of meat," she said harshly.

He inhaled sharply at her description - then steeled himself for what he was about to see.

Beverly unsealed the door, then led him in to the room of long metal tables. At the far end, several stasis units were operating, maintaining an unchanging environment over the bodies of the others who had died on this mission, holding them for their return to their home worlds, and whatever arrangements awaited them there.

Near the entrance, however, were positioned a number of other tables, as well as carts with surgical equipment and consoles for analyzing the samples the equipment yielded. The tables here were empty, their occupants long ago moved to the further recesses of the room another table - or rather, almost empty.

A lone stasis unit hummed softly, maintaining a field over a table that was covered with a blue surgical sheet - but what lay beneath it held little similarity with a human form.

Beverly moved to the head of the table - then affixed Picard with a questioning gaze.

Picard drew a long breath, prepared himself - then nodded.

She pulled back the sheet - and Picard felt his stomach churn, his legs go weak, his sight grow dark - then forced himself to fight back against the reaction. This had been his friend, he reminded himself; he owed this to her.

He studied the... body, he thought, generously using the term to describe the arrangement of tissue and organs - then looked at Beverly. "It's really her?" he asked.

She nodded. "DNA tests were finalized a few hours ago. One hundred percent match."

"And the tri-tanium in her skull and bones?"

"Compositionally identical," she said.

"Fingerprints?"

"The prints matched those we got after Jemat finished her reconstruction," she replied.

Picard looked at her studiously. "Her hands were intact?" he pressed.

Beverly nodded. "Yes - though I'll admit I was a little surprised," she conceded. "Usually hands take the brunt of the damage; people reflexively raise their arms and hands to shields themselves against a blow or an explosion. But Dee wasn't most people," she added.

"No," he agreed, then turned his attention back to the table and its contents. "Where are her hands?" he asked after a moment.

"Jean-Luc..." Beverly began gently.

"Beverly, I need to see her hands!" he replied insistently.

He physician drew a long, tired and impatient breath, then turned, withdrew two pairs of surgical gloves from one of the carts, and handed one set to the captain.

"I don't want to contaminate the site," she said, deftly drawing them over her hands, watching as he inexpertly did the same, then turned off the stasis field.

Moving pieces of tissue aside, she finally drew out a single hand, and lay it atop the other pieces of flesh. A moment later, she withdrew the other appendage and placed it by its companion.

Picard studied the two for a moment - then looked at Beverly again. "Was there anything else recovered?"

"Parts of her uniform, her EVA suit, boots..."

"A necklace? Any jewelry?" he pressed.

Beverly stared at him for a moment - then shook her head.

"It's not on her, it's not out there," he muttered to himself - then looked at her. "I need to talk with Data," he said.

"Jean-Luc!" she cried, suddenly infuriated. "It's five in the morning."

"Data doesn't sleep," he reminded her, pulling off the gloves.

"No - but he does mourn, and this is not the time..."

"Yes, it is," he replied. "It's the only time we may have. Are you coming with me?" he added.

"Jean-Luc, this is cruel beyond all reason," she protested.

"Yes - if I'm wrong," he added. "And if I am wrong, I'll apologize. But if I'm right..." He let the thought trail off.

She considered for a moment - then let out a long exhalation of acquiescence. "All right. I'll go with you."

Despite his urgency, however, she carefully reassembled the remains, recovered them, and turned on the stasis unit before removing her gloves and disposing of them. Leading Picard back into the hall, she sealed and locked the door behind them, then allowed herself to be led away from the room, and back to Data's quarters.

The crowd that had filled the space earlier had diminished somewhat - and to Picard's surprise, those awaiting entrance to the android's room were far less grim than the ones he had seen earlier that day. Indeed, a faint ripple of laughter echoed down the hall from a group that was sitting near the doorway

"And remember the time she fell into the... Oh, Captain!" a voice called out, the story cut short as the young man and his companions quickly rose to their feet.

Picard nodded tolerantly. "As you were," he said.

"Yes, sir!" the man snapped back.

"Jacbos, isn't it?" Picard asked.

The man nodded, a little taken aback by the unexpected recognition. "Uh, yes, sir. Sir, we didn't mean to cause a disturbance, sir! We were just..."

"Telling stories about the commander," Picard concluded for them. "I understand; I can think of a few of my own stories about the commander," he added with an uncharacteristically empathetic smile. "Carry on," he added.

Passing by the group, Beverly murmured, "That wasn't like you, Jean-Luc," she said quietly. "Compassionate, empathetic..."

He glanced back at her, a small smile playing on his lips. "Didn't know I had it in me, did you?" he queried.

She looked back. "Actually, I did," she replied. "I always have," she added softly.

Startled, he studied her for a moment - then turned and looked at the guard standing outside the door.

Without a word, the man turned, touched the annunciator panel, spoke softly, then gestured the two into the room - a skill he obviously practiced extensively in the last few hours, Picard decided.

If Dee were here, he mused, she would be commenting on his poise and grace, making about comment about his learning skills, noting the information in her vast mind for his next evaluation - all those things that a good first officer would have done.

In time, he thought, I would have made her my first... unless Data had gotten his ship and convinced her to sign on with him in the interim. That, he mused, would have been an interesting time; how often do to Starfleet captains argue over a first officer? More interesting still would have been her decision, he thought - then chased away the idea.

No matter what, he knew, that dream had ended.

But please, he added in silent supplication, let it be the only one.

Entering the room, he found the android seated at the couch once more, surrounded this time not by a counselor and a captain, but by a number of junior officers and crewmen. Judging by the expressions on all of their faces - except Data's - they, too, were reminiscing about their adventures - and misadventures with the engineer.

Spying the captain, Data gave a slight incline of his head to his companions, then moved to greet the senior officer and the doctor.

"Sir?"

"Data, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I needed to ask you something?"

The android gave the man a surprised look, but nodded his acquiescence. "Of course, Captain ," he said - then shook his head a moment later in response to the inquiry. "No. She did not. She had very few possessions, and that was not among those she left behind this morning. Why do you ask?" he added.

There was hope, Picard reminded himself, and then there was cruelty. And right now he could not offer the man one without the other.

"I just wanted to find it, Data," he replied, "I thought... I thought it she be interred with her remains," he added.

Data considered for a moment, then looked at Beverly. "It would be your decision, Doctor."

"No, Data, it's yours. I gave that to you to do with as you saw fit. But it's a moot point until we find it," she added.

"Indeed," he replied quietly. "I must advise you, however, that it may have been destroyed in the explosion."

"I know, Data. I was just hoping..." Picard demurred.

"I appreciate your concern," Data answered, "but... as much as she cherished it, it was a material possession - and Ginger had very few of them. I think she attached significance to more to people and memories than to physical items."

Beverly smiled gently. "You're right, Data," she said, then looked at Picard. "We should be going, Jean-Luc."

"Yes," the captain agreed. "My apologies for interrupting your gathering."

"We were just... remembering," Data explained. "Perhaps you would care to join us?"

"Thank you - but later, perhaps," Picard declined. "After the memorial services," he added.

"Yes," Data said softly.

Aching for his friend, Picard clapped the android's shoulder, then grasped Beverly's arm and guided her back into the hall.

"So he doesn't have it," she said a few moments later. "What do we do now?"

"We talk with Jemat," he said sternly.

"Jemat?!" she gaped. "But I thought you said the Breen weren't answering our hails!"

"They aren't - but they are going to. Picard to bridge," he said, tapping his commbadge once more as the two moved through the hall. "Hail _outo_ Jemat on the Breen ship, secure channel!"

"Sir, the Breen haven't been responding..." the man protested.

"They will this time," he countered grimly - then stopped, closed his eyes, and barked a single, silent word.

_Jemat!_

A moment later, his badge chirped, and the very surprised voice of the bridge officer came across.

"Sir, I have _outo_ Jemat on a secure channel for you!"

Picard smiled at Beverly, but there was no joy in his eyes. "Pipe it through to my quarters, lieutenant; I'll take it there."

"Yes, sir," the man replied.

Picard gestured for Beverly to join him once again, and the two hurried back to the man's room.

Quickly easing himself behind his desk, Picard touched the controls for the communication system and was rewarded by Jemat's face looking back at him.

"Captain," he said dourly. "Beverly," he added, seeing her take a station behind Picard's shoulder.

"Jemat," Picard countered coldly. "I know what you did."

The Breen made a credible attempt at a human expression of ignorance. "Captain, I have no idea what you are referring to..."

"Jemat, not only do I know what you did, but I know how you did it - and why. And now I telling you what you are going to do," he added, the tone of his voice unwilling to tolerate any argument.

"There is going to be a memorial service on the Romulan ship tomorrow at twelve hundred hours, Enterprise time. You will be there.

"And Jemat?"

"Yes, Captain?"

He hesitated for a moment, hoping - praying - he was right - then spoke.

"You will not come alone."


	183. Chapter 183

**Chapter 183**

There was, Picard thought to himself as he felt the final effects of the transporter's materialization process finish, a sameness to every transporter room he had ever visited. Even the Breen transporter, in those few milliseconds he had been able to notice it, had not seemed all that different from the Enterprise's own, nor from any other: a raised platform pressed to one side, surrounded by brushed metal walls and facing a single central console.

And true to form, the transporter room on the on the Romulan vessel seemed not all that different from its counterparts: raised platform, metal walls, a center console - although, Picard added warily, the six armed guards that were facing them, weapons at the ready, were not among the typical transporter room features.

Raising a cautioning hand to his fellow officers, he stilled them before they could react, then took a step forward, introduction and explanation on his lips - only to see the guards raise their weapons, ready to fire.

Startled, alarmed, he gave a surreptitious glance to his left. "Counselor?" he murmured quietly. "What's happening here?" he asked.

Deanna opened her empathy to the emotions of the men before her, read their feelings, then glanced back at Picard. "Suspicion, Captain; a heightened sense of caution, of wariness."

"Wariness? About what?" he pressed. "Having humans - and Breen and Cardassians aboard?" he asked - though he doubted that were the reason. Certainly aboard his own ship a group of visiting dignitaries would have been cause for increased security, true - but with the degree of subtlety merited by their positions, he added

The Enterprise's security team would not meet visitors with weapons drawn, he thought.

She shook her head. "Yes - and no," she demurred. "To be honest, I'm not certain, Captain - but I sense that they're not certain, either," she added. "My best guess is... that's something's changed - recently - and these men are reacting to it as best as possible."

Picard considered, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps Tiron can..."

At the Romulan's name, the guards tensed slightly, the weapons in their hands jerking slightly as they gripped them more tightly.

"Captain?" Will said from his place behind Picard, his voice edged with curiosity as well as concern.

"There are six Romulan guards - armed guards - facing us, Will," he explained to his former first officer, wishing the man had had more time to recuperate from his eye transplants before beaming to the Romulan ship.

But Will had insisted - and Picard would not deny the man his chance to make a final peace with the woman who had saved his life.

"I see," the man replied, then, despite himself, amended with a half smile, "or rather I don't see. Do we know why we're being greeted this way?" he asked.

"No - but considering their reaction to my use of the Ambassador's name, I would guess that something in political situation on Romulus has changed - and with it, the ambassador's position," Picard mused, even as the transporter room's doors opened.

"Your insightfulness into our politics continues to impress me, Captain," boomed Tiron's voice as he pushed through the ranks of guards. "You have proven yourself a worthy adversary - and, in time, I hope you will show yourself a worthy ally as well," he added - then stepped forward, offering a hand of greeting to the senior Federation officer.

Picard studied the man before him, noting the swirling heavy robes and the absence of his previous military uniform - then moving carefully so as not to alarm the guards, stepped from the platform and accepted the proffered hand.

"Senator," Picard said in quiet greeting. "Congratulations on your appointment," he added.

Tiron's face darkened a shade in embarrassment, then he gave a slight shrug. "A necessity, Captain - as are these guards," he added, gesturing at the armed men. "These are troubled times in the Empire, Captain; there are those who would like to see this treaty fail. The Emperor, however, is not one of them; has informed the ship's captain that I am to reach home safely."

Picard felt a touch of empathy for the unseen captain, knowing from Tiron's tone that the Emperor's desire was not one to be denied - at least, not if the captain intended to survive his return to the home world.

"I assure you, Tiron," he replied a moment later, "we, too, wish the accords to be resolved, by your people and ours." He studied the robed man a moment longer. "I take it then that this promotion has something to do with that vote?" he asked.

"Yes," the Romulan agreed. "This change in my status is not one borne of desire for personal advancement, but one for peace. The Emperor felt my advocacy of the document to be beneficial - provided that advocacy were correctly interpreted," he added.

Picard nodded, understanding. "To have a warrior advocate peace might create the impression of personal cowardice," he mused.

"Or worse, military weakness," Tiron agreed. "Having a Senator advocate the same behavior, however, suggests political insightfulness - and in turn increases the possibility that the treaty may be accepted and ratified. When the Emperor made the offer to me, I could not refuse it."

"Then the Emperor is willing to accept the treaty?" Beverly asked, stepping down from the platform to take her place beside Picard.

"In theory, if not in every detail," Tiron conceded, taking her hand in turn. "Welcome, Doctor," he added quietly.

"Thank you, Senator," she replied. "Would that this meeting were under happier circumstances."

"Perhaps they will be," Tiron agreed, adding, "next time. When the treaty is ratified."

"But if the Emperor wants the treaty approved, why doesn't he simply make his desires known?" Deanna asked, joining the three. "He's the Emperor, after all; wouldn't the Senate follow his direction?"

Tiron turned to the Betazoid, taking her hand in greeting as well. "Welcome, Counselor," he murmured, then continued, "Officially, the Senate is an autonomous power. Though they... _we_... allow ourselves to be advised by the Emperor, we are not required to comply with his wishes. That, in the end, we agree to follow those pathways in purely coincidental," he explained, then sighed frustratedly. "It is a game, Counselor, a pretense that we have a choice in what we do. Of course, a degree of contradiction and disagreement is permitted - even encouraged; even a caged animal must occasionally be allowed to believe it is free or it will grow sick and die. But when a decision must be made as Emperor wishes it to be, then either we comply - or he allows retirement to deplete the number of Senators, and replenishes the ranks with those of his own selection, whose consciences follow those of the Emperor.

"We are free to choose as we think is best for our people - providing that it is what the Emperor wishes," he concluded.

"That could make for a dangerous political situation, Ambassador," Will said, slowly moving toward the edge of the platform.

Brushing past Picard, Tiron stepped to the dais, reached for Will's arm and guided him to the floor. "Captain Riker," he greeted the man. "I am glad to see you have recovered from your recent injuries. Your level of medical technology continues to impress me, Doctor," he added, turning to Beverly. "Our medical science would require several more days of recuperation before vision could be restored.

"As does ours," Beverly conceded.

Will managed a smile, explaining, "My eyes have been transplanted, Ambassador - excuse, me, Senator - but it will be several weeks before I have healed well enough to see as clearly as I did before... the accident," he concluded, his voice dropping.

Tiron thumped the man's arm sympathetically, almost tenderly. "She did what she believed right, Captain," he said quietly.

"Biji died trying to save me," Will countered, anger hinting in his words.

But the huge Romulan refused to accept them. "No, Captain," he corrected the human, "she did not. I mean no discredit to your friendship, or to devalue what you meant to her, but her actions transcended the safety of one person. She died to save not you, but your ship - and ours and the Breen and Cardassian vessels. She died for us all. We, therefore, honor her today for those efforts."

Will nodded slowly, then felt the Romulan move away, hearing the words of low greeting that he offered the others in the transporter room, stopping to speak for several minutes with Data before he took moved back to Picard's side.

"And the Breen?" Picard asked.

"They have arrived. They brought their entourage over by shuttle..."

"By shuttle?" Beverly interrupted, hope building.

Picard glanced at her, then shook his head, replying softly, "Don't read anything into that," he cautioned as he saw the light in the physician's eyes flare. "The Enterprise's sensors indicated that the explosion may have overloaded their energy adsorption system. If we're correct in our interpretation, then until their ship can absorb or disperse that excess energy, they are effectively barred from using their transporters. If Jemat's to attend, he'd have to use a shuttle," he advised her.

"Jemat and his comrades," Tiron informed them, having caught the last few words of the conversation. "Eight of their people were brought aboard..."

"Eight?" Picard interrupted, his own hope flaring.

Tiron raised a brow at the question, surprised. "Yes. This is not a problem, is it? Jemat said you had specified that he should not come alone," he added.

Picard's surging hope faded almost as quickly as it had flared - but even so, even as he told himself that this last hope was impossible, nothing more than a pipe dream, a fantasy that could not come true, unless, perhaps, maybe...

"Senator, tell me: what did the Breen look like?"

Tiron stared at the human, confounded by the question. "What did they look like?" he echoed, then shook his head. "Like Breen. Like Jemat. Some younger, some older. Some taller, some shorter - but... unremarkable," he concluded - and with that statement, Picard felt the last vestiges of hope disappear.

He had been wrong, he realized; everything that he thought pointed to Dee's survival had been nothing more than his own hope, his own need to cling to the possibility of that near-immortal woman having somehow managed to outwit - or out luck - fate one last time.

But that was not to be, he realized at last; the woman who had been his friend, had been so much more to him, was gone.

Forever.

He closed his eyes for a moment, offering her a final farewell - then opened them to see Tiron watching him once again.

"Captain?" he said softly.

Picard said nothing for a moment, caught up in his own thoughts - then turned to Tiron.

"My apologies, Senator," he replied.

"Not necessary, Captain," Tiron countered gently. "The baj..." He stopped as his voice caught, then he, too, looked away for a moment.

When he met Picard's eye again a moment later, it shone with tears, unshed, as he managed a whispered, "I, too, miss her."

Then the massive Romulan shook off the emotion, forcing his attention back to the moment.

"The Breen have been taken to the meeting area, as have Zumell and her compatriots," he said.

Picard raised his brow in question.

"It is the custom of her people, to share both the joy and the pain. I did not think she should have to suffer this sorrow alone. And I did not think it my place to object," he added, his skin darkening in a Romulan blush.

"It is your ship, Senator - and your ceremony," Picard replied. "Whatever you deem appropriate..."

Tiron nodded. "Thank you for your understanding, Captain, as I, too, have asked a number of my fellow officers to attend as well.

"It is not that I cannot face my grief alone," he added hastily. "But in the faith of the Romulan people, we believe that the number that surround the fallen affects their stature in the life beyond," he explained with a hint of embarrassment. "I... I wished that the baj would be honored appropriately," he said.

Meaning, Picard thought, that the ceremonial area would be filled to its limits.

"I think she would have appreciated the gesture, Senator," Picard replied quietly.

Tiron managed a tired smile. "I am relieved. I had thought..." He hesitated. "The baj would have found such a display troublesome," he conceded. "I know she did not think herself worthy of praise or honor - but she was," he added firmly, adamantly, as if defying the lost engineering from arguing, even from beyond the grave.

The Starfleet captain nodded. "Indeed she was," he agreed softly.

"Come, Captain," Tiron said, raising his voice slightly, "we should be going. Zumell and the others are here, and we must begin the ceremony if we are all to depart for our home worlds today. Our task here was only the beginning; should we fail in fulfilling its execution, then the baj's life - and all our efforts - will have been spent in vain," he said, then turned to the door.

Picard followed, Beverly at his side, Deanna and Will immediately behind, the empath surreptitiously guiding the nearly blind man into the hall, Data, Geordi and Worf following behind, trailed by the six guards.

"How are you holding up, Data?" Geordi asked quietly, studying his friend as they walked through the hallway.

The android considered for a moment. "I believe I am 'holding up' adequately, Geordi," he replied. "Though I have been experiencing some tumultuous variations in my emotions, at this moment, I believe my greatest emotion is one not of sorrow or grief, or even personal pain, but one of curiosity. This is, I believe," he continued with quiet detachment, "the first time that the Cardassians and the Romulans have permitted their religious ceremonies to be hybridized in such a manner, and I am curious as to the rites that will be observed. Considering the strict religious doctrines of both worlds, I find their willingness to allow such a joint ceremony as a positive indicator for the acceptance of the treaty - and, indeed, for the continuing cooperation of all our governments."

Geordi nodded. "Yeah, Biji could bring out the best in people," he sighed - then managed a smiled and a short laugh. "And the worst," he added. "Do you remember the time..." he began, then glanced at his friend and saw the oily trail of a tear sliding down the android's face. "Oh, Data, I'm sorry..." he began apologetically. "I shouldn't have said anything..."

Data shook his head, then brushed away the tear. "Do not apologize, Geordi. My memories of Andile are, at this moment, painful, but I have decided that I will allow myself to fully experience them - to mourn, to grieve, to suffer. She was worthy of those emotions, Geordi, and I would like to know that I have felt them because she was so significant a factor in my existence."

Geordi nodded. "She was worth it," he agreed.

"Indeed. However, having thus experienced these emotions, along with the other feelings she has evoked within me, I believe that portion of my life's experiment into humanity will have served its purpose; tomorrow, I intend to permanently terminate the functionality of my emotion chip."

"Data!" Geordi exclaimed, stunned. "But... your emotions! Your feelings! You can't just eliminate them from your life! They're part of you!"

"Yes, Geordi, they are - but unlike humans, I will never find those feeling fading with time or age; they will remain with me as strongly, as vibrantly, as the first time I felt them. Knowing that, there is no need to continue seeking them out, for I have achieved them."

"But..." the engineer began, astounded, "no matter what you felt, what you learned to feel, with Beej, there are more emotions in life than just those. To give up now..."

"Geordi," Data interrupted softly, "I have experienced many emotions since you helped place the chip in my positronic net. Many have become integrated into my persona, and those will continue to affect my existence, as will my memory of the other emotions that I felt, but that have not yet become 'mine'. But..." He hesitated for a moment.

"But with her, they were different," he explained. "With Ginger, the feelings had purpose, they had meaning; without her..." He paused again. "Without her," he continued, shaking his head, "they lack... depth. They lack purpose. They are... they are food without flavor."

"Yes - for now," the engineer conceded. "But not forever. In time, the richness of the emotions will return. And, after all, even when it's flavorless, you still need food to survive," he pointed out.

"On the contrary, Geordi," Data countered, "I do not. Your simile fails, for though I resemble a human, I am not. I do not require food - nor do I require emotions. But I have tasted both," he reminded his friend, "and savored the experience. But having done so, I can draw upon the memory of that richness forevermore, Geordi; I need not seek it out again, let alone a pale replica of the original," the android reminded him.

Geordi sighed. "Beej wouldn't like you doing this, Data," he cautioned the android.

Data turned and shot an angry glare at the man. "Then she should not have left me!" he snapped back - then drew a sharp breath in surprise at his own response. "My apologies, Geordi; my reaction was unwarranted."

Geordi shook his head. "It's all right, Data; I understand."

"No. It is not all right," the android countered, "and if for that reason alone, I am glad that, after this service, I shall not be affected by these feelings."

Geordi sighed, knowing he was beaten - for the moment. "Okay, Data, but at least consider leaving the chip functional; I can disable it so it won't bother you, but leave it intact so you can turn it on again later, when you want to - if you want to."

Data considered, then shook his head. "Without her, Geordi, there would be no point."

Worf interrupted. "Commander," he said gruffly, "do not act hastily. When a warrior enters Sto-Vo-Kor, it is as he died. Remove the chip, and you will not be able to feel when you meet her again; disable it only, and she will be able to restore it. You will feel with her once again."

Geordi gaped at the Klingon, not sure whether the man was serious or not. "Worf," he pointed out, "you're talking about Biji rebuilding his positronic net - after they're both dead!"

"Only their bodies, Commander," he replied. "Their souls, however, will live on - and he will need the chip in order to feel with her then."

Geordi stared even as Data considered the advice. "Then you believe that I will meet her again?" Data pressed the Klingon. "You believe that I have a soul - and will ascend to Sto-Vo-Kor?" he asked with mild surprise.

"Of course you have a soul, Commander," Worf said with a finality that prevented any further doubts. "That you will die a warrior's death is no less certain. And that you will spend eternity with her, with the gods - that is without question."

Data raised a brow in surprise - then lowered it with a sigh of what could only be relief. "Thank you, Mr. Worf," he said quietly, then moved ahead of the two, submerged in his own thoughts.

Geordi looked at the Klingon. "You really believe that, Worf? That Data's got a soul; that Beej's in Sto-Vo-Kor - and that Data will join her some day? Or did you just say that to keep him from doing something stupid, like turning off his chip for good?" he asked warily.

Worf returned the look, absolute conviction radiating back at the engineer. "I do not 'just say' things about Sto-Vo-Kor, Geordi; I _know_ them. That Commander Data has a soul is a certainty - and as surely as I know the lieutenant is there, I know that the commander will join her, and they will share a glorious afterlife - together. You will excuse me," he added, a bit gruffly, then moved past the engineer to rejoin Data.

As Geordi watched, the two feel into deep conversation, leaving the human feeling more than a little astounded - then shook his head in self-rebuke.

If Data, his android friend - his once, un-emotional android friend - could find love in the depths of space, then why couldn't he find his spiritual solace here as well, he asked himself.

And if Data could find hope for his future, Geordi added silently, maybe he, too, could find some measure of ease from his own grief, his own loss.

His reverie was broken by the prod of one of the Romulan guards; brought back to the moment, he hurried to catch up with his friends.

Sometime later, though, the only relief Geordi was seeking was from the dull ache in his back and shoulders. Two hours sitting in the rigid chairs that had been arranged before the makeshift ceremonial platform were taking their toll on his body - and on his mind, he added, trying desperately to stifle the yawn that threatened.

Not that the ceremony - ceremonies, he corrected himself, recalling the three separate series of rituals performed by Jemat, Tar Zumell and now Tiron - had been boring, for each had remembered and honored Biji's life with unusual rites and practices that he had never seen before - but somehow, he mused, the rituals, so unusual - so _alien_ - that they had failed to touch him deeply, failed to stir his soul.

Then again, he added, maybe I'm just past the worst of the pain; maybe I'm finally beginning to accept that she's really... gone.

A tear, sharp and hot, began to swell in the corner of his eye - but even as it began its path down his cheek, he felt the pain lessen once again, the ache of loss easing its grip on his soul. With a silent sigh of relief, he wiped the tear from his face, then turned his attention back to where Tiron was performing his funeral rituals.

Seated in the adjacent chair, Will took Deanna's hand, remembering how deeply she had been affected by the memorial service on the Enterprise. Here, surrounded by the emotions of both Andile's friends and knowing how strongly the empath must be feeling the surging emotions of all the people who had been closest to her in her last few months - and knowing that here, away from the eyes of her crewmates and would-be patients, safe in the company of her family, she might finally allow herself the release of her own grief and pain, he steeled himself to be the support she would need for the next few hours.

His own pain had dimmed over the last few days - but then, he told himself, he hadn't had the luxury of being able to allow himself to dwell in the thoughts of loss and pain. He was a captain now; he had a responsibility to see to the needs of his crew first, and deal with his own pain later.

Glancing down the row of chairs in the makeshift chapel, he made out Picard's form, noting the man's similar expression of self-control.

Not that I'll be like that, he added wordlessly; I'm not going to hide the emotions away - at least not forever.

Then again, he added, maybe that was what the captain had told himself the first time he had lost a friend in similar circumstances - only to find that once you had started down some roads, there was no turning back.

Resolved to allow himself the grief due himself and his friend, he loosed his emotional barriers - and yet, the pain seemed not as strong as it had the day before, the grief lessened.

Time heals, he decided - at least for me. For others, though... He gave Deanna's hand a consoling squeeze.

To his surprise, however, she looked back at him, smiled and shook her head, then leaned close to him.

"I'm all right, Will," she whispered, squeezing her hand in response - then turned to look at the android beside her. "Data? How are you doing?" she asked gently but not too worriedly, suspecting that he, like herself, like most of the others in the room, were past the worst of their grief.

She was more than a little astonished, then, as he turned to her, and she saw the oily tracks of his tears staining his face.

"I miss her," he whispered back. "I miss her so much, Counselor," he continued, his voice growing plaintive, his pain, his grief, undisguised, unmistakable. "I did not know... I had thought the pain at her loss would be all that I would feel... But now... Counselor, I am alone," he said emptily. "I will never be with her again," he concluded - then closed his eyes as a fresh stream of tears stained his face.

Deanna drew in a soft breath, instantly repentant at the realization that she inadvertently minimized his reaction, thinking that his emotions would follow the track of the others in the room - and regretting that the nature of his emotions put them outside her ability to sense.

Or even to guess at, she reminded herself.

After all, she reminded herself, we grew up knowing emotions, knowing love, knowing hurt - and learning to anneal ourselves against the worst of its pains - and, she added, the heights of its joys.

But for Data - and in many ways for Andile, she added - love - and so many of the emotions the rest of them had taken for granted, had been denied to them. For them, the exploration of real emotions - their exploration of love and their own relationship had been as innocent and wondrous as that of a child, seeing a butterfly or a flower for the first time. Without experience to serve as a guide, their relationship had flourished - and faltered - and finally blossomed in ways and to a depth none of them would ever be able to imagine.

How equally deep, then, how equally intense, would Data's pain and grief go? she wondered.

She sighed softly, wishing she could spare him that terrible pain - and yet, she added, wondering what it would be like to have felt love to such an intensity.

But she couldn't, she reminded herself; without being able to touch his emotions empathically, the best she could do for her friend was to offer him words, and only hope that they could reach the depths of his pain.

"Data, you're not alone," she reminded him. "We're here; we'll always be here for you."

"Now," he countered. "And in the near days to come," he added with a nod of his head, "yes, you will be with me. But you cannot be there forever. And the day will come - and soon - when I must confront the realization that my life will once and forever more be a solitary experience. Knowing what it is to be with someone, I now know that I do not wish to be alone again, Counselor," he said.

"And yet..." He hesitated, thinking, looking away for a moment, then returning his gaze to her eyes. "There was only one Ginger, Counselor. No one could replace her, nor would I want someone to attempt to do so. But without her, I am, as I once was: alone," he whispered. "I... I do not know what to do, Counselor. How do I go on without her?"

At a loss for words at the man's pain, Deanna stared at him for a moment - then reached for his hand, taking it in hers.

"You just do, Data," she said softly. "You just go through each day, one at a time. And we will be there for you," she repeated. "We're your family. Even when we can't be here, physically," she said softly, squeezing his hand, "we'll always be here," she said - then lay her hand over his heart. "We love you, Data."

He met her gaze, saw the sincerity in her eyes - then looked down the line of chairs at the people who had joined him for this step of his life's journey.

His family.

Finally, he looked back at Deanna and nodded slowly. "As I love you, Counselor," he echoed.

Seeing the pain ease from his face, she smiled at the android, tightened her grip on his hand, then turned her attention back to the dais where Tiron was intoning a prayer.

Listening to the low, rich baritone of the Romulan, Beverly lowered her head in respect, even though she understood none of the alien's words. A funeral, however, was a funeral, regardless of which world was performing the rite common to them all - and there was a sameness to them that seemed to transcend their differences.

Yesterday, Jean-Luc had spoken the words on their ship; an hour before, Tar Zumell had done almost the same thing, speaking her words, offering her prayers, lighting the Cardassian candle of eternal life; now, Tiron was doing the same, intoning the words, preparing to burn the incense - and in a few moments, Jean-Luc would speak again, bringing this farewell ceremony full circle.

And Dee would be gone from their lives forever, she added, feeling whatever vestige of unreasoning hope fade as she turned to look at the Breen contingent.

Tiron, however, had placed the eight slightly behind and to the side of the Enterprise's crew; given the solemnity of the ceremony, it was awkward to turn to look at them - and even when she did, only Jemat, seated closest to them, was readily visible.

For a moment, when Tiron had said eight of the aliens had come aboard, when he said they had come by shuttle, hope had flared in her soul. Somehow, she thought - she had hoped - Jemat had managed to smuggle Dee onto the Romulan ship, disguising her, dressing her in ceremonial robes, perhaps, or even having performed so minor cosmetic surgery to hide her true nature.

But no surgery, no robe, could hide the woman's tiny figure; nothing cold make the five foot engineer appear as one of the near six-foot tall Breen who filled the chairs on the other side of the room.

Not that the fiery engineer would have permitted such a travesty, even if it had been possible, she added; she would never have tolerated seeing her friends - her lover! - so hurt, so abused by the continuing pretense of her death and funeral.

No, Beverly slowly realized, the pain stabbing at her heart once more, Dee was gone, lost to them forever.

How odd, though, she thought, reflecting back on her friend; how ironic - how sad. Granted virtual immortality by fate - and Breen genetic engineering - she had carried that gift as a curse, doomed to a life alone - but when she finally found someone with whom she could share that life - someone who could live as long as she, who could love her as she deserved, and whom she could love deeply and passionately in return - her life had been cut short, ended by a accident!

For a moment, fury surged through her, raging against fate - and against the saboteur who had killed the woman - and nearly killed Will as well!

But as quickly as her anger grew, it faded back again, leaving her hurt, grieving - but strangely peaceful as well.

Tiron's words, perhaps, she thought, listening to the sounds of the concluding prayer.

"Beverly?" Picard whispered, worry touching his voice.

She shook her head. "I'm all right, Jean-Luc," she reassured him.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded.

She was all right, he thought, then glanced at his crew. They were all all right, he told himself - or they would be, he added, seeing the expression of loss on Data's face - but knowing that, given time and friendship, the loss would be lessened - and the man would go on.

He nodded to himself, finding solace in the knowledge, thinking back on the losses they had suffered - and survived - before: parents, friends, family, Jack...

He drew a long breath, thinking back on the death of his friend, and the weeks - the months, the years! - it had taken him to get over the loss.

Indeed, there had been a time when he wasn't sure he would recover, when the loss had made him doubt his worth as a captain, a friend, even as a man.

But that had been because Jack was more than just a member of his crew, he reminded himself; Jack had been his best friend, his crewmate - indeed, almost a brother to him. Of course his death had affected him profoundly - and of course it had taken him time to recover.

But this had been Dee - and his relationship with her had been nothing like his relationship with Jack, he told himself. She had been... what? he asked himself, trying once more to determine where he had stood with the petite engineer. A junior officer, certainly; an acquaintance, yes - but a friend? A kindred spirit?

No, he found himself deciding, she had been a comrade, an associate - but, if the truth be told, she was little more than that, he conceded. Whatever their adventures and misadventures together had been, she was, in reality, just another passing soul in the stream of people who paths crossed his. He regretted her loss, but time would ease that wound - and quickly, he added, turning to look down the row of his fellow officers, seeing the calm acceptance on their faces, the expressions of quiet acceptance and healing already beginning to soften the pain on their faces - all except Data.

Of course he was suffering more than they were, he added - but even the android would recover - in time. In time, he would be fine.

In time, we'll all be fine.

Yes, we're all going to be fine, he added firmly - then started to turn his attention back to the ceremony, reminding himself that it was almost his turn to speak, to bring this ceremony - and this loss - to an end, and to begin the process of moving on with their lives.

Yet for some reason he found himself unable to look away from his crew, unable to tear himself away from their placid faces - and Data's tear stained one.

It was wrong, he thought: Data shouldn't be grieving so deeply. Yes, he had been Dee's lover, but she was gone now; he had get over her loss - just as they were doing - then roughly shook his head.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly whispered worriedly, laying her hand on his arm. "Are _you_ all right?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, nodding. "I was just..." He started, then let his voice trail off.

I was just what? he thought, stunned. Reducing Data's relationship? Disregarding his pain? Glossing over my friend's suffering? Am I that shallow, that bereft of compassion? Is this all that I can feel for my friend after so many years together?

No! he told himself angrily - and yet he found himself able to stir more than a trace of sympathy for the man.

Fatigue, he decided; there had been too many hours of work and worry, too few hours of sleep and calm. Tomorrow, perhaps even tonight, when they had finally begin their journey home, when all this was finally behind them all, he knew he would be able to find the sympathy, the empathy his friend needed.

Tomorrow, he repeated, then turned his attention once more to Tiron, who had finished the benediction and was already stepping down from the dais.

My turn, he reminded himself, then shook his head to clear away the last traces of worry and concern for his crew, and concentrate on the matter at hand.

Still, something touched at his mind, troubling him - and concerned, he looked over his people.

But there was nothing wrong there, he knew. Nothing wrong.

Everything would be all right.

Of course it would, he knew - then closed his eyes for a moment, focusing his thoughts on his speech.

And suddenly opened them again.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly repeated, her worry growing at the sudden fury suddenly burning in his eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?"

For a moment he ignored her - then slowly turned his head, studying first the Breen contingent - then looking back at Beverly.

"_Everything_ is wrong, Beverly," he replied angrily. "Everything about this whole damned scenario is wrong.

"We've been manipulated, used - but that's going to end... now."


	184. Chapter 184

**Chapter 184**

Picard strode to the front of the room, finding his place at the rostrum that had been centered on the platform, his rage surging - then hesitated.

This was not the time or place for his anger, he reminded himself; what he now, here, was focus, mental clarity - and determination.

But focus, clarity and determination were stock in trade items for Starfleet captains, he added. Drawing a deep breath, he quieted his turbulent emotions - then took his place at the rostrum.

Still, for a moment, he didn't speak, looking over the audience that filled the room before him.

There, just ahead of the platform, sat Tar Zumell, he thought, centered in the middle of a small group of fellow Cardassians, the joy and hope that had lit her expression so often throughout their negotiations gone now, grief and loss taking their place, weighing her down, making her look every minute of her long years.

For a moment, he found himself wanting to move to her side, to offer her his condolences, his support, his reassurances - but with another shake of his head, he chased off the inclination.

Looking away, he turned to Tiron, standing now at the side of the room that was filled with dozens of his fellow Romulans.

As with Zumell, the Romulan's pain was unmistakable - but unlike the Cardassians who surrounded the woman, the other Romulans in the room seemed there more out of obligation than to support Tiron in his loss.

Obligation, Picard amended - and self-advancement, he added with an understanding nod of his head. Ingratiating one's self to a new Senator - especially one appointed by the Emperor himself - by attending this memorial service was an act that might well stand to benefit the attendee in the new Senator's good graces in the years to come.

That desire for promotion and self-recognition also explained the wide variety of Romulans from that race, ranging from the guards who had escorted them, to a number of officers, a large number of the lower ranks - even one of the Romulan disciples pressed along the far wall, draped in the robe of anonymity; each of the Romulans must have chosen to be present so that, in the times to come, they might be seen as a follower of the favored - at least for the moment - Senator.

Picard studied the varied members of the party for several moments - then turned his attention to the Breen contingent.

All _outo_? Picard wondered as he studied the intently focused expressions of Jemat and his six companions, then shook his head, remembering what Jemat had said about his unique position on the ship - and smiled.

Picard watched the Breen a moment longer, then turned his attention to own people, taking in once more their inordinately calm expressions - and Data's grieving one - and felt the pieces of the puzzle click together

Enough, he repeated to himself.

Enough of this charade; enough of this pain.

As if hearing him, Jemat looked up, his eyes meetings the human's.

_I know_, Picard informed the man silently. _I know_.

But if Jemat heard the man's thought, however, he did not respond to it; rather, Jemat kept his gaze on the man a moment longer, then returned to join the others in the intense meditation.

Giving one final look over the gathering, he drew a long breath - and began to speak.

"We come here today to remember - and celebrate - the life of one of our own."

Startled, Beverly looked up. This was not the speech that Picard had presented at the memorial service the day before, she realized instantly, even though they had agreed that the oration he delivered there would be equally appropriate in this setting.

Something must have changed, she realized; he must have seen something - someone? she wondered, a faint hope filling her - in the room, and altered the speech to take that change into account.

After all, she rationalized, how could he mourn her if he knew - knew! - she were still alive.

Surreptitiously glancing around the room, she sought out a diminutive form, hoping that, despite everything she had finally accepted, that Dee was somehow still among them, had somehow been brought here - then realized, crestfallen, that no one here that met that description - and that her fantasy was only that: a fantasy, a wish that could never be fulfilled.

Dee was gone, she reminded herself firmly - and she knew that better than any other, her remains in the morgue, the DNA scans incontrovertible; Dee was dead, she told herself again - and the sooner she accepted that fact, she sooner she could move on with her healing, her recuperation - her life.

And, she realized even as the last vestiges of hope disappeared, there was another, more practical, reason for the unplanned change in Picard's speech: opportunity.

Having glanced around the room, Beverly realized what Picard must have seen as he took his place at the podium: this was not a gathering of those closest to the fallen engineer, sharing their grief and finding solace in the shared loss as they remembered those aspects of her life that had touched them - but, rather, an assembly of Cardassians, Romulans and Breen who had never met Andile directly; people who were here not to grieve for themselves, but for other reasons: for emotional support, as the Cardassians did for Zumell; spiritual sustenance, as the Breen did for Jemat - or for their own political reasons, she knew, eyeing the Romulans that filled most of the room.

Picard must have recognized the dynamics of the room as well, she knew, and decided to amend the speech to better involve those gathered about them.

And he did, she thought, appreciating, once again, the man's ability to speak extemporaneously, finding herself readily caught up in both his compelling words and charismatic tone.

"And though Lieutenant Commander Hahndeela's loss was a tragic blow for those who knew her, her death came from an act of hope - as so many deaths, from all our species, have done in the past," Picard continued, looking directly at individuals from each of the represented societies - and earning, in return, the occasional nod of consensus.

Beverly smiled to herself as she listened to him continue. He was a brilliant speaker, she thought, drawing in the listeners not just with the content of the speech, but with the real emotion he put into every word, making each attendee in the room feel as though he had delved into their personal lives and thoughts, and created this speech with them - and only them - in mind.

"Yet even as we grieved our personal losses, we knew that they did not view their sacrifice as such; they gave their lives for the future that they envisioned for us - for their friends, for their shipmates, for their countrymen.

"Lt. Cmdr. Hahndeela - my friend, Dee," he amended, his voice dropping, forcing the audience to focus their attention upon him more closely, "believed in that future as well - but she believed in a greater future for us all," he added.

Will squeezed Deanna's hand gently as Picard continued to speak. "Hell of a speech, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Let me guess; he's got everyone hanging on his every word, doesn't he?" he added, unable to see those around him - but knowing Picard's oratory style well enough to guess how the audience was taking it.

"The captain is a most compelling speaker, Will," she reminded him, "but if they're 'hanging on his every word,' it's not just because of what he's saying; it's because they're agreeing with what he's saying. Biji gave her life trying to ensure that all of the ships here survived - and with it the chance for peace among our worlds.

"And at some level, Will, we all want peace. We all want a way and a place for our families, our friends, our cultures to survive beyond just our lifespan, and into the future. Biji worked for that - but so did Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell," she added.

"And he's using that fact to help persuade them to work for ratification of the treaty," Will agreed.

"Not, directly, no," she countered. "One speech - even one by such an eloquent speaker as the captain - isn't going to change the mind of someone who's adamantly opposed to the idea. Even Biji's death for that cause, tragic and noble as it was, won't sway a heart that set against the idea."

"But it's a start," Will countered.

Deanna smiled, opening her hand to allow their fingers to interweave. "It's a start, Will. All ideas have to start someplace - and I think Biji would have liked the thought that her death started the idea of peace in even one mind."

"One?" Will replied, smiling. "I may not be able to see anyone here, Deanna, but I'd put good money on their being a hell of a lot more than one person being 'persuaded'," he said with a smile.

"I'm sensing the same thing," Will," she answered. "And I think that Biji, wherever she is, knows it as well. She's leaving a wonderful legacy," she added sweetly.

Will smiled back at her, then raised her hand to his lips and placed a single kiss on it.

Distracted by the motion, Geordi glanced down the row at the two - and frowned.

This is Biji's memorial service, he wanted to remind the two - not Ten Forward - or their quarters, he added angrily, dismayed by what he deemed their inappropriate behavior.

But as quickly as he anger rose, it faded away; Biji wouldn't have objected, he reminded himself; she might have died so that the ships - and the treaty - survived, but survival of personal values - like love - would have been equally important to her, he thought.

Or more important, he added, reminding himself that so much of what she had done was motivated less by altruism than by her determination that Data should survive.

She loved you, Data, he told his friend silently, loved you so much that she was willing to sacrifice herself so you would live on.

No, no matter what the captain was saying, she didn't do this for the Breen or the Cardassians, or the Romulans - or even universal peace, he thought; she died for you - because she loved you more than she loved anything else, including herself.

He drew a long breath, pain and joy competing for places in his heart, wishing he could tell his friend the truth of the matter - but Data's hurt was too new, too fresh, to fully understand that sacrifice, that ultimate act of human emotion.

But you will understand, he added; in time - soon - we'll talk about it, about her, about her loss - about how she could give up everything so you could continue on - and how that act symbolized all that was good and glorious about being human.

Geordi looked up at Picard - then smiled.

For all his words of altruism and noble sacrifice, he thought, the man must have known the truth as well - but words of nobility, honor and hopeful ideals served this forum better than did words of love and blossoming emotions.

And Beej wouldn't have minded, he added; she probably would have enjoyed having such lofty goals attributed to her, holding her head up in mock pride, feigning her disdain of the mere mortals who surrounded her - then laughed it off as the nonsense it was, enjoying the joke with those closest to her.

Picard knew that as well, Geordi decided - but he knew equally well that some good might come of their loss - and Beej wouldn't have minded that either.

There were worse ways to honor the loss of a friend, he thought, then turned his attention and his concentration back on the Starfleet captain's words.

"Let us not forget, then," Picard continued several minutes - five minutes, ten minutes - a half hour?- Geordi asked himself, having grown captivated by the heartfelt, impassioned speech, "that the loss we mourn today was not just the loss of our comrade, our friend, but the loss of all those who went before her, whether Cardassian, Romulan, Breen, Klingon, Betazed, or human; we mourn today for all those who gave themselves in that noblest of sacrifices - the loss of their lives - for that which they held most high, most important - most critical: the survival of their people; the survival of us all."

Looking out over the gathering for a moment, Picard let the words slowly sink into the consciousness - and the consciences - of those around him, then gave a nod in appreciation of their silence and stepped down from the podium.

Returning to the row that held the Starfleet officers, however, he noted one expression that didn't seem to be in accordance with the others.

"You disagree, Mr. Worf?" Picard asked quietly.

Worf frowned. "Not with the content of your presentation, Captain, but..." He hesitated for a moment, loathe to contradict his superior officer - but equally loathe not to protest the offense he saw.

"Go ahead, Worf," Picard urged quietly.

Worf hesitated a moment longer, then plunged ahead, as diplomatically as the Klingon could. "I understand your reasoning, Captain, but I do not believe that this was the proper venue for a political speech," he informed the man. "This is the commander's memorial service; we should be mourning her loss and honoring her sacrifice."

"Noted," Picard said, "though I think a plea for universal peace does honor her. And while I agree there is a place - and a time - to mourn her passing, this is not it," he added bluntly, then eased past the man to take his seat beside Beverly.

Worf stared at the man for a moment, confused - but before he could pursue the issue, Tiron, who had resumed his station at the podium, began to speak once again.

"Thank you, Captain," he said quietly, inclining his head toward the human, his normally booming voice softened by the solemnity of the event. Then opening the small book he had been carrying, he turned to a marked page, and began to read aloud.

"The Romulan prayer for the dead," Picard informed Beverly in a soft whisper, recognizing not the words, but rather the intonation that seemed a constant among all the species present at these types of ceremonies.

"I thought the prayer was to be the final speech before the end of the service," she replied, confused.

"It is," he agreed.

"Then Jemat isn't speaking?" she asked, surprised.

"No," he answered simply.

She stared at the man, bewildered - and frustrated.

Damn you, she swore silently, realizing he was withholding information from her.

Of course, he had withheld information from her before; that was his prerogative as captain and as a human - and as a man, she added frustratedly - but she hated it, hated feeling left out, hating the thought that he didn't think she was worthy of his trust.

Except he did trust her, she knew equally well; he just enjoyed his occasional opportunity to tease her - or he had a damned good reason not to discuss the topic.

The latter, she decided instantly; Jean-Luc was many things, but he was never one to behave inappropriately, whether on duty or off - more's the pity, she sighed, wondering what the man would be like if he ever let his guard fully down for an afternoon - and he would never behave badly at a near-state occasion like Dee's memorial.

Still, she added, there was the tiniest crinkle of lines at the corner of his eyes, as though he was concealing his laughter - or his joy.

Covertly, she took another glance around the room - but whatever the source of his secret amusement, but, as before, she couldn't find it.

Realizing the prayer was ending, Beverly turned back to Tiron, then lowered her head, adding a silent offering for her friend.

I've seen so many religions, so many faiths of so many worlds, she prayed, that I no longer know if there is one 'true' faith - but if there is a supreme power, may it grant Dee the happiness she had come to know here - and may it bring her together with Data when his time comes as well, she added.

As the low drone of Tiron's voice finally faded, she raised her head and saw the Romulan senator close the book. Looking over the audience, he said, "The memorial is over; my thanks to you all for attending this ceremony. To my people: you are dismissed. To our visitors, please remain for a moment, and you will be escorted to your transports. Thank you again," he added, then stepped from the dais.

Quietly, the others rose, most moving slowly but inexorably toward the doorway - and with their exit, Picard realized, would go any chance of his success, even as he conceded that he needed the majority gone from the room, or the plan would have no chance whatsoever.

Even now, he felt the tendrils of doubt pushing at his mind. Determined not to be dissuaded once more, he slid his tongue between his teeth, then bit hard.

The salt tang of blood filled his mouth even as the torn tissue roared in protest - and he forced his thoughts to focus on the pain, the blood - and nothing else.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jemat start slightly, then watched as the Breen eyed him warily.

_Captain,_ the _outo_ began silently.

"Jemat," Picard countered aloud then made his way through the departing crowd toward the Breen contingent.

Jemat studied the man for a moment, then shook his head. "You do not know what you are doing," he protested softly.

"On the contrary, I know exactly what I am doing," he replied, then turned slightly, watched as the last of the remaining Romulans left the room, then raised his voice so that the others could hear it as well.

"Several days ago," he said, the remaining attendees turning to face him, "several of us now present met in a similar place - and for a similar reason: to find a way to let go of a friend, to find a way to send her on to a better place," he informed them soberly, his eyes locked on Jemat, his thoughts locked on his speech - and on his pain.

"Our hopes that day, however, were that that place was one where she could live in happiness and safety - at least for a time - until she could make her way back to her home and to her people.

"None of us could envision that tragedy would take her from us ahead of that plan; none of us could envision that we would be meeting again, so soon, and for so similar, yet so different, a reason."

"Captain," Tiron interrupted, seemingly annoyed by the man's oration, "the time for speeches has passed. Both our ships - and Zumell's - are scheduled to depart shortly..."

"We've delayed three days, Tiron," Picard countered. "Surely a few more moments won't matter," he added pleasantly - but there was something in his voice that indicated he would tolerate no arguments.

Tiron fell silent.

"And," he continued a moment later, "those lost minutes can be made up by increasing speed. After all, we all have that capability; our engines - and our engineers - know their equipment - and their systems - well enough to be able to grant us that simple request," he said smoothly.

"At least I know our ships can do so, courtesy - in part - to engineers, like the lieutenant commander," he added, then seemed to consider for a moment.

"That, I think," he continued a moment later, "is the attribute I will miss most, now that Dee has left us: her curiosity, her insatiable need to see what lay beyond the known - to explore what might be possible - both in terms of engineering, and in terms of the world surrounding us.

"Then again, perhaps curiosity - the need to explore beyond the known, the need to question everything - is what marks us as the humans she - and we - are," he added, looking at the others. "We're humans; we're explorers; we want - we _need_ to know the truth. And we don't settle for the easy answers," he added.

Picard considered a moment longer, then studied the remaining Romulans still awaiting an opportunity to leave, then looked to the Breen - and smiled.

"We don't even settle for the hard ones," he continued - then turned back to Tiron.

"My apologies, Senator, for this delay," he said, though there was no contrition in his voice. "I'll not keep you any longer. I'm sure you and your protégé are anxious to return to your home world after so long a delay. Her year of service has almost expired, hasn't it?" he added, glancing at the robed figure.

Tiron hesitated, then followed the glance, only to turn away quickly. "Um, yes," he answered - though there was a uncertainty, as hesitancy to his words.

"Then, if you'll excuse this breach of Romulan manners, I'd like to make my farewells to her as well," Picard insisted. Moving toward the robed figure pressed against the wall.

"Captain," Tiron began warningly, "that would be most inappropriate..."

"I know, Senator, but..." Picard turned to face the figure, forcing himself to confront the robed image despite the almost palpable desire to turn away. "I suspect that if I don't say my farewells now, I shall never have the opportunity to say them again."

He smiled at the figure - then looked down, reached for the woman's left hand, pushed back the robe and studied the appendage for a moment - then raised his head again.

Reaching for the hood of the robe, he began to push it back as well, only to be interrupted by Tiron's protest.

"Captain! Stop! To reveal her identity would be to spell her death!" he roared angrily.

"That shouldn't be a problem, Senator," Picard countered lightly, "since your protégé died several months ago - didn't she?" he asked.

Tiron frowned, seemingly confused. "She... died..." he finally managed.

"And yet here she is," Picard said, gesturing at the robed figure.

"Or is she?" he added a moment later – then turned to the disciple.

He reached for the top of the robe, pushing back the hood - and smiled at the face it revealed.

"Hello, Dee."


	185. Chapter 185

**Chapter 185**

"I've missed you," he told her quietly, his voice so low that only she could have heard the ache that it contained.

That was, _if_ she could hear anything, he added, her eyes unseeing, her expression blank.

"Let her go," he murmured to Jemat, not bothering to even look at the Breen - then turned to look more carefully at the other remaining members of audience, each now frozen in place, looking back at him with an expression as blank as Andile's. "Let them all go," he added, more sternly this time.

He heard the soft sussuration of Jemat's uniform as the Breen approached him.

"No," Jemat answered quietly, but with equal firmness.

"You can't hold everyone here in thrall forever," Picard countered.

Jemat managed a very human, very knowing smile. "Forever... is not necessary, Captain. We need only contain your people's - and Tiron's and Zumell's - thoughts, their perceptions of the moment, of recent events - until you leave the area. Then the ideas we have implanted in their minds will take hold and flourish."

Picard turned away from the stony-faced engineer and faced the _outo_. "Surely you don't expect them to 'forget' the events of the last year, do you?" he asked skeptically.

"No. That would not be possible. They will remember everything - except these last moments, of course," he added quietly. "But the memories will..." he hesitated, searching for the word. "Fade," he decided at last. "Wear away, erode, like soft stone in the desert wind, until all that is left is the essence of what has happened. They would be left with their core memories of Garave - but the strong emotions, the feelings she evoked in them, will disappear - and with them, all risk to her," he added warningly.

Picard shook his head – though he understood the alien's actions - and his intent. "I understand – I even appreciate your people's position – but what you did put her life at risk – and almost cost Cmdr. Riker his!" he added angrily.

Jemat gaped at the man. "Captain... surely you do not think we were responsible for the explosion on the shuttlecraft! No! It was – we believe – as you suspected: sabotage by someone aboard your vessel. We would never have imperiled your people in this way. Indeed, we had every intention of carrying out the plan upon which we all agreed; it was only when the explosion occurred that we changed our actions!"

"But you would have let us believe she had died," Picard said.

"In the circumstances that arose, we knew it would be for the best," Jemat answered gently.

Picard felt the gentle push at his thoughts – and pushed back, hard. "And Dee? Garave?" he corrected himself. "Do you think she will agree that it was 'for the best' when she realizes what was done to her – and to us?"

Jemat managed a smile. "She will... understand. Above all, she is pragmatic: she knows that there are things that must be done, even though there is a cost for doing those things."

Picard raised a skeptical brow. "Indeed," he murmured.

Jemat managed another human smile - one tinged, this time, with a substantial amount of complacency. "Indeed, she may even appreciate that we have done what we could to lessen that cost to your people: we have eased your pain, their pain, at her loss. More significantly, she will understand that what we have done was for your sake as well as hers: Garave's death at such a time and in such a manner will leave Admiral Czymszczak with the suspicion of a ruse. This is inevitable, and the greatest drawback to the plan that we had made. He will never feel completely at ease while there is a doubt that she is alive. And should any hint of that existence be made known to him, he will search for her - through you.

"Do not doubt for a moment, Captain," Jemat added in sterner voice, "that Czymszczak will not hesitate to use - or kill - any of you to achieve his goals. Ambassador Tillerman has made that eminently clear to us - which is why we have agreed to give him sanctuary within the Breen sphere. It is the one place where Czymszczak cannot reach him.

"Garave is equally aware of this," he added dourly. "That is the reason she was willing to engage in our original plan to remove her from your ship: to ensure your safety." He managed another smug, all-too-knowing look. "What we have done will only further ensure that safety; as long as you are convinced that she is dead, you cannot accidentally reveal the truth. Your ignorance is her safety – but your own as well. And for this, above all else, she will be grateful to us."

Picard nodded, agreeing with the _outo_ on his assessment of both Dee and Czymszczak's respective psychologies - but his actions begged a question. "Why then," he asked, "bring her back here?"

The Breen's expression hardened slightly. "We had no option: she had to go somewhere. As we had discussed before, she cannot be granted refuge amongst our people – and Tiron had already agreed to secret her on his world. That idea already existed in his mind: all we needed to do was find a way to bring her to this ship and allow him to proceed with his original plans."

"Disguised as his protégé?" Picard asked.

Jemat frowned slightly. "The ambassador would be given a memory that would awaken in a few hours: that he had known what we were doing, and had arranged for Garave to be brought aboard the ship as his disciple: that he had deceived you in this – a deception for which he would be truly repentant, even as he knew there was no alternative – and he could conceal her for as long as need be."

"Except that he is no longer an ambassador," Picard seethed. "He is a Romulan senator! If they had discovered her..."

"They would not," Jemat said firmly. "We have studied the Romulans, just as we have studied you, Captain; to attempt to determine the identity of a protégé - especially a Senator's protégé - is something no Romulan would do. Of course," he conceded, "we did have to _encourage_ the shuttlebay officer not to notice the 'human' reading on his sensor panel when our shuttlecraft was scanned - just as we had to alter Tiron's perceptions so that he would forget the death of his protégé, and see Garave as that person. In time - a day or so - the geas would have left them both, and while Garave would have realized what the true situation was, Tiron would be left with the necessity of keeping Garave with him for the foreseeable future."

Picard nodded. "So that's why you brought six others with you," he murmured, "because you knew you would need to control what was happening around you, so that no one would notice that one of you had disappeared during the course of events - or that there was a Romulan protégé aboard, even though Ambassador Tiron's had died during our first encounter with you," he said.

"I believe Garave calls the technique 'pushing'," Jemat agreed. "We needed to be able to push your minds away from - or toward - certain ideas, certain actions. We needed to be certain that you did not look in her direction, or that, if you did, you did not notice her size or statue - or," he added with a hint of a laugh, "that our eight had become seven. Those tasks are not outside our abilities - that is, given the original size of the gathering - and seven of us should have been sufficient to control all of you without your noticing."

"But controlling two hundred taxed your abilities, didn't it?" Picard pressed.

Jemat conceded the point with a slight inclination of his head. "Had I known the size of the audience..." he began - then shook his head. "Had we known, however, we could have done nothing more: there was no way I could have brought sufficient numbers of my people aboard without creating even greater suspicion."

"And so your hold was subsequently weakened," Picard concluded.

Jemat nodded – then gave Picard a puzzled look. "But you were aware of our deception before this," he pointed out.

The Starfleet captain considered for a moment. "I became suspicious because of something else entirely. But..." he hesitated. "Ever since I spoke with you the other day, I've had growing doubts about that suspicion; your doing, I presume?" he added curiously.

Another inclination of the head. "I knew I could not bar the idea from your thoughts without you realizing something was affecting you - but doubt?" He smiled. "Captain, for all your bravado, for all your outward appearance of self-confidence, within, you are a man of great uncertainty, of great doubt. You always need to ask yourself: was there something more, something better, something different, that I could have done to have made the situation better?"

The Breen hesitated a moment, then faced Picard with an expression of what could only be shame on his face. "Despite the certainty in my heart that I have done what had to be done, I must also apologize for my manipulation of your emotions. I have studied your deposition, Captain; I knew quite well the extreme emotional difficulty you faced after the death of your friend, Jack Crusher - and I capitalized on those feelings. I did not wish to reawaken those emotions, those memories, but Garave's life is of utmost importance to us."

For an instant, fury at being used - at having his own memories, his own unending nightmare - used against him, filled the captain's soul.

How dare you? he raged - then drew a breath and forced himself to find a measure of composure and understanding.

How dare he? he repeated - because he had to, he reminded himself.

I've done things of which I'm not proud, things I would have done differently - if I could. But time and circumstance didn't always permit - and in the end, he knew he had done what he had to do and that there would be consequences for those actions.

As had Jemat.

"I understand, Jemat," he said at last. "I don't approve - but I understand. However, try as you might, there were a few things that never rang true, that kept niggling at my mind. Part of the human essence," he added with a knowing smile, "our damnable curiosity.

"There were some... internal issues... that seemed out of character for my crew. Under the given circumstances - death as a result of sabotage - there should have been demands for an investigation, a search for the saboteur - and yet those calls were minimal and half-hearted - as though her death was not important to us, our own peril, trivial. Our grief, too, was too fleeting, our compassion for our friends too superficial. We've lost fellow crewmates before, but we've never reacted as we were now. No; something here was wrong.

"But there was something else, something that rang even more false than the lack of reaction from my crew," he said.

"You see, unlike some – perhaps even most - humans, Dee did not value material possessions. Perhaps having been denied them for so long, she never understood the concept - or perhaps she never thought herself worthy of material goods. However, she is woman of strong, even profound, emotional depth - and there was one thing she cherished, one material object that symbolized the depth of those feelings, one thing that meant more to her than anything - almost anything," he amended else. "She would have kept it with her, even unto death... or she would have ensured that it would have been returned safely to its owner."

He turned, looked at his friend once more, still staring stonily ahead, then reached for her left hand and pushed back the sleeve to reveal the firestone and silver ring.

"Data gave her this as a symbol of his love and their future together," he said softly. "Given the circumstance of that day's mission - that she knew she was not to return to the ship, I believed she would have taken with her - as something to hold to when faith of the heart was not enough," he explained softly.

"And yet it wasn't on her body - or rather the remains we retrieved - nor was it on our ship. It wasn't in the debris field. It was not returned to its giver or its original owner. In my mind, that meant one thing: that it could be in only one place - in the possession of its owner."

He smiled. "I knew then that Dee was alive - and that you had managed, somehow, to transport her out of that mess and replace her with the cloned tissue fragments," he concluded.

"We noted the ring," Jemat replied, "but we didn't realize its significance. Had we done so..."

"Short of amputating her hand, I don't believe she would have permitted you to take it from her, Jemat," Picard countered.

Jemat's face twitched - the Breen equivalent of a shrug. "There was nothing she could have done to prevent it, Captain.

"However, at that moment, events were moving too quickly for us to consider such a triviality. When we realized what was happening, we also realized that an opportunity had been presented to us: to proceed with the plan, in part, to transport her away from the site of the explosion and substitute the cloned tissue we had prepared for this purpose. Unfortunately, this forced to use our transporter system - with all its damaging effects. We were, however, able to sedate her and treat her before any lasting harm could occur.

"It was while she was unconscious, recuperating, that we realized the true nature of our predicament. If we allowed her to return to full consciousness before your ship had cleared this area, she might reach out for you and inform you as to what had really happened. Once we had explained the situation, I believe she would have concurred with our thoughts - but by then it would be far too late.

"Hence, she has been... controlled... these last few days." He gave a second smile, though this one was a little less confident than the previous ones. "I must admit she has a most formidable mind," he added. "The last few days have been quite a challenge for me - and for my people. But we had to control her, to keep her from seeking you out, to bring her here and ensure Tiron's compliance before we released her - if this plan is to proceed."

"And you expect us to permit that?" Picard replied.

"Your permission is not required, Captain," Jemat answered, his gaze growing intent. "The plan will proceed, just as I have said. And you will not object. Indeed, you will forget what we have just discussed. You will grieve for your lost friend - but your grieving will fade. Your pain will lessen with every passing day - and soon, Garave - your Dee - will be nothing more than a faint, pleasant, passing memory," he instructed the man.

Even as Picard opened his mouth to protest, he felt the weight of the Breen's thoughts pushing at him, imposing ideas, emotions needs that superceded his.

No! he roared silently. "You... can not... do this to us! You can not... make me believe... she's dead!" he protested, his mind struggling against the Breen's thoughts, even as he felt his own will beginning to slide away.

"Captain," Jemat answered gently, patiently, "you already believed she was dead. We are only removing that fragment of doubt that remained.

"And this... this is easier. For you, for your people," he continued, wearing at the man's thoughts with his own, even as he wore at them with his words. "She cannot return to your world - for her safety - and for yours. But..." The Breen gave a sigh of regret. "But as necessary as her loss must be, we cannot allow you to suffer for it," the _outo_ added softly. "Yes, you will feel her loss - but as a gentle one, a loss of a crewmate, an old acquaintance - distant enough so the pain is dull, near enough that it will remind you of the value and joy of the days you still have before you.

"That she cannot be a part of your life any more is something we truly regret - but we hope that this will make up, in some ways, for the loss."

"Remember her," Jemat crooned, his voice mesmerizing even as his thoughts guided Picard's way past the anger at being manipulated, being used. "Remember her, yes - but lightly, easily, as your lives move ahead..."

"No!" Picard protested, raising his hands as is to block out the telepath's thoughts - but there was no fighting this compulsion, this geas from the Breen.

"Yes," the _outo_ countered, redoubling his efforts, pushing past the man's defenses and driving him to his knees. "I do not wish to hurt you, Captain - but this is for the best. For Garave - and for you," he said softly, a touch repentantly.

"And for me, Jemat?" a voice interrupted. "Is losing my beloved, being led to believe she is dead, forever taken from me - is this the best for me as well?"

Startled, Jemat turned, his concentration suddenly broken - and found himself facing Data.

Unexpectedly released from the Breen's mental hold, Picard gasped, fell to one side, then quickly found his feet and rose once again, even as Data pointed a miniature phaser at the _outo_.

"Good work, Data," Picard said.

"Mr. Data..." Jemat began.

"You are uninjured, Captain?" Data interrupted, ignoring the Breen - but maintaining perfect aim at the being.

Picard nodded again. "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Data," he added.

"You are welcome, sir," the android replied, then faced the still stunned Jemat.

"Release Ginger," he said, then added, almost as an afterthought, "release them all."

The Breen gaped for a moment - then shook his head. "I will not."

Data gave the man a curious look, then elevated the weapon in his hand slightly so that the _outo_ could easily see it. "Sir, this device is a phaser. While it is physically smaller than a standard Starfleet hand-held phaser, it nonetheless contains a sufficient power supply to effect severe - or even fatal - damage to you and your contingent, should I choose to use it. Your deaths, however, are not necessary to ensure Andile's release from your 'control'," he said, then tapped one of the controls with his finger - then pointed it at the Breen again. "I have set the phaser to a bandwidth and dispersal pattern that will create a state of unconsciousness for you and your party. If you will not freely release Ginger, I will do so for you," he informed the alien. "Your preference, sir?" he added.

Jemat studied the weapon - then gave a human shake of his head. "That is not a phaser - nor a weapon of any kind," he said smugly. "Our studies of this universe's species was not limited to yours, Captain, Mr. Data. We have studied the Romulans well and long, and know them to be a paranoid and warlike species. Their transporter scans would have detected the presence of any weapon - and they would not have permitted you to board this ship."

"True - if," Picard interjected, a hint of smugness in his voice now, "their scans detected it. However, their scans could not penetrate Data's body - any more than your thoughts can penetrate his mind."

"He hid the phaser within his body?" Jemat repeated, astounded.

"My endoskeletal structure not only provided a location for the secretion of the phaser, but obscured the power signature as well," Data explained. "The Romulan scanners could not detect its presence."

Jemat nodded, shaken. "I had not thought your people would resort to such tactics, Captain," he said.

Picard met his gaze. "I had not thought your people would resort to deceiving us, Jemat," he countered. "Clearly we were both wrong.

"Fortunately," he added, "Data is not affected by your telepathic abilities. Once I suspected Dee was alive and you had her, I instructed him on what must be done - and then left it in his hands. If I did not know Data's plan, you could not pluck those thoughts from my mind. All you could know was that I suspected she was alive and that you had her - and I had already told you that."

He managed a smile. "We have a phrase on Earth, Jemat; turnabout is fair play. You manipulated us through your telepathy - but we used it against you as well. Now..." He looked at Andile, then back at the others, still staring vacantly at the scene before them, then back at Jemat. "Release them. Release them, or Data will fire - and two hundred Romulans will suddenly realize that they, too, have been mentally manipulated - and they," he added grimly, "will not be amused."

Jemat protested. "Our manipulation of the Romulans was inconsequential - only to ignore the presence of the protégé - a practice already deeply instilled in their culture. Render us unconscious, and they will not react," he added defiantly.

"Perhaps not," Picard conceded, "but you will be unconscious - and I will inform Tiron of what you have done. I assure you, _outo_, that he _will_ react - and unpleasantly." He fell silent, a cold glint shining in his eyes as a thought came to him.

Jemat's eyes turned cold and hard. "Barbarian!"

Picard's eyes instantly matched the Breen's. "And you kidnapped Dee and have held her mentally and physically captive," he replied savagely. "Which one of us is the true savage?!"

"She is the salvation of our people!" the Breen protested. "Her safety is of paramount importance! If there is a cost – to us, to her, then it must be paid – but at all costs, she must remain safe!"

Startled, Data stared at the alien.

"She is her own person," Picard argued, "and it is her right and her prerogative to choose the path of her life - not yours... not mine," he added with a wash of realization - then sighed. "It's her life, Jemat," he continued a moment later. "Let her choose."

The Breen stared at Picard for a moment - then turned, looked at his entourage - and jerked his head in approval.

For a moment, he could see the concentration on their faces - then, suddenly, he felt the pressure lift from his mind, felt the collective release of breath from those behind him - and saw Andile begin to collapse.

Grabbing her as she fell, he turned to the android. "Data! Take her," he said, gently handing off the woman to her lover, accepting the phaser in return.

Leveling the weapon at the Breen, he glanced back at his people, then called out, "Beverly! Over here."

Stunned, dazed, the physician hesitated for a moment, then understanding the scenario before her, moved to where Data sat on the ground, a robed figure held tightly in his arms.

Helping the android ease the body to the floor, she carefully pulled the cloak back to reveal a face - and gave a gasp.

"Beej?" she asked, stunned and confused – then instantly moved from her personal role to her professional one.

Pressing her fingers against Andile's wrist, she roughly measured the woman's pulse and pressure, then called out, "I need a med kit!"

The others, still stunned by the sudden release of the control that they had not suspected, slowly moved toward Beverly and Data's place on the floor - then Deanna, realizing what the form on the floor was, gave a second cry. "Biji!" she exclaimed joyously, then turned to Will. "It's Biji, Will. She's alive!"

Stunned, the others hurried forward, straining to stare at the unconscious form.

"Commander?" Worf growled.

"Beej?" Geordi managed.

"My little one," Zumell whispered tearfully.

"Baj," Tiron said, stunned.

Hearing the last voice, Beverly turned to look up at him. "Senator, I need a med kit," she said quietly.

"Is she...?" Tiron asked.

"She's alive," Beverly confirmed. "But unconscious. I don't know why. Jean-Luc, I want to get her to Sickbay..."

Picard interrupted her with a shake of his head. "That... That isn't advisable, Beverly. Can you do anything for her here?" he asked.

The physician stared at him, stunned at his reluctance - then nodded. "Possibly. I don't know. I need to find out why she's unconscious..." she managed - then looked at Tiron again. "Senator? A med kit?" she repeated.

The Romulan stared at the body on the floor a moment longer, disbelief and joy fighting for his heart - then suddenly nodded. "Med kit. Yes. Of course," he said, hurrying away.

The others pressed closer gaping at the woman - then at Picard and Jemat, the realization that they were suddenly in different places than they had been at their last moment of awareness beginning to register on their minds.

"What has happened?" Zumell asked.

Picard sighed. "It's a long story, Tar - which I will tell you - in time. But, for now, let it suffice to say that we - all of us - have been used. As to how you or your governments wish to address the matter, that's entirely up to you. But I would suggest," he added as Tiron hurried back, a small bag in his hand, "that you have your Security officers secure these seven Breen," he told the Romulan.

"Captain!" Jemat protested.

Picard affixed him with a long, cold stare, at which the Breen fell silent.

Tiron, not understanding, but willing to trust the human - and to distrust the Breen - nodded. Touching his communicator, he barked out an order, then touched the device again, looked down at Andile - then glared at Jemat.

"If she is injured..." he began warningly.

"I don't see any sign of physical injury," Beverly interrupted as she passed the foreign scanner over the woman's body, "but her metabolism is abnormal. She hasn't had her meds in more than two days, Senator. That could be why she's unconscious," she mused, more to herself than to the others. "Still, If I'm reading this correctly, she's reacting to her body's attempt to compensate for those changes... which may not be a bad thing," she added reluctantly.

Data looked at the doctor. "Elucidate, please," he said quietly.

Beverly smiled. "Her body is adapting to the lack of drugs, Data; it means, in time, she may become non-dependant on the medications for survival. Given her body's abilities to adapt, this was always a possibility - but I would not have suggested complete withdrawal as a safe methodology for making that determination," she added, glaring at Jemat as well.

"We have returned her to you," the _outo_ protested.

Beverly looked at him, then back at Picard, suspecting - no, _knowing_ - that was far more to the story than Jemat was saying - though, she admitted, for the moment she couldn't remember what it was.

"But if her body is compensating for the withdrawal of the medications, why is she unconscious?" Data fretted, gently stroking back the hair from the woman's forehead.

"Her blood pressure's precariously low," Beverly replied. "It looks like dehydration, low blood sugar..." She searched through the med kit for a moment, found a hypo that seemed to meet her needs, then pressed it to Andile's neck.

For a moment nothing happened, then a soft flutter of eye lids heralded the woman's slow return to consciousness.

Opening her brown eyes, she stared up - then smiled softly as her eyes met Data's. "Data," she said softly, contentedly, then closed her eyes again.

"Ginger," he answered, lifting her head to his lap.

"How are you feeling, Andile?" Beverly asked quietly.

It took a moment for the words to register – then the woman opened her eyes once more, looking toward Beverly – then realizing that she was being stared at by the group.

"Shit," she muttered. "What happened this time?"

Beverly smiled. "Don't worry about that for now, Commander. How do you feel?"

"Like crap," Andile admitted. "I've got a terrible headache."

"You're dehydrated," Beverly replied, then pressed, "what do you remember?"

The woman considered for a moment – then shook her head. "Shuttle practice... last one before we were going to..." Her voice trailed off – then she sat up abruptly, staring at Riker, recollection dawning with frightening speed. "The explosion... Commander Riker... my death prayer... Commander Riker!" she repeated, sitting up abruptly, a horrified expression washing over her face as the memory crystallized.

Beverly pressed her hand against the woman's shoulder, silently urging her back. "He's fine," she said. "We got him back in time."

Relieved, Andile started to relax, then looked at the faces around her once more, seeing in them relief – relief from a too-recent sorrow.

Sorrow at...?

Understanding dawned with terrifying swiftness; enraged, she pushed Beverly's hand away, jumping unsteadily to her feet and charging toward the Breen _outo_.

"You son of a bitch! You fucking son of a bitch! You piece of shit!" she seethed as she moved him, fists balled and at the ready. "How dare you..."

Before she could reach the Breen, however, Data grabbed her, pulling her away before she could strike the alien.

"We saved your life..." Jemat protested.

"Fuck that! Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You hurt my friends! You hurt them! By the gods..." she raged, straining against Data's arms, testing the limits of even his exceptional strength. "I'm going to kill you! I'm going to kill you all! I'm going to make your last days as horrible as the ones you gave my friends - and then I'm gods' damned well going to see you rot in whatever hells your people believe in!" she screamed.

"Ginger," Data said placatingly.

She squirmed around in his arms, trying to turn to see him, her face covered in rage... and tears.

"He hurt you!" she protested tearfully. "He hurt you. Don't you understand? He hurt you... hurt you all... I can't let them get away with that!"

"I understand. But... you are here, now," he said softly. "The pain... it is gone. He cannot hurt me, any of us, again - for I know you are alive." He reached for her face, drawing a finger along the length of her jaw, then caught her chin in his fingers, and drew her face to his.

Even from where he stood, Picard could see the tension in her body ease as he kissed her, could see the pain and rage fade away as she melted against the android as the kiss deepened.

He turned away, granting the two a moment of relative privacy, then faced Jemat as a team of Romulan guards entered the room.

Tiron barked an order, and the team rapidly surrounded the seven Breen, hurrying them from the room, into the corridor - and out of the sight of the others...

...but not from Picard's mind.

_Captain, our arrest and imprisonment will not bode well for the future of your peace treaty - or our own,_ Jemat began silently.

_I am aware of that, Jemat,_ Picard countered. _I am equally aware that there are seven of you - and only eight guards. Seven Breen against eight Romulan. Given your abilities, I'm sure you could 'convince' them to escort you to your shuttle, rather than the brig, and, indeed, to forget that you were ever here.

_But be aware that Data's memory of the events of these last days will remain intact; should we believe our memories or feeling shave been altered once more, I will not hesitate to let Garave know what you have done. I leave it to you, _outo_, to consider the consequences of that action,_ he added,

He could sense Jemat concentrating in worry. _I will... take that under consideration. And perhaps this would be a good time for us to part ways... for now.

_However, I believe that you and I shall encounter one another again, Captain. As such, perhaps it is right then that we continue this relationship on as honest a footing as we can. We will not attempt to adjust your memories in any further manner – and you may confirm this with Mr. Data's recollection of these events._

The Breen hesitated for a moment, then gave a last silent nod. _It is done, Captain,_ he said. _Our future with your worlds is safe - for now. What lays before us is now up to us all. But... Garave's future? What lies ahead for her? How will you protect her?_ he added, with a last, desperate thought.

_Her life is hers, Jemat,_ Picard insisted. _I'll give her the options... but what she chooses will be up to her._

Jemat managed a last silent nod of concession. _It is not as we would have wanted - but it is what we must accept.

_Then... farewell, Captain. For now,_ he added - then pulled his thoughts from the man's.

Picard sighed, simultaneously regretting that the Breen would be leaving the ship without being held accountable for what they had done to Dee - to them all - and yet knowing, for the good of all their people, for the future that lay before them as a united species, he could not permit himself the luxury of personal vengeance.

It was time to move on with their lives, he decided: with all our lives.

Including yours, he thought as he turned and watched the lovers embrace.

Especially yours.


	186. Chapter 186

**Chapter 186**

Oblivious to the crowd gathered around them, the two lovers continued their kiss – until Andile began to crumble against her lover.

"Dr. Crusher!" Data called out as he caught her.

Beverly was at the couple's side instantly, helping ease Andile to the ground – then looked back at Picard. "I really need to get her to Sickbay, Jean-Luc," she said urgently.

"Beverly..." he started cautiously.

"I'm okay, Doc," Andile argued, even as Data held her trembling body.

Beverly looked back at her patient. "You're not okay, Biji," she argued.

"No," Picard agreed quietly. "She's not okay; she's dead, Beverly," he reminded her. "As far as everyone on the Enterprise – and in Starfleet – is concerned, she is dead – and unless you want that to change, she can't go back."

She stared at him, stunned as the reality of the situation slowly sank in – then rose to her feet, taking Jean-Luc's arm and pulling him to one side as Data held Andile against him, one hand gently stroking her hair.

"Ginger," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, Fred..."

"Do not apologize," he replied. "You have done nothing wrong."

"I'm sorry you were hurt," she said.

"Hurting me was not your intention; you were trying to save the ship," he countered.

She bit her lip - then shook her head. "No."

He looked at her, perplexed.

"I was trying to save... you. Not the ship: you. I love _you_," she whispered.

"You did save me," he answered, "and the ship."

"And...?" she asked softly.

"And...?" he echoed, confused.

"The prayer. Did I finish the prayer?" she asked worriedly.

He nodded. "You did. Your last words were for me," Data informed her.

The engineer released an enormous sigh of relief. "Then I saved them all. By the gods," she whispered. "By all the gods. I saved them all. They all ascended," she added with a soft, almost hysterical laugh.

"They're all right," she insisted. "They all made it. You'll all make it," she added between laughs that were growing hoarse and ragged. "They all made it," she repeated, then fell silent, her lips pressed tightly together as the tears began to stream down her cheeks.

Data pulled her into his arms, rocking her as she cried.

A moment later, Deanna was at his side, her arms reaching to embrace the two.

Geordi looked at the three on the floor, uncertain of what to do, then looked at Worf and Will. "Uh..."

Zumell smiled at the three before calling to Tiron. "Ambassador, some refreshments, perhaps? Food? Beverages?"

"Baj," Tiron murmured, studying the robed figure in awe - then realized that Zumell had spoken to him. "Refreshments. Yes. Of course! Food! A celebratory feast - for my child has returned. Ch'Mon!" he barked to one of the remaining guards, then moved away calling out a string of orders as he went.

"Gentlemen," Zumell continued, "perhaps you can assist the Ambassador?"

Relieved by the suggestion, Geordi started to move away from the emotional scene playing out on the floor – then realizing Will had no idea what was happening, grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him along, Worf following the two.

"What happened?" the first officer said. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing much. Beej returned from the dead," Geordi said blithely. "Again.

Will fell silent for a long moment, then managed a nonchalant, "She's starting to make a habit of that."

"Indeed," Worf growled. "Sto-Vo-Kor must wait for her once again."

As the three men passed by, Beverly turned to look at the three on the floor, then turned back to Picard. "Jean-Luc, I can't just stand here and _not_ do anything; Andile needs medical care," she complained.

"But we can't take her back to the ship," he reminded her, "not without further endangering her life."

"I understand," she agreed. "Nonetheless, she needs her medications."

He gave her a puzzled look. "You said she had been without the drugs since the accident – that she was adapting to not having them."

"And in time, she probably – probably! – will be able to be weaned off of them. But not today! Not like this!" she protested.

"All right," Picard said. "What do we do?"

"_We_ don't do anything," she said quietly. "_I_ am going back to the ship," she said.

He looked at her quizzically.

Beverly smiled. "This was one thing we did take into consideration in our original plan: that Dee would need her medications – at least until Tiron could get her to Romulus and have them synthesized there. I made a kit for her with everything that she would need; I'm going to go get it and bring it back."

He started to protest – then stopped himself, knowing she was right.

"All right," he agreed, then added, "could you do something for me while you're there?"

She cocked her head, surprised, then nodded. "What do you need?"

He moved close to her, lowering his voice, murmuring his request.

She pulled back, staring at him – then nodded. "Of course," she agreed soberly – then met his eyes as the significance of his request sank in. "She's not going to be able to come back, is she?" she asked softly.

"No. Not in our lifetimes – but in Data's, yes. One day," he answered.

Forcing back the tears that threatened, Beverly nodded, then turned away, moving toward where Tiron was talking with a smaller Romulan.

Picard watched her for a moment, then moved to where Deanna, Data and Andile sat on the floor, the tiny woman still sobbing against her lover, her body shaking.

"What's wrong with her, Deanna?" he asked - but the empath could only shake her head.

"I've never been able to sense her empathically, Captain, except when she wants me to - and then only what she wants me to sense," Deanna reminded the man. "I don't know if she is hysterical, in pain, in shock..."

"She is... relieved," Data answered for his lover.

"Relieved?" Picard asked.

For a moment, Data did not respond, staring instead at Andile as she cried, then kissed her hand before answering.

"Yes: relieved. She is... was," he corrected, "andile. It was her role in life to assure that, at the time of her death, that every spirit, every soul that had been entrusted to her throughout her life was released, so that it could ascend to her people's version of heaven. When we made our plan to feign Ginger's death, there was a very real possibility that something could go wrong with the plan - and she might die. As andile, she could not allow that to happen without first assuring the ascendancy of those she had sworn to protect. The last night we were together, she began the death chant so that, should something go wrong, their eternal future would be assured. When death seemed inevitable, all she need do was complete the prayer - and they would ascend." He hesitated a moment, looked at his lover, then back at the physician. "I did not know she had added our names and the name of her daughter. She must have decided to do so after our separation that morning," he added.

"Making sure she reached your name must have meant that everyone was included," Deanna said understanding - then stared at Data. "You said 'was', Data. Then Biji doesn't consider herself andile anymore?" she said.

"Her life's work is over, Counselor; all of her people have ascended; no one is left for her to help ascend," he said simply. "There is no longer a need for andile. She is... free."

"And adrift," Deanna realized. "Everything she's clung to for all these years is suddenly gone. It may be a relief, Data, Captain - but it's a shock as well."

Picard nodded her understanding, turning his attention to Andile, only to feel a hand, gentle and soft on his shoulder. "Perhaps I may be of assistance, Captain," Zumell said softly.

He opened his mouth to protest, but Deanna silenced him with a smile. "Actually, Tar, you may be just what she needs right now," she said.

Zumell smiled, then patted Data's shoulder as she sank down beside him. "Youth and passion have their place, Mr. Data - but so do age and experience. Let me sit with her a while," she advised.

Glancing at Picard for approval, Data carefully loosened his grasp of his lover, then eased her into Zumell's arms.

Smiling, Zumell waived them away, then began patting Andile's back, murmuring soft sounds of consolation and comfort.

"Let's give them some time... alone," Deanna ordered the others.

The three rose, starting to move to where the others were gathered, but before they had gone more than a few steps, Data stopped Picard with a touch.

"Captain? A moment, please?" he asked.

"Of course, Data," he agreed, gesturing for Deanna to continue while they stayed back.

Despite the captain's acquiescence, Data hesitated for a moment, wondering if mentioning what he had heard would seem a violation of social protocol; he had learned, long ago, that his remarkable hearing acuity and eavesdropping were often considered to be the same thing by some.

Even so, he decided, even if the captain found his behavior inappropriate and if he had to suffer the man's chastisement for his actions, he needed to know the truth. "Sir," he said at last, "when you and Jemat were talking, he said, 'She is the salvation of our people'. He was referring to Ginger, was he not?"

Picard hesitated uncomfortably.

"Sir, this is important. I believe this may affect how she determines what path to take from this point forward."

Picard shook his head. "Data..." he began awkwardly, then stopped.

Data raised a brow. "You do know what he meant, do you not?"

The captain hesitated again - then nodded. "Yes, I know. But Dee does not. And she can't," he added quietly.

Data stared at the man, confused. "I do not understand, Captain."

Picard sighed, then lowered his voice. "It's a long story, Data," he began.

"It is Ginger's future we are discussing, sir; I think we must find the time," Data objected.

Picard managed one more sigh, then began to speak.

For a long time, he spoke to the android, expressions of pride - and the pain – crossing his face as he shared what he knew of the woman.

"Then..." Data said at long last, "nothing has changed. She cannot come back."

Picard nodded disappointedly. "The details have changed, but not the essence."

Data considered for a moment, then gave a nod. "I should tell her."

"I think she already knows," Picard replied. "I think she's always known."

"Then I will go be with her," the android said softly. "While I can."

"As you should be us, Captain," Tiron offered quietly, having joined the two more quietly than a being of his girth should have been able to do. "Dr. Crusher has been returned to your ship; she will be escorted here when she has completed her tasks there. In the meantime, food and beverage are being served," he said, gesturing at where, unbeknownst to the man as he had been lost in conversation with Data, several tables, laden with food had been arranged.

"It's quite a feast," Picard murmured.

"To celebrate the return of a lost child?" Tiron scoffed. "It is but a paltry offering for such a joyous occasion," he said, smiling for a moment - then sobering an instant later. "But this is not a joyous occasion, Captain, is it?" he added.

Picard shook his head - then gestured at Data. "Go ahead, Data," he said.

Data gave a single nod of his head, then turned to rejoin his lover who was slowly separating herself from the tender embrace of the Cardassian teacher, wiping at her tear-stained face, managing the occasional laugh at something the old woman said.

Picard watched as Data rejoined the two women, assisting them both in rising to their feet, then guiding toward the tables, then turned back to Tiron.

"No," he agreed, "this is not a joyous occasion. Nothing has changed; Dee may be alive - but she will not remain so if she returns to the Federation."

Tiron looked at Picard, worry in his eyes. "And having her return to my world with me may be more difficult than our original plan envisioned," he said quietly.

Picard nodded grimly. "I am aware of that, Senator," he agreed, a soft emphasis on his new title.

Tiron smiled. "I admire your perspicacity, Captain," he said, sighing. "Upon my return to Romulus, I must report immediately to the Emperor, and then begin what will be a lengthy and tumultuous campaign to get this treaty approved. Our previous plan – of my taking an extended leave necessary to move the baj off world – is not longer possible. But even if I could, from here forward, until I retire - or am retired," he added grimly, "all my actions will be scrutinized. To have it become known that I was sheltering an unregistered alien - and a human at that! - under my personal auspices would spell the death of the treaty - and possibly both our lives."

"I had thought as much," Picard muttered. "She can't stay within the Federation, the Cardassians are still too suspicious for Zumell to be able to move her through their systems, the Breen are stranded here for several weeks - and now she can't go with you."

Tiron shook his head. "No, Captain, you misunderstand: I will honor my offer to you and to her. She _can_ come with me - but not as we had planned. However, there is a danger – to me, to her... and to you. I am, of course, willing to risk it - but you both must know of that danger - and agree."

He fell silent, raising his hand to his chin, kneading the flesh as he thought - then suddenly looked at the captain. "Forgive me; I am being a poor host. Please; join the others, refresh yourself," he said gesturing at the tables once again. "I will join you shortly," he added.

He strode away, leaving the human to watch him.

"You really do that quite well, you know," Beverly said quietly.

Startled by her unexpectedly fast return to the meeting, he turned to face her. "Do what?"

"Cover your emotions," she replied.

"I beg your pardon?"

She smiled. "You know what I mean: You're a Starfleet captain, a man used to being in control of every situation, of making the final decision on very detail. You're not used to having to relinquish that control, that authority - and you don't give it up easily. And yet, to all outward appearances, you're ready to let Tiron go off and find a solution - and implement it - all by himself," she told him.

He raised a brow in question.

She smiled back. "No wonder you're so good at the negotiations table; so calm and cool, so nonchalant on the outside - but I know, deep inside, you've got a thousand ideas racing around, a hundred ideas on how to get Dee out of this mess - but just looking at you..." She studied his face, "you look as though you are more than content to dump this disaster in Tiron's lap and allow him to handle it all."

He gave an innocent half smile and a small shrug. "Beverly, this is his ship - and these are his worlds we're discussing. It's not as though I have the knowledge, experience or authority to execute some scheme to save Dee - at least not here, not now." He gave a derisive snort. "And I didn't do much of a job of it on my own ship," he added in a quiet, sour note.

"Oh, don't give me that," she chided him sharply. "You were one-upped by a saboteur," she reminded him, "one who has managed to outwit all of us, throughout this entire mission."

"I wasn't one-upped," he countered angrily, "I had discounted - indeed, forgotten! - him completely - and that failure almost cost Dee and Will their lives," he growled bitterly.

She nodded. "I know - just as I know it won't help to point out that none of us - you, me, Tiron, Dee, Will - even Data - took into account the presence of the saboteur on the ship. It was an oversight, one that could have been tragic - but it wasn't, Jean-Luc. Dee's alive, Will's going to be fine - though I can't say as much for me," she added.

"Beverly?" he said worriedly.

"Between the surgeries for Will, Dee's autopsy, the memorial services and trying to substantiate your idea about that Jemat did, I haven't eaten for three days. That growl you're hearing isn't the Romulan engines; it's my stomach," she advised him.

"Indeed," he replied. "And here I was, thinking it was mine."

"Let me go check Dee," she said, "then I'll join you. And," she added, handing him a small box, "this is yours, I believe."

He glanced down at the box she had handed him, then watched as she pulled away from him, moving quickly to Andile's side.

Retrieving a scanner from her jacket pocket, she passed it over the recumbent woman, then prepared a hypo and pressed it against the woman's next.

From Picard's point of view, nothing happened, but something must have, for, after a few minutes, Beverly reached under Andile's arm, and with Data's assistance, slowly helped the woman to her very unsteady feet.

"Now let's get you something to eat," he heard Beverly say as she began to guide Andile toward the table where the others were seated, Data supporting her on the other side, Zumell trailing closely behind the three.

A few minutes later, Zumell, Data and Andile were seated at the table, plates of food before the two women – though neither seemed interested in eating: as Zumell watched approvingly, Data and Andile contented themselves with simply looking at one another.

"Nice to see you haven't lost your appetite, Will," Beverly observed several minutes later as she and Jean-Luc found chairs near the others, noting the generous portions the man had taken.

"Don't blame me, Doctor," the new captain replied. "Deanna made this plate for me. But in any case, you had me on intravenous fluids for two days. I must have lost two kilos. This is the first real meal I've eaten in days."

"Far be it from me to point out that a little weight loss wouldn't hurt you," Beverly replied. "After all, you do have a wedding to attend on Betazed in six months - and you do want to look your best - for our sake if not yours," she added with a grin.

"Duly noted, Doctor," Will growled back, awkwardly trying to stab a forkful of food. "I'll start a diet regimen - tomorrow," he said, then turned to Deanna who was seated beside him. "Remind me to find a ship's physician for the Titan who isn't obsessed with my waistline," he told her.

"Of course, Will," she said sweetly.

Geordi laughed. "Uh-oh, Captain Riker; I think you're in trouble now. Deanna's going to find you a doc who's not only obsessed with your weight, but with your fitness as well. Let's hope the gym on the Titan is first class, 'cause I'll bet you'll be seeing a lot of it from here on out!"

"My wedding present to you will be a copy of my calisthenics program," Worf said dourly. "For two combatants, of course," he hurriedly added after looking at Deanna.

She smiled back. "How sweet, Worf. After all, nothing says 'love' like beating the hell out of your partner," she agreed.

Worf nodded his approval at the sentiment. "Jadzia and I found it most... stimulating," he said, his eyes lighting at the memory of the bouts - and of the woman.

Deanna studied the Klingon for a moment, then reached over, laying her hand on his arm. "That's the first time since she you came back to the ship that you've mentioned her, Worf, without feeling anger or grief," she said softly.

He looked back in surprise - then nodded. "Perhaps because I now know that I will see her again, in Sto-Vo-Kor," he said - then looked at Andile.

The focus of his attention turned to face him, managing a tired smile. "You realize, of course, Worf, that the death prayer only absolved you of sins up until that moment. From here on in, you're on your own," she cautioned him - then looked at the others as well. "You all are - so behave yourselves," she added.

Worf nodded solemnly. "We shall live honorably."

Andile raised her brows - then sighed. "Close enough," she decided, then turned as Zumell touched her hand.

"What is it, child?" she asked. "What troubles you?"

Andile shook her head. "I'm fine, Tar."

The teacher gave her a piercing look that refused to accept the denial.

Andile sighed. "It's just... I wish Jemat and the others hadn't left."

Picard raised a brow. "Commander, you were threatening to kill them. Tiron and I thought it expeditious to remove them from the ship as quickly as possible."

"I was upset," she countered, earning a quiet laugh from the others.

"That's an understatement," Geordi muttered. "For a minute there, I thought even Data wasn't going to be able to stop you from going after them!"

"For a moment, I thought I was not as well," Data agreed, earning a second laugh. He looked at his lover. "You possess remarkable strength," he said, "especially when your emotions are heightened."

"I guess that means it's a good thing that she picked you for a partner, Data," Will said. "She might kill somebody else," he added.

Zumell looked at Andile. "I do not understand," she said, confused.

"It's a reference to our sex life," the engineer replied. "Generally, such references are considered socially inappropriate, rude - even offensive," she added, "which is why we're hearing them from the mouth of Starfleet's newest starship captain. By the gods, it'll be a miracle if we're not at war within six months of him taking command," she muttered.

"Yes - but this is family," Will countered affably. "I'd never do say something like that on duty."

"Of course not," Beverly agreed. "But just in case, Starfleet's probably going to put you on a deep space mission for a year or two - just to make sure," she said with a smile, then turned back to Andile. "You said you wished Jemat and the others were here," she reminded the engineer.

Andile nodded. "Yes. I wanted to know... When they brought me aboard... was I alive? I mean... Did they have to resuscitate me, restart my heart?" she asked.

Beverly turned to Picard who shook his head. "Jemat said that they sedated you - but that was all," he said.

"Oh," Andile replied softly.

"Why did you want to know?" Deanna pressed.

"It's nothing, really," Andile replied. "It's just... When I recited the death prayer, I sincerely thought I was going to die - and that knowledge, that belief, was enough to ensure that you will all ascend when your time comes. And with that prayer, I am released from being andile. But... I didn't die - so my sins remain," she said softly. "And now there no more andile, so no one can absolve my sins - even when I do die," she added.

For a moment, an awkward silence filled the room, then Zumell moved her face close to Andile's ear.

"You are no sinner, child," Zumell assured her.

"Thank you, Tar," she replied, "but I am, and in more ways than you could imagine."

"I do not accept that," the teacher countered. "What you are is tired - and hungry. Eat," she encouraged.

Andile stared at the untouched food on her plate, then reluctantly lifted a forkful of the alien victuals to her mouth.

"What I don't understand," Geordi said, anxious to change the topic, "is why the Breen didn't tell us they had you. They let us believe you were dead, Beej! Didn't they have a clue what we were going through?" he asked angrily.

"They knew," Picard replied, "just as they knew we had a saboteur on board - and that our communications system was possibly - probably - compromised. There was no way to let us know, not without opening their hand to the saboteur - and to Czymszczak through him."

"And," Beverly added, "to be blunt, what they did was right."

"Beverly!" Deanna gasped. "How can you say that? Letting a thousand people suffer, thinking Dee was dead...?"

"We were going to do the same, Counselor," Picard reminded her. "The only difference is that we would been the culprits."

"Yes, but we could have helped them, counseled them..."

"As we did," he pointed out. "What the Breen did is no different from what we had planned - except that we were victims as much as the rest of the crew.

"However, as Beverly has pointed out, reprehensible as we may deem it now, Jemat may have done us a great favor - for our grief and pain has been as real, as unrehearsed, as genuine as that of everyone aboard the ship. When - and I can assure you it will happen - Admiral Czymszczak calls a board of inquiry into Dee's 'death', there will not be a crewman aboard who can testify that our pain, our suffering was any less than theirs; any idea he may have that this was a ruse, or that we were involved in her disappearance, will be forgotten in the light of their testimony.

"No, the Breen did us - all of us - a favor," he informed them all, then turned his attention back to his food, then others following his cue.

"My God," Beverly said under her voice, as small conversations began to break out among the officers, "not only can you remain straight-faced and cool when everything is in chaos, you can do a song and dance as well. The Breen weren't doing this to spare us being implicated; if they could have gotten Dee out of here, unnoticed, they would have been out of here days ago, leaving us to think she was dead and gone - and face Czymszczak on our own!"

"Yes - but no one - aside from you, me, and the Breen - need ever know that," he cautioned her. "The Breen are part of the future of the Federation, Beverly - and these are the people who are going to have to work with them. Starting off that relationship with suspicion and anger is not a good beginning."

"So you're going to lie to your own crew, your friends, your family?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"I see," she murmured. "Tell me, have you lied to us before?"

"Yes."

"Have you lied to me?" she pressed.

"Yes."

"When?"

He looked at her, his hazel eyes sinking into her sapphire ones. "That night on KesPrytt; the night I told you I was no longer infatuated with you; the night I told you I was no longer in love with you," he said softly.

Stunned, she fell silent for a moment - but before she could find her voice, the door to the room opened, and Tiron, followed by a Romulan carrying a padd, a roll of paper, and a small box, came in.

"Ambassador?" Picard said hopefully.

Tiron smiled back at the man. "Although this was not what we had planned, it is a viable option that should ensure the baj's safety."

A soft murmur of question answered the announcement - but Picard, rising to his feet, raised a hand to silence them. "Would you explain, Tiron?" he said, nodding at the others who looked at the Romulan in confusion.

"Our original plan, to move the baj - the lieutenant commander - onto a safe world by transporting her through the Empire and to a safe location is no longer feasible. My position as senator would place her at great risk - and, if her identity as a human, an unregistered alien, traveling in Romulan space under my auspices, were to become known, the passage of the treaty would be equally endangered.

"However, if she were to be registered as an alien, allied to Romulus, she would have the same level of safety as any other citizen," he pointed out.

"You are suggesting she defect?" Worf roared. "The commander would never..."

Tiron raised a hand to silence the Klingon's protestations. "No, Commander; that would not be possible. After all, Lt. Cmdr. Hahndeela cannot defect, because, according to your people, she is dead. However, there are other ways for a Federation citizen to become a citizen of the Empire," he said with a smile.

Outraged, Will rose to his feet. "Yes - and I know those ways! It's out of the question!" he snapped angrily. "I won't permit it!"

"Will!" Deanna exclaimed worriedly. "What is it? What are you talking about?"

"I know the other way a Federation citizen can become a Romulan," he growled furiously. "By marriage!

"Tiron intends to marry Biji!"


	187. Chapter 187

**Chapter 187**

Tiron stared at the man, clearly shocked - and a touch repulsed - by the accusation. "Uh... yes, an alien can be granted citizenship in the Empire as the result of marriage," he stammered, "though one I had not considered," he added, glancing at Andile with apologetic eyes. "I do not impugn your beauty or charm, my child..." he said, softly emphasizing the noun.

She smiled back. "I understand... Grandfather," she replied.

Tiron turned to the others. "But I have been married - and would not opt for that path again. And even if I were to do so, I would take a woman of my own age. Now, if I were fifty years younger..." he added with a smile.

There was a soft laugh as the tension in the group dissolved.

"I apologize, Senator," Will said. "I thought..."

"I know what you thought, Captain," Tiron interrupted, "and I am not certain if I should be flattered or offended by the implication. Know this, however," he added firmly, "I would never suggest impose myself upon the lieutenant commander without her previous knowledge and consent - nor would I diminish the depth of her relationship with Mr. Data by presuming she could transfer her affections to me - even for the sake of a sham marriage. Neither was my intention; indeed, I think my solution will harm neither - and preserve her safety until a time when they can be together," he added, smiling benevolently at the two.

"And that solution is..." Will coaxed.

"Adoption," Andile interjected softly.

"Adoption?" Will echoed, astounded.

"It is my right," Tiron quickly explained. "My children have died, as has my wife. Under Romulan law, those circumstances permit me the right to adopt children in order to continue my family line."

"But Dee's human," Beverly pointed out.

"The law does not stipulate that the child must be Romulan," Tiron pointed out.

"Yes, but what if the courts interpret the law differently?" Will protested.

The small Romulan beside Tiron spoke. "Legal precedent has been established regarding this issue," he said in a tinny voice, his words rushing out so rapidly that they were barely understandable. "On the eighth day of the month of Sovran in the ninth year of the protectorate of..."

"E'von?" Tiron interrupted.

"Senator?"

"You need not cite the occurrences; overall, how many cases have gone to the courts involving the adoption of an alien?"

"Three thousand, two hundred seventeen," the man replied.

"How many were human - or Federation citizens?" Picard asked.

"Six hundred twenty-one," the man answered.

"And how many cases were rejected?" Tiron pressed.

"None, sir. Once precedent is established, it is extremely rare for a subsequent case to be rejected, unless deceit or fraud are suspected. Alien adoption is not a common practice - but then, neither is it rare," he said.

Tiron smiled at the officers. "E'von is the lawyer for House Tiron," he explained. "He has protected my family and my estate for as long as I have governed it. He speaks the truth - even when it is painful. But this time - this time, it is joyous.

He held out his hand to Andile. "Child, we have discussed this before..."

"But never seriously," Andile reminded him. "It was just...a fantasy when I was ill, when I thought my life her was over."

Tiron faced her, his eyes dark and serious. "Child, my baj," he said softly, "your life here _is_ over. If you return with your ship, you – and these, your friends, your family – will be dead within the year. Admiral Czymszczak will not permit a threat to his career to remain unchallenged – or unremoved.

"I have made you this offer before – and I make it to you once again, my child: I, Tiron, offer you my house, my home, my family name," he said softly.

"Grandfather..." she began in soft protestation - then turned to Data, searching out his help, his advice.

"There is some logic to support this program, Ginger," the android informed her. "Even should Admiral Czymszczak ever suspect you were still alive, it is highly unlikely he would think to look for you within the Romulan Empire - and even if he should realize where you are, he would face great difficulty trying to place or maneuver his operatives within that sphere," he pointed out.

"Until the treaty is ratified," she countered.

"Even then," Tiron replied, "it will be a challenge. Treaties are paper, child; it will take more than mere words to bridge the gap between our peoples. It will take time - and the actions of our people will speak more effectively than words for quite some time. For your admiral to risk sending a covert operative to Romulus would threaten whatever gain we might make - and if he is the political creature we believe him to be, he will not risk his career - or his future - to try to remove a solitary Romulan citizen from the Empire."

"He might, however," Data pointed out, "attempt to assassinate her."

Andile turned to him, smiling caustically. "Aren't you just a ray of sunshine, dearest? That's just what I wanted to hear," she said drolly.

"I thought you would want to know the possibilities," Data countered, "although the chance of his being successful, given the alienation between our governments, is remote. I would place the odds at a successful attempt at nine hundred forty-two thousand, seven hundred forty two to one - against." He raised a hand to her face, caressing it worriedly, his eyes sinking into hers. "You would be safe with Senator Tiron," he told her softly. "I would like you to be safe, Ginger."

"Fred," she whispered, laying her hand over his, closing her eyes to better savor his nearness.

"You would answer to us should she come to harm, Senator," Worf interjected.

"I would answer to a far higher authority than you, Mr. Worf - for the obligations of a parent are not ones I take lightly or easily. But you may put your fears at ease, Commander," Tiron continued. "I am not a man of small means; I have my own estate and my own security forces - people who have been with me for generations, people loyal to me, to my family. There, she will be safe; I will see to that," he added with grim determination.

Worf considered for a moment, then gave a grudging nod of acceptance.

"And well," Tiron added, turning to Beverly. "I will secure the services of a physician knowledgeable in human physiology and health to watch over her."

Beverly bit her lip - then nodded her consent.

Tiron looked to Data, seeking his approval as well.

The android looked at the woman beside him, one hand stroking her hand - then nodded as well.

"Captain?" Tiron pressed.

"I have no doubts that you can grant her the safety she will not find in the Federation - but this is not my decision," he reminded the man.

He turned to Andile. "Dee?" he said. "Is this what you want?"

She leaned against her lover for a moment - then looked at Picard, a wordless plea in her eyes.

_What is it?_ he asked silently. _Dee, if this is something you don't want..._

_No,_ she answered instantly, then amended, _no, this isn't what I want. I want to stay here with Data, with you, with my friends, with my..._ She hesitated at the words that touched at the edge of her mind.

_Family?_ he concluded for her.

She forced a smile. _No. Not 'family'. I wish you were - but... I betrayed you all. I put your lives in danger when I came aboard the ship. I should never have done that, never left Utopia... You would have been safer,_ she reminded him.

_More likely we would be dead or prisoners of the Breen,_ he countered, _or worse. And Data..._ he added softly, his eyes moving to the android beside her.

She followed his look, then met his gaze again. _I've hurt him._

Picard nodded. _Yes, you have. But you've loved him as well - and he's a better, more complete person for your having come into his life. I think we all are._

She bit her lip, turning away for a moment as her emotions threatened to wash over her once again, then nodded. _I know I'm better for having met you all. But..._

_But what, Dee?_ Picard pressed.

_But all this started because I lied,_ she reminded him. _I kept the truth from you._

_Out of necessity,_ he replied.

_Yes... but necessity would dictate that I start this new life with Tiron with a lie as well,_ she said.

_Ah,_ he answered softly, understanding.

_He thinks I'm a child,_ she added. _He thinks there's a universe out there that I haven't seen, that waits to be explored - and that he can show me. He thinks there's so much he can offer me..._

_There is,_ he reminded her gently. _It's a big universe, Dee - and even you haven't seen it all._

_Yes, but..._

_But you don't want this relationship to begin with a lie,_ Picard repeated.

_No._

He considered for a moment. _Then tell him the truth,_ he said finally.

_What? Tell him that not only am I not a child - but that I'm older than he is - old enough to be his grandmother a thousand times over?_ she asked in protest.

_That,_ he agreed, _or make his reality your truth,_ he said.

She gave him a questioning look.

Picard smiled at her. _Make yourself the young woman he thinks he knows; give yourself the opportunity that your life never granted you - but that Tiron is offering now. You can't be young in age again - but you can be young in heart and spirit. Live the youth your people denied you, see the worlds he wants to show you, grant him the opportunity to bestow upon you those things he couldn't give his own grandchildren,_ he encouraged her.

_We were able to give you back a life that was almost lost,_ he said. _Now it's your chance to relive that life - but the way it should have been lived. Not in pain and misery and fear - but with a chance to see the glories the universe can offer._

Andile stared at the man for a long time - but her thoughts, he knew, were far away, lost in the possibilities that lay ahead of her - and in the opportunities she would never be able to take.

"Baj," Tiron said at long last, "I know that it must seem a forever to you, the years you must be apart from those you love," he said. "But I will make the time move quickly - and once the treaty is approved," he reminded her, "there will be opportunities for Starfleet to enter our space; you and Mr. Data..."

Andile stopped him with a shake of her head. "No. If I accept your offer, _Patchni_, then I would be a Romulan citizen - yes?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Then any fraternization I might have with Starfleet would cause you problems," she said. "No," she said firmly. "I won't do that to you. I've harmed others by my selfishness before; I'll not do it again. And... we can wait," she said turning to Data, extending her hand to him. "Can't we?" she asked him softly.

The android considered. "While the full duration of my power supply has not yet been determined, it has been estimated that I will remain operational for a minimum span of ten thousand years. And the captain's estimate of the duration of Admiral Czymszczak's career of fifty years is probably overly broad; political creatures such as the admiral tend toward an intense but brief duration. A period of twenty years before we can resume our relationship is far more likely."

"Twenty years," she repeated, biting at her lower lip. "It's still a hell of a long time, Fred."

"Yes - but it will leave us with approximately nine thousand, nine hundred and fifty years to enjoy together." He stared into her brown eyes for a moment.

"It is not eternity, Ginger, but it is all I can offer you."

Her brown eyes met his golden ones. "Oh, Fred," she whispered back.

"He can only offer it to you, baj, if you accept my offer. I can - and I will - keep you safe until then," Tiron reminded her.

Andile nodded - the looked at Picard. "And will you keep him safe for me?" she pleaded.

"If I can," he said.

She shook her head angrily. "No! Not good enough! Promise me - promise me you'll keep him safe!" she insisted.

"Ginger," Data interrupted, "he cannot make that promise," he reminded her. "A life in Starfleet is not a safe existence, and you cannot ask the captain to promise something he knows he cannot guarantee. And... I have taken an oath to Starfleet; honor and duty bind me."

"Fuck honor!" she snapped. "Fuck duty!"

He gave her an appraising look. "You do not mean that, Ginger."

"Yes I do - if it means stopping you from doing something stupid - if it means stopping you from not coming back to me!" she insisted.

"Then I will not do anything 'stupid'," he agreed. "And I will come back to you," he added softly.

She stared at him, lip trembling once again. "Promise?"

"I promise," he said softly - then moved close to her. "I will return to you, Ginger," he whispered. "I promise," he said, then pulled her to him, kissing her passionately.

She met the embrace with equal ardor, desperately needing his touch, his caress... his love.

But soon, all too soon, he pulled away, staring into her eyes once again. "But if I am to keep my promise, you must be there for me to return to," he reminded her. "Go with Tiron; he can keep you safe until then," he told her.

She stared into his eyes for a moment longer, then nodded, turned - and extended her hands to the Romulan.

"Thank you, Grandfather," she said softly. "I accept your generous offer. May I prove to be worthy of it."

Tiron beamed, taking the delicate hands in his massive ones. "You already are, child. You already are."

Turning, he called to the lawyer. "E'von! The papers!" he barked, then looked back at the woman beside him. "I do not meant to hurry what should be a joyous celebration, but the time before both our ships must depart grows short."

She looked back at him. "You mean it's time for me to say goodbye," she echoed softly.

He studied her, seeing the pain, the loneliness, the grief he had seen in his own children's eyes as they left their homes for the first time - and knew, even as he had known then, that there was nothing that would prevent that pain.

"Yes," he agreed. "It's time to let go. Go to them," he said softly, then released her hands and turned to face the onrushing lawyer.

For a moment, the engineer found herself alone, adrift in a sea of people, thoughts and emotions - and knew, once more she was not a part of the world around her.

Alone again, she thought, feeling the tears well up behind her eyes.

A hand was lain upon her arm. "No. Never again," Deanna said softly.

Andile opened her eyes to the Betazoid. "Pardon?"

"You're not alone, Dee - and you never will be again," she said.

Andile managed a weary laugh. "I thought you couldn't read my thoughts."

Deanna smiled back. "I don't need to be an empath to read your face," she replied, "or these," she added, gently touching away one of the tears that had slipped past the engineer's defenses.

"Deanna's right, Beej; you may be away from us - but you'll always be in our thoughts - and in our hearts," Will agreed, gently clapping an arm around the woman's shoulders.

"And twenty years?" Geordi scoffed. "Just think of the conversations we'll have then; my new engines, your new engines, everything you've cribbed from the Romulans..." he added teasingly.

"Stealing intellectual property from my people would be unethical - and criminal and dangerous," she informed the man.

He raised a brow. "And that's stopped you how many times in the past?" he teased - then reached forward and brought the woman to him, hugging her tightly. "The time'll fly, Beej - and we - all of us," he added with a nod toward Data, "will be there to see you then. I promise," he said, instantly serious.

"You would be well advised to use the intervening years to sharpen your weapons skills," Worf growled. "When we meet again, I will be prepared for the match you offered."

"When we meet again," she countered, "you'll be an old man."

"Do not allow that fact to temper your training," Worf advised.

"Temper it? Hell, I'll be working doubly hard just so I can take you down fast - and hard - and don't, for a moment, think I'll take it easy on you," she countered.

Worf stared at her - then allowed himself a fierce smile. "I am looking forward to it, Commander."

"Me, too, Worf," she said - then turned to Beverly. "And you, Doc? Any parting words?"

"Dee, you haven't listened to me once over the last year," the physician commented. "Why should I think you'd start listening now?"

Andile smiled at the doctor - but the smile was tinged with sadness. "Oh, Doc, I listened. You may not have thought so at the time - and I may not have done what you said - but I always listened, and I always heard what you said - and I thank you for it all."

Beverly felt her own tears beginning to build, but chased them back, stiffening slightly as she refused to let the welling emotions out. "Just... do what your doctors on Romulus say to do. I've downloaded a duplicate of your medical records for Tiron to give to them. And you take it easy. Let him take care of you for a while, until you are well. Really well," she insisted. "And don't forget to eat," she added.

Andile nodded solemnly - then glanced at Tiron, the massive man standing beside the lawyer at a small table, arguing some detail - and smiled. "Somehow, Doc, I don't think there's going to be a food shortage at the house of Tiron," she said with a laugh.

The others joined her for a moment - the she turned to face Picard, ready for their final words - only to find the man striding away to join Tiron and E'von at the other side of the room.

For a moment, hurt flooded over her - but then, she reminded herself, the man was not one to giving in to his feelings - and certainly not in front of others.

And we've probably said everything two people can say to one another, she added softly; there wasn't much left.

Still, she watched him for a moment, hoping he'd turn to make one last remark - but his thoughts and his mind were clearly focused on resolving whatever issue the two Romulans were discussing.

"Once a captain," she mused to herself, "always a captain," then turned to Data, her arms reaching out to embrace him for what little time they had left, and fell into a final conversation with the others.

"Trouble, Senator?" Picard asked as her reached the small gathering.

"Nothing that cannot be resolved," Tiron replied glibly - but the expression on the lawyer's face countered the senator's response.

"What is it?" he pressed.

"Law and tradition holds that a family member must agree to the adoption," E'von volunteered.

Picard shook his head. "Dee's family - what little she had - died years ago. She was orphaned when she was eight."

"As I have said," Tiron growled at the little man.

"I am not suggesting otherwise, Senator - but that fact does not obviate the necessity of getting consent," E'von protested.

Picard gave the two a puzzled look. "But surely adoptions have taken place on Romulus where a child has no surviving family members," he pointed out.

"Certainly," E'von protested primly. "All that is required is the consent of the court. The adoptee is presented, the child's history documented, and approval is granted."

"But," Picard murmured to himself, realizing the problem, "if Dee were to be presented, her history studied..."

"She would not be approved," Tiron agreed softly. "Federation officers have defected - but not to join the house of the Emperor's newest senator," he said. "They might grant her permission to stay on Romulus - but her existence would be tenuous at best. I would not be able to guarantee her safety," he added softly. "Her background would be public knowledge... and there would be those who would readily sell their knowledge of her whereabouts to your people."

"You mean Czymszczak," Picard said.

Tiron nodded. "It would only be a matter of time before he sent his people after her - or after you, to lure her into an open space. No, Captain, this adoption must take place here, on this ship - and now. Once that is done, I can arrange to ensure that a judge who desires my favor will give the formal approval needed - then secret the papers away from prying eyes. The knowledge of who she is, what she has done will never be known. She will be free to begin her life again," he said quietly.

Picard considered for a moment, then nodded once. "Then I'll give the consent," he said.

Tiron gaped at the man. "You?"

Picard nodded again. "In Starfleet, a captain is responsible for the actions of those who serve beneath him; though it might be a bit of a reach, it could be argued that I stand _in loco parentis_ for every member of my crew," he said.

The two Romulans stared at him, lost.

"In the place of a parent," the human clarified.

E'von considered for a long moment. "Then you consider her your child?" he asked.

Picard hesitated again - then looked at the gathering of people on the far side of the room. "They are my family," he said softly - then turned back to the lawyer. "Yes. She is a member of my family - and I give consent for this adoption."

"Captain!" Beverly gasped.

Startled, not having heard the woman approach, Picard turned to face the horror-struck physician.

"Beverly?"

"You can't do that, Jean-Luc! You cannot give consent to Dee's adoption!" she railed.

"It might not fall within the letter of Federation law, Doctor, but..."

"I'm not arguing law, Jean-Luc - I'm arguing survival!"

"Survival? Beverly," he protested, "if we can't make this adoption happen here and now, Dee isn't going to survive. Tiron won't be able to adopt her once they get back to Romulus."

Beverly gaped at the two for a moment, then shook her head. "That's as may be - but the fact is that Starfleet records show that Dee died two days ago. If you go on record as giving consent today, it's proof that you knew she was alive - and that you aided and abetted in the escape of a suspected treasoner! Jean-Luc, sign that and you're putting your career - possibly your whole future - at risk!"

He looked back at her, the concern in her eyes unmistakable - and smiled. "Friendship takes risks - or it's not friendship," he replied. "What would you have me do - abandon her?"

She looked at the man, offended and insulted. "Of course not. But I won't let you risk your career either." She turned to Tiron. "Can you alter the date of the adoption?"

"I would have no hesitation in signing such a document - but E'von could not attest to it."

"It would be a violation of my oath," he said.

Tiron smiled. "And a lawyer who would betray his oath would as likely betray his patron. No, this must be done within the letter and spirit of the law."

"Fine," Beverly snapped back. "Then I'll give the consent."

"That's out of the question, Doctor!" Picard snapped.

"Why? The worst they can do is throw me out of Starfleet, Jean-Luc," she protested. "I'll still be a doctor."

"They can hold you up on charges of treason," he reminded her.

"Which would serve no political gain for Czymszczak; indeed, it might make me into a martyr - which is the last thing he'd want. But you?" she asked.

"Czymszczak would revel in catching you out in something like this - and I have no doubts that he would prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law if he felt like it. Your career would be over; you might even end up in a penal colony, Jean-Luc," she said.

"That won't happen," he promised her.

"You're damned right it won't happen, because I'm the one who will be signing those papers."

"Beverly," he said softly, "this is my responsibility. She is my crewperson - and my friend."

"And you are my captain - and my friend. I can't let you risk yourself."

"It's not a risk," he countered.

"You say that as if you were certain," she protested.

"He is," Tiron interjected. "Remember, Doctor, that the baj's life will be at as great as risk as Captain Picard's. You can rest assured that I will guard these documents as carefully as I will guard her life. You captain - and my baj - will remain safe. But..." he continued with a smile, "there is one way in which we might further protect them both."

Beverly raised a worried brow in curiosity.

"The woman who died was Lt. Cmdr. Hahndeela - yes?"

The physician nodded.

"Then the child I adopt should perhaps bear another name - that would not be violation of the law, would it?" he said, turning to E'von.

"Not if the name were one by which she was commonly known," the lawyer agreed.

"Then the possibilities are almost limitless," Beverly murmured under her breath. "She's had more names than I've had dresses. Not Biji," she announced a little more loudly. "What about the name the Breen used? Garave?"

Picard shook his head. "That was a child's name - and that child died long ago. Not Dee," he added quietly; that was his name for her - and to his surprise, he found he did not want to share that part of her with anyone else, let alone the universe at large.

The two considered for a moment - then Picard looked at Tiron. "Senator? Is there a word in the Romulan language for 'beloved'?" he asked.

Tiron nodded. "Komianda," he said softly.

Picard smiled. "Komianda," he repeated, then looked to Tiron and Beverly. "The name Hahndeela was from Parahsian root word for 'beloved'; I don't think it too much of a reach to simply translate that name to Romulan." He glanced at the lawyer for affirmation of the idea.

The little man nodded. "The translation of a name from one dialect to another is a common one, and does not require legal sanction or approval. I see no difference here." He turned to the small table, then added the name to the paper.

"Komianda, Tironbyaj," he said softly. "Beloved granddaughter of the house of Tiron."

"A lovely name, Senator," Beverly whispered.

"As befits my grandchild," he agreed proudly.

"Then let us make it official," Picard said.

Moving to the table, he took the antique stylus from E'von, then affixed his name where the lawyer pointed, then set the pen down.

And watched in horror as, a moment later, Beverly took it up again, and added her signature to the page as well.

"Beverly!" he snapped angrily. "That was a very foolish thing to do!"

"I agree - but you wouldn't listen to me," she replied. "At least now we both know we'll have someone to talk to at the penal colony."

He glared at her, enraged - then choked back his fury. There would be time to argue this out - later.

When they were back on the ship - and when Dee was on her way to her future.

A future without them, he reminded himself, turning back to where his friends - his family - still stood in quiet conversation.

A future that had to start shortly.

"You should be going, Senator," he said to the Romulan.

Tiron nodded. "Delaying this does not make it easier on any of us," he said, then broke away, moving quickly to Andile's side.

"It is done my child," he said quietly, taking her hands in his, raising them to his lips for a ceremonial kiss. "You are now my granddaughter - and I will do all I can to protect you, to honor you, to cherish as the child of my house."

"Thank you, Patchni," she said softly, bowing her head back over his hands in the traditional reply - then turned to look at the others. "It's time," she said.

"We will escort them to the transporter room, child. You can say your farewells there," he informed her.

She nodded to him - then drew away, falling back into Data's embrace one last time as the Romulan guided them to the door and through the long procession of corridors and lifts.

The group moved in eerie silence, joy and sorrowing fighting for a place in their hearts.

Deanna looked up at her lover, her fiancé, tears smarting in her eyes - then felt his arm wrap around her, holding her close.

_They'll have a future,_ he reminded her wordlessly. _Not now - maybe not for a long time - but then, they have a thousand lifetimes ahead of them. As Data said, it is not eternity..._

_... but it is all I have._

_I can't even give you that much,_ he replied. _But I will give you every moment of every day of the rest of my life._

_Imzadi,_ she whispered back.

_Imzadi._

They reached the transporter room all too quickly - and all too soon, Tar Zumell moved toward the platform - but not before stopping before Andile.

"Thank you, my child," she started softly.

"No, Tar; I thank you - for your kindness and wisdom. You helped soften a heart harden by fear and pain," Andile countered.

"Time would have eased your pain, even if I was not there," Zumell answered. "But you have been given a gift of time and opportunity, my dear; the doors that were once closed to you have opened again - as have a thousand more. Use this time to find what your heart desires - what your heart requires - and when you do, you will never know pain or fear again," she said - then leaned forward, kissed the woman on the cheek, and turned toward the platform - only to stop once more.

"My apologies, Trion - but I forgot this. Captain Riker, Commander Troi," she said, looking to the lovers, "I thank you for your invitation to you wedding - but we both know my government will not grant consent for me to attend. Therefore, I thought this wedding present would be most appropriate," she said, retrieving from the folds of her robe a small roll of paper, and ornate seal holding it shut. "I had intended to give it to your captain after today's ceremonies, as it did not seem appropriate on a day of such sorrow. But for a day of such joy?" She smiled at the two. "A long life, my dears - and a joyous one. To us all," she added, then nodded to the transporter chief.

She faded away in the shimmer of the transporter effect, leaving the platform empty once again.

"Well?" Geordi asked as soon as the Cardassian disappeared form view. "What does the scroll say?"

"A ceremonial blessing of some sort, no doubt," Worf offered.

Will fumbled with the seal for a moment, then broke it, unrolled the paper - and caught the small data chip that fell out as he did so.

"Probably the official form of whatever the scroll is," he said, pocketing the chip - then shook his head. "But what it is, I don't know. My Cardassian's rustier than I thought. 'Be it known that... of... the...' Damn! My eyes aren't up to reading yet," he swore. "Beej! You can read this, can't you?" he said, thrusting the document at her.

Taking the proffered document, Andile poured over it - then shook her head. "It's a strange present. It seems to be a general amnesty for all non-Cardassian prisoners and suspected criminals being held by the Cardassians..."

She stopped as a deep gasp came from the depths of Will's throat.

"Tom," he managed as his face paled - then he looked at Deanna. "It's Tom," he repeated.

"Oh, my God," Deanna replied, pressing her hands against her mouth - then turned to her lover, her arms wrapping around him in support and strength. "Tom's coming home," she said softly. "Tom's coming home."

Seemingly startled by the unexpected reaction, Andile turned to Data. "I don't understand," she whispered. "It's just a token goodwill gesture on the part of the Cardassians - to show their faith in the upcoming talks. And who the hell is 'Tom'?"

"Tom is Thomas Riker," he explained, "Captain Riker's brother - of a sort - who has been held a prisoner at a Cardassian labor camp for many years. Tar Zumell's gift to Captain Riker is his brother's freedom. You will excuse me for a moment? I must congratulate the captain on his brother's release," Data said.

"Of course," Andile said, releasing the man's arm, stepping back slightly, allowing the others to celebrate this moment of their shared life as the family they were.

She stopped as she felt the mass of the man come up behind her.

"Nicely done," Picard said softly, his eyes locked on the celebration playing out before the two.

"Whatever do you mean, Captain?" she replied innocently, never looking up, watching the others as intently as Picard.

"Planting the idea of the amnesty in Zumell's mind," he answered.

She finally looked up, her face covered with feigned astonishment. "Surely you're not accusing me of such an unethical thing - interfering with the mind of a negotiator from a foreign government? Me? Never. And I didn't even know that Captain Riker had an identical brother being held in a labor camp," she added.

Picard smiled. "Indeed? Then how did you know they were identical?" he asked, then moved past her to congratulate Will as well.

There they were, she thought as she watched the seven standing together; friends, co-workers, crewmates - family.

And, for a time - a very short time - almost my family as well.

Almost.

But her family - her new family - waited for her along a different path, she reminded herself. Turning she looked up to the hulking Romulan.

"It's time for them to go, Grandfather," she said softly.

He nodded. "Would you like a final time alone with Mr. Data before they leave?" he asked her softly.

Andile stared at the android for a moment, her heart aching to grasp even the smallest fragment of time she could have with him - but every moment together would make the parting that much harder, she told herself.

Still, for a moment, the temptation nearly overwhelmed her - then reason - reason and the knowledge that she might not be able to resist her need to stay with him, with them all - flooded over her. "No, Patchni. We've said all we can say - for now. Everything else can wait until we're together again."

Tiron lay his hand on her shoulder. "I am sorry your young life must be marred with such pain, my child - and if I could prevent it, I would."

Andile smiled up at him. "I know, Grandfather - and I thank you. But I'll survive. We both will."

He bent over her, placing a fatherly kiss on the top of her head - then stepped away, moving toward the Enterprise's crew.

"My friends," he called to them, "I hate to bear such tidings, but the time has come for us to depart. My Emperor awaits - as does your Federation - and our work - for peace for us all - awaits us both. Let it not wait too long," he added solemnly.

He gestured for the seven to make their way onto the platform - but both Picard and Data stepped back, the Starfleet captain moving to stand before Andile one last time.

"I thought you were going to leave without saying goodbye," she told Picard as he stood in front of her.

He tapped the side of his head knowingly. "I've seen inside your mind, Dee - and you inside mine. I don't know that we truly can say 'good-bye', Dee; I don't know that we'll ever truly be apart."

"No," she agreed softly, "but the distance will lessen that contact, you know. The further apart we are, the harder it will be to sense one another. In time," she added with a forced laugh, "in time, you'll probably even forget I was ever here."

He raised a brow, as if imagining that fateful day. "Indeed," he murmured.

"As I'll forget you," she added softly.

"Indeed," he replied, sobering, his voice growing as soft as hers.

For a moment, she looked down - then raised her eyes to his once more. "I... I won't see you again, will I?" she asked.

He thought for a moment, hope fighting certainty - then shook his head. "No. Twenty years may be a moment to you and Data - but it's a long time for me. I expect I'll be retired by then - and traveling the stars will have lost its allure."

"The stars will never lose their allure for you, Jean-Luc," she replied. "But I understand," she added. "I'll miss you."

"As I will miss you," he replied, then placed the small box that Beverly had given him in her hands.

"Something by which to remember me," he said softly.

She looked at the box, then smiled. "My flute."

"I'll expect you to practice regularly," he said.

But all solos," she countered. "No more duets."

He shook his head slowly. "No – at least, not with me." He freed one hand from the box, then took her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed a gentle kiss on it. "Au revoir, my friend," he said softly.

"Friend," she agreed, then suddenly tightening her grip slightly around his fingers, she pulled him toward her. "Protect him," she whispered hoarsely. "Promise me you'll protect him!"

"Dee..." he tried.

"Promise! Please!" she begged. "I've been alone all my life - and I thought that was all there could be. But you... you've shown me what it is to care for people, to let myself love someone... to have to give it all up again... I can do that," she insisted, "I can give this all up - but only if I know he'll be there when it's over. Take care of him for me - please!" she cried forlornly.

Picard hesitated - then nodded. "I will," he said. "I promise."

With a rush of relief, she clutched his hand tightly - then released it - and released the man as well.

He stepped back, moving onto the platform even as Data took his place before the engineer.

"Ginger..."

"Fred..."

The two stared at one another for a long time, then Andile broke the strained silence. "Kiss me, Fred. Kiss me so that I'll remember it for twenty years - then go. No words, no promises - just kiss me and go. I can bear that, dearest."

He studied her a moment longer - then pulled her into his arms, lifting her face to his, their lips pressing together this one last time, their anger, their rage at the forced separation manifesting itself in the intensity of their passion - then fading as the sweetness and the depth of their love overcame the anger.

He pulled back, then leaned close once more, delicately kissing her once, twice, thrice, then brushed lips across hers as he whispered, "I love you."

Her hand reached for his face, caressing it once again, savoring the touch, the sensation one last time, then pulled him close, pressing her lips to his, then whispered back "I love you, Data."

Placing his hand over hers, he pulled it to his lips, pressing a kiss into her palm, feeling her tremble and sigh at the touch, watching as she closed her eyes at the loving touch.

She shivered as he touched his lips to hers once again - then, her eyes still closed, felt him move away.

She stood there, unwilling to open her eyes, unwilling to watch her world be taken away from her once again, listening as she heard him step onto the platform, listening as the soft dissonance of the transporter filled the room.

Then silence filled the room once more, and opened her eyes - and found the platform empty.

She stared at it for a long time - then turned to face Tiron.

"I'm ready, Grandfather. Let's go... home."


	188. Chapter 188

**Chapter 188**

We should be happy, Will told himself as the seven rematerialized on the transporter platform on the Enterprise: Biji's alive, healthy, safe; she's got a home to go to and a lifetime she can enjoy stretching out ahead of her - and the knowledge that one day she and Data will be together again; we should be happy - and yet a quiet sobriety filled the room.

We should be happy - but the truth was that while Beej had been spared death, she was gone from their lives, and, Data aside, the odds were that they would never see their crewmate - their friend - again.

The truth was... we lost.

We lost and Czymszczak won - and Biji is lost to us forever.

A strange sadness welled up in him - in them all, he realized, feeling Deanna's hand wrap around his.

G'sef, the Ballorian transporter chief, must have felt the loss as well; quickly completing the transporter sequence, he stepped out from behind the transporter console, moved to the dais, then made a low bow before the gathering.

"My condolences, Captain," he said, straightening.

"Thank you, Chief," Picard replied, taking a moment as he stepped from the platform to remind himself that as far as his crew were concerned, Andile was dead - and their pain was as fresh and raw as his own had been a few hours before.

"The lieutenant's loss is one that will be deeply felt," G'Sef continued.

"By us all," Picard said in heart-felt agreement. "By us all."

"My condolences to you as well, Commander," G'Sef added, turning to Data.

"Thank you," Data managed.

"After our return to Earth, sir," G'Sef continued, "I will be returning to Balloria on leave. I invite you to join my people in performance of the rite of _sechmal_ - to honor her memory," he said quietly.

"Thank you, Chief," Data replied. "But upon return to Earth, and with the departures of Captain Riker, Commander Troi and Doctor Crusher for their new assignments, my duties as the new first officer of the Enterprise will not permit me to take leave."

G'Sef gave another bow. "I understand," he replied, bowing once again - but before he could retake his place behind the console, Picard turned to him.

"Chief?" he said. "May we have a moment - alone?" he asked.

G'Sef raised a brow in surprise - then nodded.

Picard watched as the Ballorian left the room, then looked at the others.

"G'Sef raises an excellent point. Our return to Earth is going to mark a turning point in all our lives. What we've come to know - and expect - over the last fifteen years, is changing. We are all soon to be going in new - and sometimes different," he added, looking at Beverly, "directions. Before it does, however, while we are still together, I would like to take the opportunity to celebrate what has been - as well as what is to come."

He hesitated a moment. "Would you all please join me, in my quarters, at nineteen hundred hours this evening?"

Will raised a brow, then glanced at Deanna. _First he joins the poker game, now he's inviting us to his quarters_, he said wordlessly. _What's next? Openly fraternizing with the crew in Ten Forward?_

Despite the solemnity of the moment, Deanna managed a smile. _He said we're all going in new directions_, she pointed out. _That's true for him as well as for us, Imzadi_.

Speaking aloud, she added, "We'd be honored, sir. Nineteen hundred hours."

A soft murmur of agreement from the others followed a moment later; satisfied - perhaps even a little triumphant - Picard allowed himself a small smile.

"And now," he said, "duty calls."

Picard stared around his quarters, studying the arrangement of furniture, the display of glasses, the newly opened wine bottles - and frowned. Unused to having more than a single guest in his quarters at a time, he wondered if there was anything more he should have done, silently wishing Beverly could have broken free from her duties a few minutes early to assist him - then shook off the discomfiture.

Relying on others was not his style - and whatever errors or omissions he might have made in preparing for the attendance of his friends in his quarters this evening, he was prepared to accept the consequences - and learn from them.

Which meant, he realized with a smile, that I have intentions of doing this again.

Perhaps not with these people, he added with a touch of sadness, but with those who would make up his crew in the months and years to come.

It wouldn't be the same, of course - but then, when was it ever?

Robert, Jack, Walker, Vash, Tasha, Worf, Anij... Dee... the people in his life, in his career, came and went - but they were always in his heart, his soul; they were as much a part of him as his own mind - and to go on as he had, refusing to admit how they touched him, how they affected his life - was as foolish as denying his own thoughts.

Which didn't mean, he hastily added, that he was about to openly admit his fondness for those closest to him; captainly dispassion was still critical to how he viewed himself as a Starfleet officer - but there would be times, he thought, and places where discretion could permit those feelings to display themselves.

In moderation, of course, he hurried to add - then allowed himself a laugh at his own uncertainty.

"One step at a time," he murmured. "One step at a time."

Still, he couldn't help but feel a degree of anxiety as he reviewed the room once again, hoping simultaneously that his guests would either back out of the invitation or arrive quickly, before the uncertainty tried his nerves further.

Thus it was that when the annuciator announced the arrival of the first of those guests, Picard felt a new wash of tension roll over him. Hastening to the door, he touched the control to open the door - and was greeted by an equally uncertain expression on Will's face.

"Captain," Will said.

"Captain," Picard replied - then allowed himself a smile as he ushered the man into the room. "You know, Will, I was beginning to think I was never going to get a chance to say that," he admitted. "You took your damned sweet time about accepting the center chair. For a while there, I was beginning to doubt my judgment in taking you on; for a time, I thought maybe the man I had found to be my first officer was going to settle for being nothing more."

"Actually," Riker teased, "I was just waiting for them to offer me the Enterprise."

"In that case, you've got a bit of a wait ahead of you. It's going to be some time before I voluntarily leave that seat," Picard answered caustically.

"Yes, sir - and when I realized that, I took the next best offer that came along," he replied lightly - then found himself growing serious. "I have to admit, though, that a deep space mission isn't quite the same thing as being on the flagship of the Federation."

"No," Picard agreed, "but I can tell you from my own experience that being out of the limelight, away from the oversight of Starfleet Command is often the best thing for a new captain; it will give you the time and the liberty to develop your own sense of leadership and command. I truly love this ship, Will - but it's not the Stargazer, and there are times I would give anything to be her master once again."

Will smiled, the teasing glint back in his eyes once more. "I'm sure they could pull one of the old Constellation class ships out of mothballs for you, sir, if you asked."

Picard raised his brows in mock consideration of the idea. "With Adm. Czymszczak at the forefront, ready to encourage me on my way - and out of his," he agreed.

"It might make it easier for him, sir - but I suspect he's going to get where he's going regardless of who or what is standing before him," Will sighed. "If anyone tries to stop him, he'll either knock them out of the way - or mow them down beneath him. Either way, he's going to make it to Vice Admiral - and he's not going to care who gets hurt along the way."

"If only Vice Admiral was his goal, Will," Picard answered warily. "I suspect his aim, however, is far higher - the Council or even the Presidency itself. And, unfortunately, what we've done here - creating this treaty, forging a tentative alliance between the Federation, the Romulans and the Cardassians - even our working with the Breen - has only strengthened his position."

"Yes, sir," Will sighed. "But..."

Picard gave a wan smile and nodded. "But could we have worked for anything less?" he said, echoing the man's sentiments. "No. No matter what Czymszczak's personal goals, we are Starfleet officers - and our duty is, and must always be, toward the greater good of the Federation as a whole."

"Even when we lose our friends in the fulfillment of that duty," Will replied.

Picard studied the man for a moment - then nodded again. "Even when we lose our friends."

They both looked down for a moment - then met eyes again. "Can I get you a drink, Will?" he asked.

Riker smiled, then proffered a very dusty - and already opened - green bottle. "Actually, this one's on me, sir," he said, then amended, "or rather, it's on Biji."

Curiosity piqued, Picard took the unlabeled bottle, then affixed Riker with a quizzical gaze.

"Something Biji brought with her when she first came aboard," he said.

Surprised, Picard pulled the cork out, tentatively sniffed the contents - then smiled, surprised - and pleased. "Lagavulin," he said - then clarified, "Single malt whiskey. The distillery dates on Earth from the early nineteenth century, if I remember correctly - but this," he gave the bottle another sniff, "is Isoran, I believe. Considered the finest of the offworld distilleries, I believe - one of the finest anywhere." He gave a finally sniff to the bottle - then smiled at Will. "I'll give her this; she knew her whiskeys," he said - then gestured with the bottle. "May I?"

"It's yours, sir; I thought..." He hesitated for a moment. "I thought it might serve as a reminder of the better times we had with her," he said quietly.

"Indeed," Picard agreed softly.

Retrieving two glasses, he poured a small measure of the peaty, amber liquid into each, then, handing one to Will, took one for himself and raised the glass.

"To better times," Picard said.

"May she find them," Riker agreed.

Solemnly, they moved the glasses to their lips, Picard closing his eyes as the heady scent of peat fires rose to his eyes, stinging them, then tasted the golden liquor.

You always surprised me, Dee, he told her silently, although he knew she was already too far away to hear him. Surprised me - and impressed me - and I'm sorry I never told you that.

I'll not make that mistake again, he added, taking a sip of the whiskey - then opened his eyes to face Will again, and gestured him to one of the chairs.

Taking the one opposite the man, he set the bottle on the table between them, then settled in, asking, "Deanna's not joining us?"

Will gave a bit of an exasperated sigh. "She sent me on ahead. She's getting dressed - still. Or doing her hair. Or putting on makeup - or some such nonsense," he said with obvious annoyance.

Picard grinned. "You'd better get used to it, Will. I may not be an expert on marriage, but I've known enough married couples to know that it's not going to change once you get married - and you'd better not think it's going to."

"I don't want it to," Will admitted. "It's frustrating as all hell - but I wouldn't change her for the world."

"As long as she feels the same way about you, I think you'll both be happy for a very long time," Picard replied.

"Thank you, Captain," Will replied.

"It's Jean-Luc, Will," Picard replied.

Stunned, Will looked at the man, completely taken aback by the familiarity - then nodded. "Jean-Luc," he murmured, then gave a short laugh. "After fifteen years, that's going to take some getting used to," he admitted.

"I'm sure you'll manage," Picard countered. "What about the others?"

"Geordi was trying to play catch-up down in Engineering - but he said he'd be along shortly. Your suggestion of sending a half dozen of his top assistants off to spend the next six months helping repair the Breen ship may have been an inspired idea, sir - but it's going to play havoc with the crew rotations."

Picard nodded. "Geordi will manage - and it will give him a chance to take a look at some of the other up-and-coming engineers in his department. Data's right, Will; there are changes - big changes - awaiting us when we reach Earth. I'd like us to be ready for them when they arrive.

"And," he added sagaciously, "it gives Starfleet a reason and an excuse to meet with Jemat and his people once again. I suspect that in the middle of the negotiations with the Romulans and the Cardassians, our relationship with the Breen might fall by the wayside - and that's not something I want to see happen," he admitted.

"Not to mention that it also gives us a chance to get to learn a little more about the Breen and their engineering in the process," Will concurred.

"That, too," Picard agreed - then realized Will's glass, and his own - were empty. "Another?" he said, proffering the bottle.

Will looked at the glass, and wrinkled his nose. "No - thank you. To be honest, sir, it's not my drink."

"It _is_ an acquired taste," Picard conceded.

"So Biji told me," Will replied.

And, in any case, Picard conceded to himself, one probably not best suited to precede the wine he planned to serve shortly, he added reluctantly.

Reaching for the cork, he eased it back into the bottle, then held it out to his former first officer.

But, to his surprise, Will shook his head. "As I said, sir, it's not my drink - and I think Biji would have wanted you to have it. Something to remember her by," he added.

"As though we could forget her," Picard replied, looking at the bottle - then back at his friend. "Thank you, Will," he said, then rose from the chair, taking the bottle with him, then placing it in the controlled environment cabinet that usually housed the few treasured bottles of his family's wine that accompanied him on his mission - bottles that now stood, opened and breathing, on the dining room table.

He was about to resume his place across from Will when the door chimed again. Opening it, he found himself confronting Geordi, Worf, and Deanna.

"Welcome Counselor, Mr. Worf, Geordi, " he said formally, then, seeing their hesitancy at being invited into his private space, added, "Please, come in," and gestured them into the room.

"Thank you, Captain," Worf growled, moving into the quarters - only to stop just inside the doorway, his eyes rapidly scanning the space.

Picard understood the Klingon's reticence, knowing his unusual behavior must have been triggering alarms in the security officer - and appreciating the difficulty the man was facing in not acting on those concerns.

"Nice quarters," Worf finally growled, realizing that he was becoming the center of attention, adding a hasty, "sir."

"Thank you, Worf," Picard said, then turned to Geordi. "You're making the necessary adjustments in Engineering?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," the engineer conceded, "though losing my top people _and_ Biji in the course of a week has been difficult - to put it mildly." He gave a slight grimace. "I suppose I've gotten a bit complacent; having Beej around made my work easier."

"But she wasn't going to be around much longer, Geordi," Deanna offered. "She had accepted the position of second officer - which meant she would be taking an active role in command, not in Engineering."

"I don't know about that, Counselor," he countered. "Data spent a lot of time in Engineering during his tenure as second officer. I guess I assumed Beej would as well."

"And I assumed she'd be spending her time on the bridge," Will offered as he moved to join them. "You have to admit, Geordi, diplomacy was not her forté - and I was none too sure about her navigation," he added with a smile. "She had a lot of work to do if she was going to end up as a first officer."

The engineer managed a laugh. "Oh, she would have made it; whether we would have survived the journey is a different story!"

For a moment, an awkward silence filled the room - but before Geordi could offer an apology or retraction, Worf let out a low growl of approval. "Great rewards require great risk, Commander," he advised. "And great risk requires great bravery."

"Then Beej would have been among the best," Will agreed soberly, then added, "and one of the most interesting officers ever to hold the position." He smiled to himself, then turned to Picard. "Do you know what she would say when she wanted to implement an order?" he asked the man.

"Engage?" Picard replied.

"Make it so?" Deanna offered.

"Nothing," Worf proclaimed, "She would have known her orders would be followed without question."

"Good point," Will conceded, "but hardly conducive to building a good team. No," he said with a shake of his head, "What she said was, 'Do it to it'," he said with a chuckle.

" 'Do it to it?' " Picard echoed, not sure whether to be appalled or aghast at the flip command.

Will nodded, grinning. "And you think I have a casual attitude on the bridge," he added, sighing.

Picard's outrage held for a moment - then he managed a smile. "You do - but it works for you. As Dee's would have worked for he - and as mine works for me," he said - then looked at the others. "Which doesn't mean that our styles cannot, and should not, change with time, as we become wiser and stronger people," he added, his voice gentling. "Please, my friends," he said quietly, "come in."

As they filed past him, however, aiming for the living space, he touched Deanna's arm. "Are Beverly and Data joining us?" he asked softly.

"Beverly was finishing up compiling Dee's records for transmission to Tiron's vessel; Data was helping her to encode them so that the content wasn't obvious to our saboteur," she said.

"I thought she would have been able to complete that during her shift," Picard replied.

Deanna smiled. "She might have wanted to change clothes afterwards, sir," she surmised knowingly. "After all, it's not often you invite us to your quarters," she pointed out.

Rather than taking the jibe lightly, as it was intended, however, Picard grew solemn at the remark. "A failure for which I am sorry, Counselor," he said.

Instantly repentant, Deanna lay her hand on his arm, apologizing, "Captain, I didn't mean..."

"I know," he interrupted. "And I'm not offended - but... I should have invited you all here earlier," he said quietly.

"You weren't ready, sir," she answered, "but we always knew we were in your heart."

He reached for her hands, taking them in his, smiling down at them, then squeezing them in genuine affection. "You know, I'm going to miss you, Deanna."

"We're going to miss you, too, sir," she countered.

"Are you two going to join us, or are we going to have to tell Biji stories all by ourselves?" Will called out to them.

"We'll be right there, Will," Deanna called back - then faced her commanding officer. "Are you going to be all right, sir?" she asked.

"Me?" he scoffed. "I'll be fine."

She studied him a long moment - then smiled. "Yes, I believe you will," she assured him - and herself - then raised herself up and placed a kiss on his cheek, before spinning on her heel to join the others.

Startled, he raised a hand to touch the spot she had kissed.

His hand was still in place when the door chimed once more, and he touched the control to open it to the last two visitors.

"Data," he greeted his friend quietly.

"Captain," the android replied, then glanced past the man to the others in the room, then looked back at the captain. "We are late," he said. "My apologies, sir," he added. "I..." He hesitated for a moment, considering, then realized with a jolt of awareness, "I believe I lost track of time, sir. The doctor and I were reminiscing about Ginger..."

Data," Picard interrupted, raising his hand to silence the protest, "there's no need to apologize. It's been a difficult day - a difficult week - for you - joyous and heartbreaking and everything in between. Of course you needed to recoup," he continued sympathetically. "Indeed, if you'd care to take a few days of leave..."

"That will not be necessary, Captain," the android replied. "I am fully capable of resuming my orientation for my new position."

"I've no doubts that you are, Data," he agreed. "Should you find yourself in need, however, of some time for yourself, please don't hesitate to take it, if for no other reason than to place yourself in the position of one of your crew. A good captain is empathetic to the needs of his people," he advised.

Data gave him a questioning look. "Is that not why the ship has a counselor?"

"Data, if you have to wait for your counselor to identify the needs of your crew, then you are too far removed from them to be a good leader," Picard cautioned. "A ship's counselor is there to help them work through the problems they're facing - but a good captain needs to be aware that the problem exists first - and you can do that more easily by being familiar with the feelings and needs that precede the problems."

Data considered - then gave a nod. "So Ginger had indicated," he admitted.

"And you doubted her?" Picard asked skeptically.

"Sir, Ginger was a remarkable woman - but she was not beyond prevaricating to get people to do what she wanted them to do."

"You're saying she lied?" he teased the android lightly.

Data considered. "She did not hesitate to amend the facts to make them fit her planned outcomes," he qualified.

Picard grinned. "Another effective habit of many a good captain, Data - and one you might consider."

"Are you three just going to stand there all night?" Will called out from the adjoining room.

Picard glanced back at the man, then turned back to Data. "Please, go ahead, Data; Beverly and I will be there in a moment," he added, then gestured for the android to proceed before he turned his eyes to the auburn-haired woman.

The two eyes each other shyly.

"Hello," she said after a moment.

"Hello," he replied.

"Sorry we're late," she added.

"Deanna explained you were working on encrypting Dee's medical records," Picard answered.

She nodded. "I wanted to include a formulary of the medications she's on - just in case something happens, but I had to be sure that, between the encryption and translation, the drugs would work."

"And...?"

She sighed. "If Tiron's true to his word and finds a physician who's familiar with human physiology, then she should be all right."

"You don't sound very certain," he remarked.

"I'm not. Not that I don't believe Tiron will do everything he can - but it's been touch-and-go with her for so long, that I'm not sure that even his best physician could pull her through if another crisis hits," she admitted unhappily.

"She's strong, Beverly - and she's as well as she could be," he pointed out.

"Yes, but..."

He smiled. "She's going to be fine, Beverly," he said confidently, then looked across the room at Data. "Indeed, we're all going to be fine," he added, then, reaching for her hand, led her into the room.

He released it when they reached the middle of the room - though not overly quickly, Beverly noticed, nor with any remarkable subtlety, as though he didn't mind the others seeing the touch of affection in his gesture - then turned to the table arranged with wine bottles and glasses. Selecting one bottle carefully, he neatly poured out seven glasses, then handed them out.

"The '47, from my family vineyard," he informed them proudly. "An exceptional vintage. My brother, Robert, gave this to me, telling me to share it with someone special. Who better then to share it with than you, my friends... my family," he said, then raised the glass up.

"To the future that lies ahead of us all, that we may enjoy the adventures that lay in wait, that we might share those tales on a day to come - and to the past, to all that we have shared, and all that binds us together," he said.

"To our family - everywhere," Beverly seconded, looking toward Data.

The android raised his glass, followed a moment later by the others, and a soft affirmation of the toast echoed through the room.

"Oh, my," Deanna murmured a moment later, lowering the glass. "It's lovely, Captain," she said.

Worf nodded his concurrence. "Good wine," he proclaimed.

Picard beamed proudly. "Robert knew his craft."

Will nodded. "That he did," he agreed heartily, taking a generous sip of the wine, savoring it before swallowing - then looked at Picard again. "It would be a shame for the vines that produced these grapes to go to waste. Do you know what will be happening with the vineyard? Do you plan to sell it?"

Picard shook his head, moving toward one of the open chairs, giving the others silent approbation to do the same. Settling in, he shook his head. "I'm not planning on it, Will. The land and the house have been in the family for generations - and while I intend to lease out the land and the vines to another winemaker, I think I'll keep the house for myself. It will be nice to have a place to call home - when I'm not here," he added with a smile.

"Although, if I were Mr. Data and looking for a way to spend some leave time, I would be giving due contemplation to the idea of accepting Chief G'Sef's offer," he added with a look at the android.

"He's right, Data," Geordi concurred. "Offworlders are rarely invited to participate in Ballorian religious rites," he pointed out. "You're getting a chance that a lot of us would jump at."

"I am cognizant of both of those facts," Data replied. "However, I was not obfuscating when I said that I my duties will preclude the extended leave required to reach Balloria. After all, with Captain Riker, Commander Troi and Doctor Crusher leaving the ship upon our return, along with the extensive transfer of personnel, an investigation and hearing into the events that have transpired on this ship will be initiated, a complete refit of the systems that were compromised during this mission..."

"And don't forget we're going to have to reinstall Biji's engines," Geordi added. "That took months the first time around - and that was with her working with us; you're going to have your hands full now that she's gone..."

His words fell off as he realized what he had said. Reaching out, he grasped Data's shoulder. "Sorry, Data; I didn't meant to rub salt into an open wound."

"You are not, Geordi," Data replied evenly.

Too evenly for Deanna's taste.

"Data," she interrupted, "even though Biji's alive, it doesn't mean you can't feel sad or hurt over her loss from your life. You can let your feelings show."

"I am aware of that, Counselor," Data replied. "But..." He considered for a moment. "The reality is that I do not have those feelings to display; I am feeling neither sad nor hurt."

Beverly shook her head disapprovingly, interpreting Data's words for herself. "I don't think Dee would approve of you turning off your emotions, Data. I suspect she thought you would continue with your journey into humanity."

"You misunderstand, Doctor; I have not turned off my emotions, only my emotion chip," he clarified.

"There is no difference in the two," Worf said. "Feelings are feelings, regardless of their origin."

"On the contrary," Data said. "The emotions generated by my chip, while genuine in the sense of allowing me access to states I would not otherwise have experienced, were not _my_ feelings."

"I don't understand," Deanna said, puzzled.

Data considered for a moment - then raised his wine glass. "Consider, Counselor, this wine. I can understand its construction and complexity because I have programmed to understand such things - and yet, from my perspective, it is no less - and no more - than another glass of wine produced by the replicator. They are both red, both contain alcohol, both laden with nuance and tone - but without a foundation in how to distinguish between them, I could not say one is better than the other, only that they both exist."

Picard frowned. "That's something to add to my list of things to work on with you, Data: an appreciation of wine - especially what makes a fine one," he said with quiet intensity.

"Thank you, sir," Data replied, then looked to the others. "Indeed, that is my point," he informed them. "My chip provided me with emotions, but without the ability to understand the full richness of what those feelings meant. They were a glass of wine - but only in the sense that a glass is a clear vessel, and wine is a red liquid. With Ginger's help, however, I began to transcend that fundamental knowledge; to understand and accept those feelings in a way that made them my own. She helped me to understand the complexity underlying that vessel and that liquid, to help me understand them as a glass of wine."

"I would think that would make you feel doubly sad, Data," Deanna said gently, coaxingly. "Not only is Andile gone - at least for a while - but so is your teacher."

"Unless you're trying to say that you never felt hurt or pain while she was with you," Will said skeptically. "And considering what we've seen you go through in the last few days, I know that isn't true."

"No," Data agreed, "and yes. Yes, I have experienced pain and loss - but like the glass of wine in my allegory, I did not - do not - have the proper background to fully appreciate its effects. You see, understanding true pain, true loss, requires the understanding and acceptance of the concept of permanence - that something is gone and cannot, will not return. And while I am not mortal, I do not have the biological awareness of death that other beings do; pain and loss do not touch me as they do you.

"And now, knowing that Ginger is alive, and that she and I will be reunited someday, I know that whatever emptiness I now feel is transitory; that this, too, shall pass. Therefore, I need not suffer - only wait - for one day we will be together again," he said with a degree of certainty that stung at the hearts of those in the room.

"In the interim, however, I will continue to explore my feelings," he said, then repeated emphatically, "_my_ feelings. Not those generated by my chip - but those that have become my own. Admittedly, those feelings are basic: love, friendship - though I know now those to be of the same origin," he added, "humor, lust, impatience..."

Will interrupted, "Those two are of the same origin as well, Data," he said with a chuckle.

The others laughed quietly, while Data affixed the new captain with a sober look.

"I was aware of that, Captain," he informed the man solemnly, silencing him instantly, and stilling the room as well.

"Data, I'm hoping that was an example of humor," Geordi said after a moment of awkward silence.

Data looked at his friend - and managed an unpracticed smile. "It was, Geordi," he said to a relieved laugh from the gathering.

"Which does not mean that it is not true," he added a moment later.

"So what you're saying is that, even without your chip functioning, you have some emotions," Geordi said, rapidly changing the topic.

"Yes. Ginger and I attributed it to the nature of my programming; I am not, as you know, a creature limited to what my programming allows, but rather one that can and does incorporate the programs into my nature."

"You can learn," Picard provided.

"Yes, sir," Data agreed, "as you all do. And, just as an infant learns emotions, evolving from uncomprehending fear into the complex gamut of feelings you all now experience, I, too, believe I will be able to add to and enrich my existence by building on the foundation of feelings I now have. When I meet Ginger once again, I believe she will approve."

"Yeah," Geordi conceded, "but wouldn't it just be easier to rely on your chip?" he asked.

"Certainly," Data agreed. "And it would be easier to order wine from the replicator. But they are not the same," he added sagaciously.

"I believe Cmdr. Hahndeela will be more than satisfied with your progress when next you meet, Commander," Work intoned.

"Perhaps - but on the chance that she is not, I will also be prepared with the complete works of Klingon love poems," Data informed him.

Worf pulled back his shoulders in silent approval of the fall-back plan. "A most well-planned campaign, Commander; if you can not impress her with your emotional progress, you can romance her so that she does not notice."

"On the contrary, Mr. Worf: she _will_ notice," Data said - then gave a knowing smile. "But she will not care," he added.

The Klingon stared at the android for a moment - then let out a loud, raucous laugh of approval and agreement.

The others joined in, then Picard turned to Deanna. "And you, Counselor; what are your plans when we return to Earth?"

"You've probably got the next six months booked, studying all the crew dossiers from the Titan," Geordi offered.

"Oh, I wish, Geordi," the counselor sighed regretfully. "Unfortunately, we won't even know who's on the crew roster for several more months. The retirement of a captain - especially one who is well-respected and admired - affects the crew more than you might think. Retirement of a captain is a signal for the crew to rethink their life positions - and as a result, there are more than the usual number of crew changes. Add to that the fact that they've been on a deep space mission for years - and my guess is that there will be a disproportionately high number of requests for transfer, retirement - or people simply wanting to take their accumulated leave."

She turned to Will and smiled, her eyes gleaming with the same mischievous glint his usually possessed. "And while my input will be needed on evaluating candidates, the brunt pf the work falls to the ship's captain - meaning my days aren't going to be that busy.

"At least not with professional work," she added. "I suspect I'm going to be quite busy, however, making wedding preparations," she said, "or, rather, unmaking the preparations. It seems my mother has taken a free hand in my absence," she added unhappily.

Picard smiled. "I take it that was the content of the message packet you received?" he asked.

"Message?" Beverly echoed.

"The Enterprise received a substantial subspace data packet from Starfleet while we were on the Romulan vessel," Worf intoned.

"Personal communiqués for the most part," Picard elaborated for the physician.

"Ah," Beverly said with a nod.

"Including Mother's plans for every aspect of my wedding and honeymoon..."

"The honeymoon?" Will interrupted, clearly taken aback. "You didn't tell me about that."

"I didn't want to worry you," she said blithely. "Especially since it's not going to happen - at least not the way Mother envisions. She wants the traditional celebration: two weeks at a couples' seminar, with days spent in meditation with a group of other newlyweds, and the evenings spent in spiritual contemplation."

Picard gave a soft harrumph, his usual silent stoicism softened by the wine and the camaraderie of his friends. "Somehow, counselor, I cannot see your mother spending her honeymoons in meditation and spiritual contemplation."

"Of course she didn't," Deanna agreed, "which is why she wants me to do it instead. She thinks someone should preserve the historic traditions."

"Let history preserve them," Will objected, reaching for Deanna's hand, their eyes meeting as he turned to her. "I have plans for us."

"I'm sure you do," Beverly murmured into her wine glass.

"As do I," Deanna informed him.

"Oh?" he asked mischievously. "And those would be...?

"A secret," she purred back.

"You're not going to tell me?" he replied, a crushed look on his face.

"No," she answered, smiling, then looked to the others. "The problem with having a telepath for a mother - or a mother-in-law - is learning how to keep secrets - and while I've had years of training in doing so, you haven't," she informed her fiancée. "So what you don't know, you can't accidentally tell her - and then she can't change the plans I've made. I assure you, Will, there will be surprises enough from my mother in the years to come; let's let the honeymoon just be between us."

Will grinned at her. "That sounds good to me," he agreed, then looked to Beverly. "And what about you, Doctor? Are you really planning on transferring to Starfleet Medical?" he asked lightly, though there obvious disapproval underlying the question.

"Yeah, I'm surprised, Doc," Geordi concurred. "You only lasted a year there last time; why go back this time?"

Beverly smiled. "It's different this time, Geordi. Last time I was rather unceremoniously dumped into the position, with no transition time. I was left with the unfulfilled agenda of my predecessor - and his goals for Starfleet Medical were worlds apart from what I wanted. After I got his affairs in order, I realized the role had become that of a medical administrator, not a physician." She shook her head. "It wasn't what I wanted at that point in my life - so when I learned that Dr. Pulaski was putting in for a transfer off the Enterprise, I asked Jean-Luc if I might return, and he - and Starfleet," she added with a smile, "were amenable to the change."

"Would you not find yourself in that position again, Doctor?" Worf asked. "Or do you find the role of administrator more to your liking now?"

The expression on Beverly's face was answer enough for the group. "No. There are those who like paper-pushing - but I'm not one of them. Fortunately - or rather, unfortunately, the Dominion War changed the role of Starfleet Medical; once again, we're focused on research - and that's always been my interest in medicine, learning what we don't know yet. And if this treaty comes to fruition - and I hope it does," she added fervently, "our alliance with the Cardassians and Romulans - and even the Breen - means we may be dealing with new xenobiologics for years to come. New illnesses, new drugs, new therapies... the potential is virtually limitless."

She looked at Picard gave a short chuckle. "Maybe Q was closer to the truth than he thought when he allowed you a glimpse into our possible futures," she said.

Picard raised a brow in question and surprise. "Indeed?"

Beverly gave a nod. "Apparently, there are already plans for a fleet of Pasteur-like medical research and hospital facility vessels," she revealed. "Admittedly, they are only plans - but as head of Starfleet Medical, I may be able to bring the plans to realization," she added.

"That's great, Doc," Geordi said - then hesitated for a moment.

"Geordi?" Deanna said worriedly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied, "just... I was thinking it's a shame Beej won't be there to help design them," he said quietly. "She would have loved helping design those ships. She always hated the idea that her creations could spread war and suffering as easily as they could resolve them; designing a ship of healing would have meant the world to her."

Beverly looked at the engineer for a moment, then glanced at Data before nodded, her expression darkening slightly. "I think she would have liked that, too, Geordi," she said softly, then forced a smile back to her face. "Perhaps, though, when she hears what we're doing, she'll be able to suggest to the Romulans that they follow suit."

"They would not, of course, permit her to be involved in the design of such a ship, Doctor," Data pointed out. "Even though she is now a legally adopted Romulan, and thus a citizen, she would not be granted access to any politically sensitive projects; she will never be trusted as indigenous Romulan would be."

Worf snorted. "Trust?" he scoffed. "Romulans do not even trust their own brothers; duplicity is as much a part of their blood as is war."

Deanna gave a reluctant nod. "Dee's going to have to find her own way to inner peace," she said, then added, a little more brightly, "but I'm sure she will. One way or another, she find what it takes to put her soul at rest."

Will raise a worried brow. " 'One way or another'?" he said. "Knowing Beej as I do - as we all do - it's probably going to be the 'another' option - and I don't think I really want to know what that is."

"However, knowing the Commander as we do, however," Worf countered, "it is inevitable that we will learn what that way is."

"Let's just hope we all remember to duck when we see it coming," Geordi agreed.

There was a round of general laughter, the soft clink of wine glasses touching in silent salute to the woman, then the seven eased themselves back into their chairs.

"It would appear that the task before you is somewhat daunting in scope and execution, Doctor," Data said at last. "Are you not concerned that it might tax your limits?"

Beverly smiled, her expression softening, growing warm as memories filled her. "I've no doubts that this is going to be the hardest job of my life, Data - but there's a joy in hard work," she informed him, "a physical and metal satiety that comes when you've stretched your mind and your limits - doubly so when you succeed - but even when you don't, you know you've become a little more able as a physician, and a little bigger as a person," she said contentedly - then turned to Picard apologetically. "Not that is hasn't been interesting on the Enterprise," she added hastily.

To her surprise, though, he seemed to take no umbrage at the unintentional slight; rather, he returned her smile. "No offense taken, Doctor; indeed, I agree with you - there is a satisfaction in stretching one's boundaries. For now, for me, the place I can best do that is here; for you, it's at Starfleet Medical."

"Any plans on that changing?" Will pressed Picard, his eyes twinkling.

The captain gave the man an all-too-knowing look. "Not prior to your shipping out on the Titan, Will; if you want this ship, you're going to have to wait for it.

"But..." Picard looked back at Beverly, then back at his friends, "someday that may change," he informed them, then rose to his feet.

"The trouble with the '47 is that Robert only gave me one bottle. However, he also produced a splendid '51," he informed them, retrieving a second bottle of wine."

"Which," Beverly said, rising as well, "if we drink on an empty stomach, will make us far too inebriated to enjoy. If I may, Captain?" she said, gesturing to the replicator.

"What?" he said.

She smiled tolerantly at the inexperienced host. "I think we need some food," she explained.

Mortified at the omission, he said, "Oh, yes. Of course. My apologies," he said to them.

Beverly turned to the replicator, quickly entering a few commands.

Worf growled, "Apologies are not necessary, Captain; at a Klingon gathering, we would be expected to catch and slaughter our dinner - and provide for the host."

Beverly laughed. "I think we can skip the hunt and kill, Worf - but I'd appreciate a hand on the providing. Here," she said, handing him a platter of appetizers as he moved from the couch to join her, "put these on the table."

Five minutes later found the seven back in their places, drinks and plates filled, a sense of gentle camaraderie filling them all.

"And you, Worf? Still planning on return to the Klingon homeworld, Worf?" Geordi asked. "It's been a year after all; who knows what way the political winds are blowing. For all you know, Martok may no longer be in power. For all you know, you may not have a job to return to!" the engineer asked lightly - but there was a degree of seriousness and concern underlying the question.

Worf inclined his head fractionally, agreeing with the remarks. "The Klingon political situation is not one noted for its stability," he conceded, "but neither are Klingon politicians fools. Currently, the situation with the Federation and its potential allies has forced a position of 'wait and see' on the Klingon High Council; until that situation is resolved, one way or another, they shall not implement any massive changes."

" 'They'?" Will echoed. "You make it sound as though you aren't part of Klingon politics anymore, Worf," he teased lightly. "What happened? Did General Martok give your job to someone else?"

"No," Worf replied. "In fact, I, too, received a communiqué from the Klingon homeworld today, from General Martok, reaffirming the existence and nature of my position as a member of the diplomatic corps," he informed them.

"Congratulations, Worf!" Deanna said. "You must be looking forward to going back home."

The Klingon studied her for a moment, then let his gaze grow distant. Finally, he answered, "I thought I was, Counselor, but after due reflection and contemplation, I have come to understand that, while I am a Klingon by blood and nature, Q'onoS is not my home." He thought a moment longer. "I am not a diplomat; I am not a politician; I am, at heart, a warrior - and to pretend to be something else is only to perform a disservice to people - and to myself."

He hesitated one last time, then nodded to himself before turning to the others. "I have informed General Martok that I will not be returning to his service."

There was a moment of stunned silence, which Geordi promptly broke. "Where then? Not back to the monastery!" he said.

Worf shook his head. "No. The answers I found there were temporary ones only; they guided me to the next step of my path - and that has guided me here," he said.

Will grinned. "It does always seem to be that you keep coming back to the Enterprise, doesn't it?" he laughed.

Picard raised a brow at the remark. "Indeed, it does. Which is why it is curious that it has taken Mr. Worf so long to realize that perhaps this is where he is meant to be," he said with a smile.

Will turned to Deanna. "Why does that sound like the opening to an announcement?" he asked her.

"Because it is," she replied, then turned to face Picard in eager anticipation.

"For a man who claims not to be an actor, you do have a love of the dramatic, Jean-Luc," Beverly pointed out.

"Ginger once informed me that it was not a good day if she could not drop at least one bombshell into a conversation," Data informed the physician. "I am not entirely sure I understood what she meant, but it is apparent that the captain has adopted that practice," he added, then looked at Picard. "No offence intended, sir."

"None taken," Picard replied, though I wouldn't consider this a 'bombshell'; indeed, I think it is the culmination of several years' work, and an outcome that perhaps is overdue." He rose to his feet.

"Ladies, gentlemen, I am pleased to inform you that Mr. Worf has accepted reinstatement into the ranks of Starfleet - and that he has accepted the position of second officer on the Enterprise." He turned to Worf, studying the man for a long moment, then gave a nod. "Welcome home, Mr. Worf," he said with a sincerity that struck at the hearts of the others gathered around him.

As the others stood and raised their glasses to toast the man, Beverly looked around her - and felt a touch of warmth she could not remember having felt before.

Home, she thought, understanding at last what it was about this ship, these people, that made it so hard to leave, so difficult to move on to where they all knew they must go.

I've been here, she realized, with these people, sharing their joys and their sorrows for longer than I was with my own parents, with Nana, with Jack and Wesley - with any other people in my life.

This is my home, she thought to herself. These are the people I love. These are the people who have nurtured me as I nurtured them, who have sheltered me from the pains of life and love, who have helped me grow stronger, wiser, better - who have been there for me as I have been there for them, who have shown me time and again that I can depend on them, that I can have trust and faith in them; they have been the rock to which I could anchor my soul though all my trials and tribulations.

This is my family, she thought, eyes clouding with tears.

This is my home.

And now, she thought, now it's time to leave them both behind.

"Welcome home, Worf," she murmured as she heard the others toast the man.

Welcome home - and good-bye.


	189. Chapter 189

**Chapter 189**

Picard gave a sigh of both contentment and relief as the door closed behind the back of his final departing guest.

Relief, because, despite his best intentions, he was not an accomplished host - at least not for social gatherings that had nothing to do with his professional endeavors - and contentment, because, despite his lack of practice, his guests had genuinely seemed to enjoy themselves as the seven spent the evening in pleasant evening together.

No, he corrected himself, it had been more than just pleasant; just 'pleasant' would have ended hours ago. 'Pleasant' would have been one of those poker games he indulgently allowed himself on occasion - and which the others indulgently permitted him to attend.

Instead, the evening had broken up only because duty was going to call upon four of those in attendance in just a few hours - and as exceptional as the night might have been, they all had an obligation to the ship and to their fellow crewmates. Even so, they had lingered at the door, holding on to the moment, to the evening, for just a while longer.

This won't be the last time, Picard had promised them silently; I will do this again - and soon, he resolved - even as he, too wished the night could have gone on, could have begun to make up, in some small measure, for the years in which he had distanced himself from these people.

He held for a moment at the door, leaning against the jamb, thinking back on the evening, the moments of high hilarity as he recalled stories of his mis-spent youth and less than legendary adventures at the Academy - only to learn of the others mis-deeds and misadventures - and to the moments of quiet remembrance at the memory of those who had once shared those escapades with them - but would not be here to share them again.

Dee, he thought soberly - then closed his eyes, refusing to give in to his loss, refusing to give in to his anger.

She was alive, she was safe - and, in the end, he reminded himself, she would outlive all of them: Thaddeus Czymszczak may have won in the short run - but in the grand scheme of things, Dee and Data would triumph, he reminded himself.

Long after Czymszczak - and I, and Beverly and Worf and all of us are dead and dust, Dee and Data would find their peace - together.

He waited for a moment, a part of him hoping for a faint, familiar touch of the mind that become almost a part of his own - then shook his head, knowing that Tiron's ship was light years distant by now, each of their vessels heading off to different sector of the quadrant - and knowing that even Dee's remarkable telepathic abilities had limitations.

All for the best, he reminded himself; all for the best. To stay in touch with her - even a faint, peripheral touch - was to remind her of what she had given up, of what would never be.

And to remind me of the same, a part of him added.

"She's going to be fine," Beverly said softly.

"I know," Picard murmured automatically, used to the woman's awareness of his personal worries and concerns, then turned to face her - and frowned.

"You don't have to do that," he said, bowing his head at the collection of dirty wine glasses and plates she was gathering. "I may be rather inexperienced as a host, but I am a competent housekeeper," he insisted. "I can clean up after myself."

Beverly smiled, surreptitiously glancing around the nearly immaculate space; it was obvious, she thought, that the man not only knew how to tend to the cleanliness of his living space, but did so as well.

Perhaps a little too well, she added, noting the sparse display of personal items in the room, wondering how so vibrant a man, a man who had had so many adventures, led such a dynamic and varied life, could have so few personal mementos of those experiences.

But a life that permitted only a limited amount of personal space taught one to restrict what possessions one collected, she added.

We hold only that which we truly value - and let everything else go, she added.

She chased off the sobering thought, murmuring, "I didn't mean to suggest that you couldn't," though she still held the glasses and plates in her hands.

"Just trying to help," she added.

He studied her as she moved to the replicator, watched as she set the soiled plates and glasses in the device and set the controls, then, dusting her hands, headed back into the main living area - only to stop short as she realized he was staring at her.

He studied her a moment longer, ignoring - or perhaps unaware of - her growing discomfiture - then raised his eyes to hers and smiled.

"My apologies," he said at last.

Glancing back at the table she had been clearing, Beverly shook her head. "I'm happy to help, Jean-Luc," she began, only to stop as he shook his head.

"Not that," he said, then hastily added, "though I do thank you for helping me. I meant... I'm sorry I didn't tell you how beautiful you are when you first arrived," he said.

Suddenly self-conscious, she ran her hands over her dress, brushing away invisible crumbs and unseen wrinkles, then stopped, raising her eyes to his once again.

"Thank you. I must say you're rather handsome yourself. Nice shirt," she added.

Taken aback by the remark, Picard glanced down at himself, reminding himself of what he was wearing, then raised his eyes to her, smiling, remembering where the shirt had originated. "Ah. Yes, the shirt. A gift - from a dear friend," he teased her gently. "For my last birthday."

"For your birthday - three years ago," she corrected him.

"No," he gaped, astonished. "Three years? It can't be that long."

"Three years," she insisted. "We were on leave on Luxor IV..."

"Was that really three years ago?" he replied, amazed. "It feels like it was only a few months ago."

"We went out for breakfast - and then you took me shopping, and I bought that shirt for you." She moved closer to him, fingering the dark plum fabric, eyeing where the open front displayed a circumspect glimpse of his well-muscled chest, along with a few escaping grey curls - then met his eyes once again. "I thought it would bring out your eyes," she added quietly.

"And...?" he prompted.

"And...?" she echoed, confused.

"Does it bring out my eyes?" he teased.

She stared into his hazel eyes, the plum accenting the flecks of gold and green that lay encapsulated within the grey rims - then nodded. "Umm-hmm," she murmured, half unaware, as her gaze sank into his, her hand moving to brush across the exposed flesh of his chest - then abruptly pulled away, suddenly aware of what she was doing. "I'm sorry," she said softly, shaking her head. "It's late. I should be going," she said, stepping back.

Before she could move too far, however, he captured her trailing hand, stopping her.

She turned to look back at him. "Jean-Luc..."

"Beverly," he interrupted. "You stayed back, waited for the others to leave - for a reason, I think," he added.

She forced a smile. "Am I that obvious?" she teased.

He smiled back. "Obvious? No - but after all these years you're... familiar," he said quietly. "I know you - and I know when there's something on your mind. And when you want to talk," he added.

She studied him for a long moment, then shook her head again. "Tomorrow," she said.

"And tomorrow you'll find a reason to put it off for another day," he countered. He shook his head gently. "If the past few days have taught us anything, it's that we shouldn't put off for another day those things that are important to us. And you - and whatever's troubling you - is important to me," he said quietly.

Beverly chewed on her lip for a moment, then gave a reluctant sigh. "Perhaps you're right," she said.

Refusing to release her hand, Picard led the woman back to the couch, allowing her to settle into a comfortable position before taking his own - one that was carefully measured, not so close as to signal something more than she was prepared for - but nor was it so far as too appear impersonal, distant.

Instead, he sat, as he had that night, so many years before, when they had talked about their future.

He knows, Beverly thought, recognizing the position the man had taken instantly, that night as vivid in her mind as it was in his - and wishing, somehow, that this night would be different.

But it couldn't be, she knew; she had been right all those years ago.

And she was still right.

"Jean-Luc..." she began softly - then let her voice trail off, turning away, hating the idea that she was going to hurt him all over again.

But there was no other way, she thought.

He tightened his grip on her hand. "Go ahead," he said softly. "Say what you have to say, Beverly."

She looked back at him - then nodded. "Jean-Luc... I think... I think, when we get back to Earth, that... I think we should make a clean break of things."

He stared at her, his face unreadable.

"I'm going to be at Starfleet Medical, you're going to be off on another mission - and let's be honest: we're just not the type of people who are going to be able to make a long-distance relationship work. Or, there will be the obligatory subspace messages - the promises of getting together when you're on Earth or I'm sent to some meeting that the Enterprise is attending - but..." She hesitated again. "But... the messages will become fewer and fewer, and the dinners will be delayed - and the meetings will grow less and less convenient..." She stopped, looked down - then looked back to that impenetrable gaze once more.

"I love you, Jean-Luc. I truly do. I love you enough to want you to be happy. I love you enough to want you to find - and get - those things in life that you truly want - and that includes a relationship with someone who can be there for you. And that's not me. I have my career - and for the foreseeable future, that has to be my priority."

She raised her fingers to his lips, pressing against them to silence the protest she knew was coming. "Please don't say you'll wait for me. Please don't say that we'll find a way to make it work; please don't say we'll find time for one another - because we won't - and to delude ourselves by thinking otherwise... we're just delaying the inevitable, just delaying the chance of finding happiness with someone else. So... let's end this, here, now - and stay the friends that we have been for so many years. Please," she added, her eyes tearing, the word half-whisper, half plea as it escaped from her lips.

For a long time, he stared at her, his expression unmoving; not even his hand, wrapped around hers, changed, as he looked at her.

God, Beverly swore silently, the self-hatred that had filled her for so long, ever since she had first denied them a relationship, surge up once again; I've hurt him again. I didn't want to hurt him - but we can't go on this way.

No; I, she amended, forcing herself to face the truth, can't go on this way.

I love you, but...

As if hearing her thoughts, she suddenly felt Picard's hand tighten around hers - then felt it pull away, the separation stabbing at her soul like a knife.

It's the right thing, she told herself; it's the right thing for us both!

Then why does it hurt so much? she asked plaintively.

Unable to face the man she had hurt so badly, Beverly turned, starting to rise up from the couch - only to feel a hand reach for her, pulling her back, rising up to touch her face, turning it to face his.

She looked down, unable to confront him, then felt his fingers caress the angle of her jaw, the line of her cheek - then to gently brush away the tear she hadn't even realized she had shed.

"Jean-Luc..." she began.

"They'll be together again, you know," he said softly, ignoring her words.

Startled, she looked up, meeting his gaze, meeting those wonderful, mysterious hazel eyes of his once again. "What?" she managed.

"Data... Dee... they'll find each other once again, you know," he clarified.

Confused, she stared at him - then shook her head. "I don't understand," she said.

"Yes, you do," he countered, gently caressing her face a moment longer - then releasing it, securing her hand once again, his thumb running over it for a moment as he studied it - then looked up at her once more.

"For the last few months - a year," he amended realizing how long this mission had taken, "I've been seeing echoes of my own life in Dee's - the mistakes we've both made - and the consequences it's had on her life. And realized that I don't want to make the same mistakes she has made - that I want my life to turn out differently than hers has.

"This last week," he added softly, "I've come to realize that you're seeing echoes of your life in hers as well.

"I've seen you, watching as Dee and Data realized the life they both were looking for was with each other - only to see them torn apart by death, rejoined by fate - and torn apart once more. And every time I see you, I see you remembering all the times the people you have loved have left you," he added softly. "Your parents, your grandmother, Odan, Wesley... Jack."

She looked down, biting her lip. "Jean-Luc, please..."

He reached for her chin once again, tilting it up, forcing her to look at him. "You think that people who love you will leave you - that because they have, that they always will. You see Dee and Data going through that - and you think that love can only end in pain," he said, "that if you dare to love someone again, that you will lose them."

He shook his head. "But love doesn't always end in pain, Beverly. Yes, sometimes it takes time for two people to find their happiness together."

"It may be fifty years before Dee and Data find each other once more," she replied, "and God alone knows what may happen in the meantime. I'm not even sure Dee can survive the next few months - let alone fifty years!" she added.

"She will," Picard said confidently. "She'll find a way."

"And what about Data?" she countered. "Life in Starfleet - especially these days - is not a safe life. Data is stronger than any of the rest of us, he won't age or grow old - but he can be killed, just like the rest of us!"

Picard gave a slow nod, his finger brushing over the woman's hand again. "I know - and I know you know the reality of life - and death - in Starfleet. But... I don't think even death can prevent them from finding a way back to one another."

Beverly stiffened. "It stopped Jack from finding his way back to me," she said coldly.

"Did it?" he replied gently. "I don't think so. I think Jack has always been with you, Beverly; in your heart, where he always was. As are your parents, Felisa - all those people you loved," he added quietly. "As my parents, Robert, René - all those people I loved - are in my heart and in my memories. The people you loved never truly leave you, Beverly - as I will never leave you," he added softly.

"Jean-Luc..."

He pulled her to him, pressing his head against hers, unable to face her as he spoke. "I have never left you, Beverly," he whispered hoarsely, "I have loved you since the first day I saw you, since the moment Jack introduced me to the woman he was going to marry, since the day I toasted you both at your wedding, since the day Jack told me you were pregnant, since the day your bore his son, since the day I brought his body back to you, since the day I saw you loving and grieving over Odan, since the day you told me that everything I wanted with you was not to be... I have always been there for you Beverly. I have always loved you. And I always will," he added fervently.

"The people who always love you will always love you. And, if they can, they will find a way back to you," he added - then pulled his head back from hers.

Freeing his hand, he slid it into a pocket of his trousers, and drew out a thin disk, then handed it to her.

She looked at it, confused, then raised his eyes to his. "What is this?"

"A message. For you. From the data packet we received," he said. "I tried to let you know as soon as I received it - but you were tied up in Sickbay," he continued, adding, "and I didn't think you'd want to read it during the party."

She stared at the disk, then at Picard. "Then you've watched it?" she asked, confused.

"No," he replied. "But there was a cover letter with it - for me. I know the general contents of the disk - but not the specifics."

He rose from the couch, moving to his desk, returning a moment later with a computer terminal, and arranged the machine in front of her.

She stared at him, thoroughly bewildered.

"Go ahead," he said, gesturing at the slot that would accept the disk.

She stared a moment longer - then slid the disk home, watching as the laurel wreath and starfield insignia of Starfleet manifested itself.

While the image developed, Picard turned to her, took her hand, and murmured, "We will never leave you, Beverly; the people who love you will always be with you," he repeated.

She looked at him, worried, confused - then turned to the screen as the image of a face developed.

He face smiled, bright and sheepish all at once, and spoke.

"Hi, Mom."

Beverly gasped, both hands, both hands racing to her face to cover her shock - then turned to Picard.

"Wesley?" she whispered, as if unable to accept the reality playing out before her on the computer screen. "It's really Wesley?"

Reaching past her, he touched the pause control, then looked back at the woman beside him.

"It's really Wesley," Picard replied gently. "He's on Earth - in San Francisco," he added. "Admiral Brandt sent word to me that he had shown up at the Academy a few weeks ago, trying to hunt you down."

"And now?" she asked, dread and worry building once again, the thought of her son leaving her life as quickly as he had rejoined it filling her thoughts. "Where is he now?"

"Admiral Brandt indicated that he would be staying - at least until your return," Picard said with a gentle smile. "I'm sure he'll tell you," he continued - then began to rise from the chair.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I thought you might like to be alone," he replied.

She thought for a long time.

"No," she said after due consideration. "Not anymore. I think I've been alone long enough. That is," she added, "if you don't mind staying."

She raised her hand to him - and he took it, quickly taking his place - beside her this time - on the couch.

Before she could start the disk again, he reached for her face, turning it to his, studying the tears the filled her eyes - and finding in them, at long last, joy.

"As I said, Beverly, I have always been here - and I always will be."

She looked at him for a moment - then her hand went to his face, caressing it for a moment - then pulled it to hers, pressing her lips to his.

"Always?" she whispered as she pulled away a moment - a blissful eternity - later.

Studying her, he brushed an errant strand of copper hair from her face, stared into to sapphire eyes - and smiled.

"Always."


End file.
